CHAPTER 39
Days pass without a single whisper from Cade, life moves slowly, the days stretching, and an itch begins to form under my skin. The not knowing is driving me insane. Every car I hear rambling down the drive draws my attention, but it’s never the news I want. Knox serves as a great distraction, but in the hours when we’re both meant to be sleeping, when the darkness falls and the silence screams louder than any sound, I lie there, and my mind works against me.
What if Cade betrays me, like so many others have?
What if he’s making a deal right now?
Neither Knox nor I will survive. It would haveall been for nothing, and this happiness I have found in the most impossible of places would be fleeting, a forgotten memory only the mountains bore witness to.
Knox rolls over beside me, soft in sleep, so I slip from the bed quietly, keeping my moves light and slow so I don’t wake him. The house creaks, the walls groan, but there’s something oddly calming about it. Years have etched themselves into the very fabric of these halls, the floors a mosaic of scuffs and scratches, every footstep a mark of time.
If it all works out, if we somehow make it out of this alive, I think I’ll stay here, on this ranch, in this tiny town beneath the shadow of the mountains. I’ll bring this place back to what it was, give back what was taken.
Being here has made me resent my father, and the realization of it has twisted me up inside. Because I loved him, worshipped him like any daughter does, but I wonder if he even thought about the damage he was doing when he lined Rossi’s pockets, or was it all just power and money? Greed and pride.
Was the city not enough?
The De Luca name is feared. It drives terror into all those who know it. A name built into the stone and brick and mortar of the city, hidden on walls inside buildings it has no right to be in. It has power and control, but still, my father wanted this too.
I walk aimlessly through the house, not with a particular place in mind, but I find myself in front of Knox’s locked office door.
Glancing behind me, I wait for movement and sound from Knox, but he’s still upstairs sleeping, so I reach for the handle, pressing it down, but it’s still locked, so I turn around and head for the kitchen drawer. Moving some things around, I find a paperclip and head back, slotting it into the keyhole. The door unlocks after a few seconds of manipulation, and I quickly step inside, closing it behind me. It’s dark in here, so dark I can hardly make out any shape so I go slow toward the desk until I can reach for the lamp. It’s dim, but it illuminates the room enough that I’m no longer at risk of breaking a toe. Lowering into the old chair, it squeaks with my weight, and my head thumps back against the rest as I swivel it side to side. As full as this room is, with its antique wooden furniture and whiskey-filled cabinet, I’ve never seen Knox come in here.
I only snooped in the top drawer and the whiskey cabinet the times I was in here since it got me what I needed, but now I really look. There’s a metal letter opener on top of a stack of books purposely placed to look decorative on the edge of the desk, but you can tell they’ve been there a while, a layer of dust covering the fabric-bound books. There’s a laptop and a pot of pens on top, but that’s not what catches my eye.
There’s a frame turned down, so the picture is hidden, sitting behind the laptop.
Reaching for it, I turn it around and blow away the dust, revealing a photograph of two people inside. I immediately recognize Knox, younger here, the lines from age not as present, his beard is thinner, his eyes brighter. He’s holding the same cowboy hat he always wears down by his leg, dark hair unruly and shorter than it is now. The mountains serve as a backdrop with his arm thrown over an older man, a wide smile splitting his face.
The photo must be at least ten years old, but just before I place it back down, something about the older man catches my attention. There’s something in those eyes, so similar to Knox’s, that has a memory buzzing at the back of my mind. His hair is lighter than Knox’s, his nose a little wider, but they’re family, that much is clear.
But I’ve seen this man before.
In my father’s house, some years ago now. He was older than in this photo. The lines on his face were deeper, and his hair greyer, and there was a droop to his shoulders like he’d just lost a battle. I remember it so vividly.
I’d been walking through the house, toward the dining room where I could smell dinner and hear the clink of glasses, and he’d been walking toward me, hat at his side, head turned toward the floor. He wasn’t looking where he was going and almost walked right into me, but his shoes squeaked on the marble floor as he came to a stop.
“Sorry,” He mumbled, “In my own world.”The accent matched Knox’s, his voice rougher, a little croaky.
“It’s quite alright,” I’d replied, and side-stepped him, figuring he was just leaving a meeting with my father. He had many, and I didn’t tend to pay his visitor’s much attention.
“You look just like him,” The man had said, stopping me, and I’d glanced back at him, taking in his rough appearance. There was dirt on his worn jeans, and wrinkles in the flannel shirt tucked into the waistband, and the gold C on his cowboy hat had glinted in the bright lighting of the hallway.
“Who?” I’d questioned.
“Your father,” He’d answered.
“I’ve got to go,” I’d told him, squirming even though the man hadn’t moved an inch or hinted at a single thing. Instinctively, I knew he wasn’t dangerous; he just lookedtired,and I didn’t like it. Because it wasn’t the type of exhaustion that came from lack of sleep. It was the type that had come from being worn by life, by circumstance, and deep down Iknew.
My father had raised me to be as emotionless as possible, to look atfeelingslike they’re a weakness because that is what they are. They make a person vulnerable, and this man, this life-tired man, he was showing me his weakness.
“Let’s hope someone can be the change,” He’d said, lifting his hat to secure it on his head, “Godknows we need it.”
“What do you mean?” I’d asked.
He’d chuckled warmly. “If you have to ask, then you don’t know, but you will, and I suppose how you handle that will define the future.”
He’d walked away then, left me staring after him with so many questions and no one to give me answers. In the years that had followed, I’d forgotten that conversation, lost in the thirst for control, but his picture has just brought it all back.
