A sea of people continue to surround me. They check me with their shoulders and elbows, but I don’t give a shit. I’m just trying to make it through this phone call without blacking out or taking my frustration out on an innocent bystander.
“It depends on what your definition of handle is, Dad,” I grit, moving my fingers from my nose to my forehead.
“Please,” he scoffs. “Don’t be a fucking smartass.”
“I’m not, but I’ve been working all day to contain this, and you’re talking to me as if I have no clue what I’m doing or like I’m just letting this shit happen to me.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, but I’m not certain thiscanbe contained, Holt. It’s all the city is talking about. You and the magazine are plastered across every headline,” my father seethes. His anger is evident through the speaker pressed to my ear, and it’s a rare sound for someone who has spent his entire forty-year political career containing scandals. The majority ofthose being while he was the mayor of New York City. Every statement and act was a strategic chess move, doing whatever it took to keep the media’s attention off the shiny object while flashing another object to distract them.
“Any situation in which our name is tied with those fucking Montgomerys needs to be shut down immediately,” he continues. “It’s been twenty-four hours since this news broke, and that’s entirely too long. The media has posted the article written by someone accusing Rome of holding sex parties at his multiple estates, among other details I’d rather not repeat. This accusation will no doubt leave a bad taste in the mouths of those who’d ever want to do business with Rome. What I don’t understand is how you could publish that piece in your magazine. You know the Montgomerys won’t let gossip such as this just slide.”
“It’s an anonymous column,” I explain gruffly. “I personally don’t vet every single article. The anonymous column has its own editor and staff.”
“You should have told them.”
“Seriously?” My anger ramps up, and I feel like I’m back in my office with Julianna standing in front of me again, questioning my life choices as if it’s her fucking place. I narrow my eyes at absolutely no one. “Told them what, exactly?”
“Told them not to ever mention a single Montgomery. Ever.”
The Capuleti and Montgomery rivalry goes back generations. The exact start date is unknown, but every generation as far back as I know has been raised to never question the last. From birth, we’re told the Montgomerys are our sworn enemy—something to do with a Capuleti son being caught having an affair with a spoken for Montgomery. As retribution, the Montgomerys gifted the Capuleti family the son’s head on a spike. From there, the domino effect began, with a riverof bloodshed following for centuries. Or so the story has been told over the years. We’ve been told to never question it.
We don’t dare get involved with them or even attempt to cross their paths, or we’ll be exiled from our respective families or perceived as a traitor, no questions asked. Over the years, the lines drawn between our families have weakened, and I guess you could say Julianna and I have worsened it between my attempts to cozy up to Rome and Julianna’s constant string of pranks. I can’t blame her, though, when Rome continues the cycle, pushing Julianna to take it a step further.
A Capuleti never could let a Montgomery have the last word.
Julianna played with fire the moment she decided to entertain Rome’s interventions and teasing. I danced in it the second I convinced myself we could fix a centuries-old rivalry just by simply playing nice.
What a fucking joke. My ancestors would be rolling over in their grave if they saw us now.
I tilt my head back and squeeze my eyes shut. Dusk has set in across the city. The sunlight is nearly gone.
“I’m not going to tell my staff to avoid publishing the Montgomery name over a stupid family rivalry.”
“Tell that to the countless lives lost and blood spilled at the hands of that family over the years,” my father hisses. “Our family rivalry isn’t a joke, Holt.”
I open my mouth to point out that the Capuletis are just as guilty as the Montgomerys but stop myself. There’s no point. There never is a fucking point. Instead, I settle on muttering, “I understand.”
“Good.”
“I have one more question.” I blow out a heavy breath. I’ve debated having this talk with him, but curiosity gets the better ofme. I should drop it, but I’ve never been very good at listening to the rational part of my brain.
“Always,” he says confidently. “You can always talk to me.”
“Okay.” I inhale a deep breath. “About Mom’s death?—”
“That’s not a question, Holt,” he interjects quickly. A little too quickly. “But what is it?”
“I know it was a long time ago, but something never sat right with me about it.” I swallow around the lump in my throat. Suddenly, I’m nervous. “I remember the police saying it was a common type of death. A random shooting on the subway, but?—"
“But nothing, Holt,” he clips, his voice hardening. “We’ve been over this a million times. There’s no reason to go down this rabbit hole. I was almost certain it had to do with the Montgomerys, but the police did their investigation. Some random drug addict or criminal decided to cut your mother’s life short for absolutely no reason. While I have the urge to question it myself sometimes, I don’t. That’s all there is to it. Understand?”
I rake a hand through my hair and hang my head, looking down at the pavement beneath my feet. Honestly, I’m not even sure I have the bandwidth to argue with my father at the moment. We’ve been through this conversation before, and we always end up circling back to the beginning.
Unlike him, I don’t think the Montgomerys had a hand in her death. They hate us, but I don’t think they would stoop that low.
I’m exhausted, and I only have myself to blame. This is all my doing. In truth, there’s only one thing I know will make this feeling go away, and it sure as fuck isn’t talking to my dad.
Especially when he convinces me to believe that my mother’s murder was random.
