Love, Unexpected
Discovering Love Series, Book 2
Ra’chael Ohara
Love, Unexpected
Copyright © 2015 by Ra’chael Ohara.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: September 2015
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-282-6
ISBN-10: 1-68058-282-8
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To my mom and best friend. Thank you for always being there for me, always protecting me, and always supporting me in my dreams. I love you more!
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Prologue
“All right, Joe, I’m out,” I call to my boss as I grab my bag from under the counter.
“If you hold on a second, I can walk you, Gianna,” Joe replies from the back. Two seconds later, he appears from the back room. Like everyone else in my neighborhood, Joe is Italian. He’s short for a man and large. He has a ridiculous handlebar mustache, but unlike most other men in this neighborhood, he’s got a good heart and good intentions.
I’m eighteen years old and I’ve been living in New York’s Lower East Side my entire life. I hate it here. It’s a lower class Italian neighborhood and deemed one of the most dangerous in New York.
My dream is to get out of New York and never look back, but I can’t leave my mom. She’s the single most important person in my life. She’s your typical Italian momma. I both love and hate that.
Being the typical Italian mom means she’s also the traditional Italian wife—one hundred percent devoted to her husband, my father, a man I despise. My whole life, he’s been a drunk with an awful gambling addiction. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve come home to Momma crying because Papi had gambled and drank our money away or how many times I’ve been woken up in the middle of the night by men breaking down the door, threatening us because Papi owes them.
If it was just the gambling or the drinking, I could turn a blind eye, but my papi has a temper and beating on my momma is one of the ways he likes to work it out. I was three the first time I walked into Momma’s room and saw her bleeding on the floor. Papi had stormed out after he was done with her, and Momma was too bruised to stand, so I had to clean her up. That was the first time I realized I didn’t love Papi like a daughter should love her father. I hated him, and every time he left, I prayed he would never return.
I used to beg Momma to leave him, but she would always refuse. She didn’t have to tell me why. I already knew. She’s scared—scared of my father, scared of the unknown. Neither she nor my father have any family here in America and she has no education. She doesn’t think she can make it without him, so she stayed through all the beatings, though all the men who threatened us, and through all the hard times.
Despite it all, she tries her hardest to give me a good life. At times I was able to forget the shit fest my life is. She goes out of her way to give me the best memories. My favorite memories are of my birthdays. We don’t have money to really celebrate my birthday, but every year, Momma comes into my room at midnight with a chocolate cupcake and a single candle. After she sings me happy birthday, I make a wish and we split the cupcake.
Whenever Papi directs his anger at me, she steps in and takes the brunt of it. She’s my protector, my angel, so when I graduated, I knew going to college or moving out wasn’t an option. There are the obvious reasons, like the fact that I have no money, but I couldn’t leave her. If I can’t talk her into going with me, I won’t leave, which is how I found myself at eighteen years old working at a corner market near our house at three in the morning.
“I’ll be fine.” I wave him off and walk toward the store’s dirty glass doors.
“Do you have your pepper spray?” he asks. Without turning around, I hold up my pink pepper spray as an answer.
The cold air bites my cheeks as soon as I step out onto the sidewalk. January in New York can be insanely bitter.
Thankfully, our house is only a few blocks from the store. Walking this late at night in my neighborhood is dangerous, especially for a woman. As soon as I started working at the store, I decided to go down to the local gym and take self-defense classes.
“Hey, baby, you looking for a good time?” One man from a group standing in an alley yells to me as I walk by. I roll my eyes and pick up my pace. When they begin to follow and cat-call, I start running.
My house just comes into view when I skid to a stop. I dart behind a tree when I see Sal walking down the cement steps connected to my house. I don’t know a lot about Sal, and I’ve never met him personally, but talk around the neighborhood is he’s not a good guy.
I recognize the two guys walking next to him. They’re the men that broke down our door in the middle of the night last week. They beat Papi bad and told Momma he owed them money and if he didn’t pay up, they would come back.
I don’t have a good feeling about this. In fact, I have a downright sickening feeling about this. I wait until the black Escalade they loaded in is down the street before I slowly make my way to the front door of my house.
My only thought is that my house is still…too still. There should be lights on. Papi should have Old Italian music blaring. It’s too quiet.
When I reach the front door, I see that it’s not closed all the way, so I gently push the door open. It creaks loudly, but then everything goes quiet again.
“Papi?” I call into my house. No reply. “Momma?”
It’s when I get no answer from her that panic and fear claws at me.
I walk into my dark house and head to the living room. I see a figure in the chair, so I blindly reach out and slide my hand on the wall until I find the light switch. I release a bloodcurdling scream when I take in the scene before me.
Papi is sitting in his old, ratty reclining chair, staring at me. Blood is dripping from the hole in the side of his head. I don’t have to feel for a pulse. He’s dead.
I whirl around and run through my house, heading for the kitchen. I need to get to my mom. I run into the kitchen, but my foot slides in some kind of liquid and I fall on my butt. Light is streaming into my kitchen window from the street lamps. I hold up my hands so I can see them in the light. They’re soaked in blood. I look back at the floor and see a stream of blood. I follow it until I find the source.
“No!” I cry when I see Momma lying on t
he kitchen floor, bleeding from the same wound Papi has. She’s giving me the same lifeless stare.
Blood be dammed, I crawl across the floor until I reach her. With shaking hands, I feel for a pulse, but it’s useless.
“Momma, no!” I cradle her head to my chest. “Please, Momma, wake up! Don’t leave me, Momma! Somebody help!” I rock her back and forth with my eyes squeezed shut, praying to God that this is all a nightmare.
“Momma, non lasciarmi.” Momma, don’t leave me.
Chapter One
Can You Trust Me?
I probably lay on that floor, screaming for help and begging my momma to come back, for hours. Now I’m sitting in a cold interrogation room, staring at my reflection in the two-way mirror.
Is that really me? My brown hair is still hanging right below my shoulders. I still have the same light brown eyes. I bet, if I stood up and walked closer to the two-way mirror, the same gold, sparkling flecks would still be in my irises. I’m still five-eight with an athletic build, and my skin is still naturally tan from my Italian heritage, but I don’t feel like the same woman I was before I walked into my home last night. I don’t think I’ll ever be that woman again.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting in this metal chair, waiting in this room, but, eventually, a detective joins me. He’s a very tall and well-built African American man. After everything I witnessed, I should probably be hesitant around a stranger, but there’s something about his kind, green eyes that, weirdly, relaxes me.
He calmly walks to the table with a folder stuffed with papers in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. I stare at the bottle when he sits it down on the table in front of me.
“I’m Detective Kendrick. How are you feeling, Ms. Donatelli?” He finally asks me after a few tense moments of silence.
“Peachy,” I mumble with a little heat in my voice. I mean, really, that was a stupid question.
“Stupid question. I’m sorry.”
I barely acknowledge his words with a tilt of my head. I’m not trying to be a bitter bitch, but all I want is to be alone, not be interrogated by police.
“Do you want to tell me what happened tonight, Ms. Donatelli?”
I don’t move my eyes from his face, but I remain silent. Like I said, I don’t know Sal, but I know enough about his reputation to keep my mouth shut.
As much as it hurts me to know who gunned down my mom and not say anything, I grew up in a neighborhood where the people who talk to the police don’t live to see another day. I’m in survival mode.
I have nothing left. No family, no money. If I talk to the cops and tell them what I saw, I will end up just like Momma and Papi.
“Ms. Donatelli?”
“Gianna,” I say. I can’t stand being called by my last name, my father’s name. He’s the very man who’s responsible for the death of my mother.
“Gianna.” Detective Kendrick opens his thick folder. I close my eyes when I see a mug shut of my father’s face. “It says here that your father’s been in and out of trouble with the law since he came to this country thirty years ago. Victor Donatelli has been found guilty for a number of crimes, but all petty. It also says he has some kind of connection with the notorious loan shark Salazar Milano.”
My whole body freezes at Sal’s name and the all-too-familiar fear creeps its way back into my body, taking control of all my senses. It’s incredibly hard, but I manage to school my features so Kendrick doesn’t pick up on my inner turmoil. Or at least he pretends not to.
“Now, I don’t see any record of your mom, Rosa Donatelli, having any run-ins with the law, but being with your—”
I know where his sentence is going, and I refuse to let him tarnish my momma’s name in such a way. I lean over the metal table with venom in my eyes and a hiss in my voice. “My papi was a mean man who loved to make my life and my mother’s life hell. He drank and beat Momma on a regular basis, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was out gambling away every cent we had.”
I clench my fists. “I lost every bit of love or respect I had for that man the first time I had to help Momma up off her bedroom floor and clean the blood off her face after one of his drunken beatings. I firmly believe this world is a better place without that man, and not one tear that I’ve shed since finding my parents dead in my childhood home has been for him. They are all for my mom. She was an angel. She was naive and scared of the unknown, so she stayed with the devil, but she did the best she could every day to give me the best life possible, whether that meant stepping in when Papi directed his anger at me or stealing from the local supermarket in town so I could have food in my stomach when I laid my head down at night. You can say whatever you want to about my papi, but don’t you dare speak anything evil about my momma.”
When I lean back in the uncomfortable chair, I survey Kendrick’s expression. I expect to see anger at being put in his place—something tells me that doesn’t happen very often for him—but the only thing I see is respect.
Now it’s Kendrick’s turn to lean across the table. “You want justice for your momma, Gianna?” He asks in a no-bullshit tone. Caught off guard by his question, I find myself nodding. I want nothing more than my mom to have justice. I want Sal to pay for what he did, to spend the rest of his life behind bars, because a bullet to his head would never be enough to make him pay for what he took from me.
“Then you need to tell me the truth. Do it for you and your momma.”
Pulled between fear and a desire for justice, I wait a beat before answering. Eventually, fear wins. “I don’t know anything,” I mumble as tears sting the back of my eyes.
Kendrick sighs and sits back in his chair. He shuffles through a stack of papers. My breath catches when he pulls out a mug shot of Sal Milano.
“I’ve been a detective for many, many years, Gianna. I’m trained to notice things, things like the way your body stiffened when I mentioned Sal’s name earlier or the way your breath caught when I showed his face. I would bet you money you know who did this. I’d bet my life Sal had something to do with it.”
Kendrick’s words echo through my head as I stare at the mug shot. I’m so close to just opening my mouth and letting the truth spill out. So close…
I look up when Kendrick leans across the table. “I know why you’re remaining quiet. I can honestly say I don’t blame you. I know the kind of reputation Sal and his goons have, and believe me, it’s not a reputation that hasn’t been earned. I promise you, I will keep you safe. If you tell me what you saw, I will get you justice and I will keep you safe. All you have to do is trust me. Can you do that, Gianna? Can you trust me?”
For the second time since I met this man, I find myself nodding my head as tears rapidly cascade down my cheeks.
“Tell me what you saw, sweetheart,” he says softly.
***
Since the moment I spilled my guts to Detective Kendrick, my life has moved fast and slow at the same time. The informant Kendrick has on the street informed him that I’m not even on Sal’s radar, so both Kendrick and I felt it would be okay for me to be on my own with some police protection.
The main problem being on my own is I have no interest whatsoever in going back to my house. Because of my home life, I never tried to make real friends in school. It was always better to keep people at a distance so they wouldn’t see what was going on in my house. Staying at a friend’s house wasn’t really an option.
Joe was nice enough to let me stay with him until I could find a more permanent place to live. It was an adjustment at first. Joe is middle aged and married to a wonderful and caring woman. Together, they have four rowdy kids. They live in a small house, so I had to sleep on the couch.
They went out of their way to make me feel comfortable, but it was useless. I miss my mom. I wasn’t sleeping or eating. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw one of two things—my momma on that kitchen floor or Sal’s evil smirk when he was walking out of my house.
Still, I got up every day and went throu
gh the motions to convince everyone that I was fine, but inside I was dying little by little. The first time I felt any kind of relief from my inner turmoil was the day Detective Kendrick called and told me that, after only a week of searching, they’d apprehended Sal.
My relief was short-lived. Once he was arrested, it didn’t take Sal long to figure out I was the one who put him at the scene. The threats came almost immediately. I have no idea how his men found out I was living with Joe, but they did.
One week after Sal was put in jail, I received my first threat via letter. I didn’t waste time packing my one duffel bag of clothes and leaving Joe’s house. After everything he and his family have done for me, I just couldn’t stay and risk putting them in danger.
My next step was to take the letter to the police station to show Detective Kendrick. I had my doubts he would protect me. The entire way to the station, my stomach was in a ball of nerves. Even if Kendrick couldn’t keep his promise about protecting me, I was going to testify. I won’t let Sal get away with what he did.
As soon as Kendrick read the letter, he jumped into action. I was put in a small house with two other detectives until a more permanent place for me could be found. I wasn’t so naïve to think that keeping me safe was the chief’s main goal, or that he was doing it just because it was the right thing to do. I’m the one and only person in the world who can end Sal’s reign of terror on New York, which is why I’m getting full protection from the police. But the moment I showed Kendrick that letter, I knew he was protecting me because keeping me safe was just as important to him as the case against Sal.
I was only in the small safe house for three days before Kendrick came and got me. For precautionary reasons, he couldn’t tell me where we were going until we boarded a plane. That’s when I was told I was going to stay with a family that Detective Kendrick is close to in Maui, Hawaii.
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