“Why the hell did she save old grocery receipts from fifteen years ago?!” I throw the folder across the room. Papers flutter out and cover the already-messy floor.
The apartment feels strangely empty. We still have furniture in here, but most of our personal items are back at Stellan’s place. Or I guess back at our place. I don’t know how to think about it yet, but that doesn’t matter.
We did leave some stuff here though. Such as all the crap my mother left behind that I’ve been carting around in case it ever becomes helpful one day.
Old bills. Ancient tax documents. The pile of myriad papers that makes up a life.
I’m hunting for some hint of my father, some clue about his life and his connection to Stellan’s organization. He was married to my mother for over a decade, and there should be some trace of him. Even just a signature on a work order or something like that.
But there’s nothing. Not a single trace.
Like the guy didn’t exist.
I remember him though. He had a deep, booming laugh. His smile was bright and airy. He taught me how to throw a ball, how to do math in my head, how to shovel the sidewalks, how to catch a train, how to ride the subway. He taught me cooking, dancing, singing. He taught me everything.
He died when I was ten. That was long enough to know him.
Except I never really did.
Because somehow he had a second life I never knew about.
I try to remember what my mom told us about his work, but I come up with nothing. Dad left early and was there when we got home from school most days, but I just figured he hadsome boring office job somewhere nearby. That’s what most kids think, right? Their parents couldn’t get more normal and average?
Now I’m finding out my father was an important member of a freaking mafia family.
Important enough to mentor the Don’s own kid.
There are too many questions swirling around in my head. Like, what did Dad do to make everyone hate him? Did he really die in a car accident, or was his death linked back to the Corsettis?
It all comes back to one question in the end.
Why me?
I groan and collapse back into a pile of papers. My mother was a hoarder, but she never kept anything worthwhile. There’s nothing here. Not a useful scrap. Not a speck of information.
I should’ve seen this coming. I’m frustrated with myself for going into this relationship with Stellan without getting all the facts. I should’ve been smart enough to realize he didn’t decide to marry some random diner waitress on a whim.
He chose me.
And I still don’t know why.
It seems like his family hates me, or at least they hate my father.
I think about telling Gem, but it’ll only upset her. I don’t want to drop a bomb about how we’re descended from gangsters while she’s trying to get into college.
Does that make me as bad as Stellan?
I groan to myself, head pounding, when there’s a click from the hall. I sit up straight, heart suddenly racing as adrenaline spikes in my core. That’s the door opening. I leap to my feet, looking for a weapon, but I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to defend myself with a stack of old instruction manuals for long-gone appliances.
“Kira, it’s me.”
Stellan’s voice. I let out a long breath. Not a murderer come to get revenge for something my father did years ago. Although still a murderer.
“What are you doing here?” He appears in the hall and hesitates. He looks like he wants to come closer, but doesn’t. “You smell like blood.”
He glances down at himself. “That’s not a surprise.”
I frown, looking for injuries. “Are you hurt again?”
