I stare at the text message a few seconds longer then fire off a quick response, slide my cell into my jacket pocket and secure the locker. Dad’s forgotten where he put the keys again. That’s the second time this week he’s asked me about it.
My chest tightens like a rope has been drawn around it. His memories are getting worse. I need to get him to a doctor, regardless of how much he protests.
He insists his forgetfulness is nothing to worry about. He doesn’t remember mentioning my mother when I first arrived, he doesn’t remember when I returned from Boston. And living with this new reality is a lot more stressful than I’d anticipated.
I can’t stop myself from catastrophizing about the future. What happens when he forgets how to do his job at the hardware store? What happens when he’s home all day? Or when heforgets how the brakes work on his car? The anxiety makes my skin crawl.
I swallow down the temptation to cry. I can’t. Not when I’m about to step out into a club full of people all wanting smiles and impeccable service. All I can do is push the sadness down into the pit of my stomach until I’m finally alone somewhere and can let it out.
Not for the first time, I wish I had someone to talk to, but apart from Shane, I’ve never let anyone get too close. I wouldn’t know what to do with a close friend. Aren’t close friends supposed to confide in each other? Share secrets? I have a five-year-full closet of skeletons I couldn’t unleash on anyone. It’s easier to be alone than forge a relationship that might force me to let down my guard.
My own needs aside, some practical advice about managing Dad’s decline would help. I make a mental note to call Gayle, Dad’s boss’s wife. I haven’t seen her in a while and she was always kind to us. I don’t want to let slip how worried I am that my father’s memory is declining but I do want to gauge if they’ve noticed anything at the store.
I slip on the heels Vivienne gave me, hold my chin up and walk out into the lounge.
I’m getting used to the clothes and the heels with practice. At first I felt terribly self-conscious—and wobbly. But now, after a couple weeks, I feel more confident. Even a little bit sexy. But as I step out this evening, a cloud darker than normal hovers over me, threatening to drop an oceans-worth of rainwater on my head.
When I’m almost at the podium, the curtain moves to one side and several men, unmasked, walk into the club. I haven’t seen their faces here before but there’s something familiar about them.
There are five men, four of them early thirties maybe, one a little older, each dressed in impeccable Italian tailoring, and strikingly handsome. Tall, broad and quietly menacing. They’reheading toward me when a man wearing a turtle neck sweater and dark green mask strides across the lounge to greet them.
Once I’ve taken my place behind the podium, I realize the men are all Di Santos. I recognize them now. They don’t court attention like smaller-time criminal gangs, but I’ve seen photographs of them in the papers and on TV.
My heart catches as I take them in. The photographs don’t do them justice. They’re larger than life, their charisma otherworldly, and they carry an aura of power like they could move the equator one-handed if they wanted to.
Another masked man arrives—one who shares the same gravitas as the Di Santos. Similar height and build, same style of dress, same sharp lines and easy gait. And when he turns to catch me staring, I notice the exact same aura of power.
It haloes him, almost glowing. I feel it in the firm brace of his feet on the carpet, the grind of his jaw as he regards me and the burn of his gaze as he returns my stare.
Swallowing hard, I force myself to look away.
Il Diavolo just caught me staring again.
Surely, that’s reason enough for him to fire me. If he really doesn’t like people staring so much, why hasn’t he gotten rid of me yet? I can’t seem to help myself.
I lift my lids and force a polite smile when the seven men walk past the podium. A couple of them nod in acknowledgment but Il Diavolo doesn’t look at me again. As soon as they’ve disappeared out back, my bones sag with relief.
Then, the curtain parts again and a couple I’ve seen previously walks through. I push another smile onto my face and direct them to their table, then school my features ready for the next set of guests to arrive.
But, clearly, I’m not being very convincing.
“Okay, so what was it? Your dog died? Your beautician put too much wax on your coochie?”
I lift my gaze to see Hallie looking back at me over the screen, arching an unimpressed brow.
“It’s nothing,” I say, shaking out my shoulders and forcing yet another smile.
It’s unusual for me to struggle with optimism. In the hospital, putting a smile on my face for patients and visitors, no matter how dire their situation, came easily to me. Here though, caring for a father whose memories are fading faster than I can catch them, and working a job I don’t like and didn’t want, all to redeem an uncle who cares about no one but himself, I’m struggling.
The sensation of a tear rolling down my cheek makes me startle. I hardly ever cry.
I wipe it away quickly, pretending I’ve got an itch, but Hallie doesn’t miss it. She’s around the podium and at my side in an instant. I’m too frazzled to flinch when she puts an arm around me.
“Hey,” she soothes. “I was joking, I’m sorry.”
I sniff and swallow back more tears. I refuse to cry in this place.
Reaching for my water, I take a long drink. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just being silly.”
