by Sophia Gray
I kept staring at his desk, unwilling to look him in the eye, not wanting to see if he had pity in his eyes. I didn’t need pity. I needed this freaking job. And two-weeks' severance? “A joke, right?” I mumbled.
He made a sound like a grunt. “Three-weeks' severance,” he said. “That’s the most I can do.”
Yippee. That’s so much better. Cheapskates.
“Will you need a box to gather your things?” he offered.
So this was it. I was just being laid off from my office job. No second chances. Just kicked to the curb. Left to rot. Left without a pot to piss in. I picked up my chin, squared my shoulders, and stared him down as best I could. I wanted to slug him, but I wasn’t about to stoop that low. “I don’t need anything from you.”
His jaw dropped. I whirled around and stalked out of his office, my heels clicking on the tile, before he could say anything. I so didn’t want to hear any more of his bullshit.
Ignoring everyone around me, I continued marching to my cubicle. It was small with a few funny memes tacked up to give me something to look at and break the monotony of the day. From the top drawer I removed my calendar. So many red markings: Mom’s doctor’s appointments or reminders to call specialists for their opinions. Next I pulled out a worn library book: a romance. The only action I was seeing nowadays. I’d broken up with my last boyfriend a few days before Mom had been diagnosed, and I hadn’t had time since to find another one. Not that I needed a guy. I wasn’t ready to settle down yet. I enjoyed my freedom too much to get married anytime soon, which was why I broke up with Sam. He had wanted more of a commitment than I had been willing to give him.
Right now, I didn’t want to kiss a guy. I wanted to punch someone out. I never felt this furious before. Normally, I was a much happier person. I’d been called happy-go-lucky once or twice. But that had been before. Before Mom. Before cancer.
I really did need a drink or some time out or something. I didn’t like who I was becoming. Miserable. Depressed. Pessimistic. I needed something to turn my life around, but I had no idea what it could be.
I had to leave here place as soon as possible. It felt like the walls were closing in on me.
Quickly as I could, I began packing up my things. I was just starting to grab my magnets from my computer tower when a redheaded mop popped over the top from the next cubicle over.
“You’re here!” Pamela darted around and gave me a quick hug, so quick I couldn’t even return it. “When you showed up late,” she added, “I thought something might’ve gone wrong with your mom.”
“Not with her.” I forced a smile and removed a magnet about hump day. I just wanted to get away from this place, leave it behind. Pamela wasn’t really a friend. She wasn’t anything more than the workplace gossip. If I told her about my being fired, everyone would know about it by the time I reached the parking lot. “And I wasn’t late,” I grumbled under my breath.
“Wanna talk about it?” she asked eagerly. She had way too much energy this morning. Did she have a triple shot in her coffee?
“Not really.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Already I could feel it: the start of a bad headache. I had been getting a lot of them lately, and I figured stress was the reason for it. Too bad the likelihood of my stress levels going down was zilch. Ignoring Pamela as best as I could, I sat down on my chair and pretended to settle into work, hoping, praying even, that she would get the hint. Sometimes, she could be a little slow, although I had a feeling that might just be her way to try to get more gossip, or maybe to avoid work. Whichever the case, I wished she would find someone else to pry gossip out of or that a supervisor would see her slacking and yell at her to get to work.
Should’ve said her name to Greg. But no. One, I wasn’t that person, and two, Pamela was Greg’s second cousin or something like that. They were somehow distantly related. I doubted he would fire her. Which was why she had such a long leash.
“You sure?” Pamela pouted, her purple-painted lips tugging downward.
“Sure,” I muttered, staring at the computer screen, sending her telepathic messages. Get to work. Leave Lily alone.
Reluctantly, she straightened, still frowning. “Did you hear about—”
I grabbed my phone and put it to my ear, pretending it had vibrated. “Hello? Yes. Dr. Franklin, it’s Lily.” I looked up at her and shrugged as if to say I was sorry. She’d have to leave now, right?
Pamela waved and backed away a step or two. Unreal. She still wanted gossip!
I pretended to continue the conversation for a few minutes, with long stretches of silence to act like I was listening until, finally, I heard her footsteps retreat. Unbelievable.
Breathing out a sigh, I resumed gathering my things. No way had I wanted to continue packing while she was there. She was smart. She’d put two and two together and realize what was up, and I didn’t need more grief.
The last items I gathered were the few pictures I had. One was of my father and me. We were playing tag at the park. Mom had taken the picture. A nice candid shot. My mouth was wide open, probably from laughing, and my dad had just grabbed me for a hug instead of just tapping my shoulder to tag me. It had been taken a week before he died. I had been ten. Massive heart attack. If Mom died, I’d be all alone. Neither had any siblings, so I had no aunts or uncles. I’d be the only Nevison left. It was a sobering thought, especially when I considered how young my parents would be when they died.
The other two pictures were of Mom. In the first, she was smiling at someone off screen. She hated having her picture taken so this one was my favorite. The last picture was of the two of us. We had gone to a mother-daughter dance back when I had been in high school. We’d dressed up in poodle skirts, really fifties style. So much fun. She was kind of smiling in this picture, too. Happy times. Now she never smiled, and I couldn’t blame her, even though I still tried to get her to.
With a grimace, I gathered everything up and laid it all gently in a large pile. It was a little hard to carry everything without a box, but I wasn’t about to go back to Greg and ask for one, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to ask anyone else if they could find me one either.
As soon as I got back to the parking lot — without dropping anything by some miracle — my phone really was vibrating from a call. I performed a juggling act of shifting everything to one arm, braced my loaded arm against the car, finagled my keys from my purse, unlocked the door, dumped everything onto the backseat where it scattered like crazy, and then got out my phone. But before I could answer, the caller hung up. Of course. Just my luck.
I checked to see who had called. It was Denise Carver, my best friend since, well, forever. We met in the second grade and had been inseparable ever since. Now she, unlike Pamela, I actually wanted to talk to.
I climbed inside my car and pulled out of the lot and drove down the street and parked in the back of another random office building, just so no one from my former employer could look out on the parking lot and see me. Didn’t need an audience for what might be a breakdown, which was why I figured it was better to park than to talk and drive at the same time.
Denise answered on the first ring. “Hey, girl!” she yelled. “I can’t believe you called me back. I know how you never answer when you’re working unless you’re on lunch. I was leaving you a message.”
Must be a heck of a long message, then, unless I didn’t feel the vibration from when she left it.
“Anyhow, the reason why I called was because I thought you and I—”
“Whatever you’re planning, I can’t.” My shoulders slumped. Hadn’t had much time for fun with her before this, and now all of my new free time would have to be split between taking care of my mom and finding a new job.
“But you don’t even know the date or what I’m planning,” she whined.
“Don’t need to. Can’t afford it.” Can’t afford fun.
“I can spot you.” I could just picture her waving her hand to brush my words aside. “No worries. It’s th
is amazing new band—”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. I loved listening to live music. But it wasn’t the band I’d have to miss that had me wanting to break down. It was all the weight and the worry about the future and what it would hold. For too long, I had been juggling eggs, and a large one had just cracked. I couldn’t let any more drop, and I had to add another one back into the mix.
“Oh.” Denise quieted a moment, which was saying something because she normally never stopped talking. “Is it your mom?”
“I…” I could hardly get the word out. My throat was so tight I could hardly swallow.
“What happened?” Denise cracked her knuckles, the sound grating me over the line. “Do you need me to beat someone up for you? I might know a guy…”
Despite myself, I snorted with laughter, but then I started to cry. Just a few tears. How could I have let this happened? I should’ve fought harder for my position. Should’ve asked for a pay cut so long as I kept the position. But a pay cut would’ve been almost as terrible as being outright fired.
“Talk to me,” Denise said quietly. “What’s going on?”
“Just got laid off.” My only source of income gone. Three weeks wouldn’t last. Not when I didn’t just need to support myself. I had to pay for all of my mother’s mounting medical bills. And food. And Mom had taken out a home equity loan shortly a few years ago, so even though there wasn’t a mortgage payment, there was that, and all the other bills, plus food, utilities.
“Now listen to me carefully,” Denise ordered. “Go home. Update your résumé. I’ll find out who’s hiring. You eat all the chocolate in the house. And drink all of the rum, too. I’ll do my best to help find you a new job pronto. Think you can handle that?”
I sniffed and rubbed my nose. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Good.” She sounded so take charge. Had to love her. “I’ll email you what I find.”
Click. The call ended.
Refusing to cry any longer, I drove myself home. I wasn’t in a good place at all. Yeah, sure, Denise was willing to help me, but the economy was terrible. There wasn’t going to be another job for me most likely. I had to face facts. My mom had stage three breast cancer and she needed chemotherapy, but if I had no money, I didn’t know if she’d still be able to continue treatments. The hospital was already giving us a payment plan at least, but I wouldn’t even be able to afford the smaller payments soon. And even with treatment, there was no guarantee she would make it. I couldn’t risk losing her. I had to do everything to help her. It was all on me.
Soon, I pulled up to our house. I had moved out after college, but once Mom was diagnosed, I moved back home. Twenty-five and living with Mom. And unemployed, too. Can’t forget that. The house was bigger than we needed, but there wasn’t a point in trying to sell it. Not with the home equity loan still out on it.
I fixed a smile onto my face and walked inside. I’d left most everything in the backseat of my car. Except for the pictures. Those I placed on the coffee table. “Mom?” I called.
“In here,” she said quietly.
I winced. Her voice came from her bedroom. She hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. This morning couldn’t get any worse — for me or for her.
Still wearing that faux smile, I helped her wash up and even blow-dried her hair as a kind of bonus treat. Her body tended to be weak, and I did whatever I could for her. She was all the family I had left.
It wasn’t until I offered to make Mom something to eat that she noticed the time. “Why aren’t you at work?” she asked, trying to glare at me. When I had been a kid, her glare had me shaping up real fast, but it had lost its punch with her being sick.
I slowly straightened from having bent down to see what was left in the pantry. The cabinet was looking a little sparse. It would be time for a grocery run soon with money I didn’t have to spend.
I faced Mom. “I thought I would check in on you. That’s all.”
No way was I going to tell her I lost my job. Mom had more than enough to worry about as it was. I didn’t want to cause her more stress, more worry. But I couldn’t help feeling helpless. Helpless and worthless. Like I was a failure. Like I was going to be the reason why she might not be able to beat her cancer.
And when Denise emailed me later that night to say she would keep looking, that she hadn’t even found one lead for me, combined with my own fruitless search, I felt even more helpless.
What was I going to do?
Chapter 2
Anton
I was outside my bar, on the third story balcony that only my men and I had access to, smoking a fine cigar, when the back door opened behind me, and I just knew my night was going to turn upside down. Just what I didn’t need. This cigar was too good to be ruined. The night was pretty good. Cool. Quiet. Some nights I wanted nothing more than to go out, enjoy myself, maybe have a romp in the sheets. Other times, like right now, I just wanted a little peace.
Peace that was about to get ruined, I had a feeling.
Luckily, my associate knew better than to bother me and to wait for acknowledgement, so I attempted to enjoy the rest of my cigar before acknowledging his presence, but worry colored the taste of it. I growled out, “Yes?”
A stark white envelope was thrust forward. I snatched it, and the man slinked back inside, music and the sounds of drunken good cheer floating up to me for the few seconds the door was opened. While I appreciated that he was giving me space to read my business alone, that he didn’t wait to be dismissed but dismissed himself raised a red flag in my mind. Who sent the note?
I reached down, inside my boot, and removed my concealed dagger. With a flick of my wrist, I unsealed the envelope and read the short note, my peace shattering into a billion pieces that could never be brought together again.
V. G. back in town. Thought you would want to know.
It was unsigned, unmarked. No way to tell who had sent it, and my man’s disappearance made me think that the person who had dropped off the note was either a possible associate of V.G. or else the note had been discovered without anyone seeing the drop off. I certainly hoped it came from a friend and not an associate of V.G.’s. The thought that someone, friend or foe, could drop off a letter unseen and unnoticed by any of my men was enough to start a rage inside of me, but that was nothing compared to what the contents of the letter inspired.
The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and despite the warm nighttime air, goose bumps appeared on my exposed arms. I’d rolled up the sleeves of my blue dress shirt earlier. My fingers curled together around the hilt of the dagger still in my hand, to the point that my hand started to cramp up, but still I held on, relishing in the pain.
Vanya Golovkin. The bastard had returned to town, to my town. How dare he show his ugly face around these parts! He had no right to return. No right to step foot on my soil. How long had he been sneaking around in the shadows? It better not have been for long. If my men had grown so lax that they had missed him for weeks…I would not abide by such a lack of dedication.
My other hand had tightened into a fist, and I forced myself to relax, to uncurl my fingers, to return the dagger inside my boot, and to smooth out the letter. I tried to read the words again, but the letters swam on the page. My mind had already been transported back to the worst time of my life.
I had only been eight years old when my life had been forever changed by the likes of one Vanya Golovkin. Memories of my parents’ death reared their ugly head. Golovkin and his men had killed my family, every last one of them, and they had managed to get away before they had been caught. The bastards. I would never forgive them. Death might be too kind for them.
It had taken me years to get over it, survivor’s guilt. I had been a coward. As soon as I heard Mother’s screams, I hid away in the safe room she had shown me when I had turned two. I knew that was what she would have wanted, what my father would have wanted, as well, but even then, as I hid away, I hated myself for it. I had curled up in a ball and w
aited, trying not to sob but failing. I cried as I heard them shriek and scream and attack, and then they made no more sounds.
Of course, the safe room had been soundproof, so as soon as I had closed the door, I hadn’t actually heard the screaming or the fighting back, but I knew my father would not have accepted death easily. My mother either, for that matter. That I did not actually hear the sounds did not make what I heard in my mind any less real. Therapy might have been good for me, but I had pushed through the guilt and the grief and reforged my role, taking on my father’s place as leader of the Kovalsky mob. Now I was thirty-two, and I would never allow what happened to my parents to happen to me. I would not be the next to fall.