35. Chapter Thirty-Five

I walk back to my room in a trance, the cell phone heavy in my palm even though it isn't heavy at all. It's small. Simple. Brand new. Once I'm in my room, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare down at it for a long time before opening it to the home screen. The wallpaper is a generic blue swirly one that comes with new phones.

There are only four little squares on the home screen—store, phone, messages, web. Basic.

But it's a phone. It's a small semblance of freedom. Perhaps an olive branch. Does this make up for what he's done? No. But it does make it harder to be angry with him. It only solidifies my earlier thoughts that Enzo isn't someone to be feared. That maybe he could even be—no. No, I can't think of Enzo as being on my side; as being any sort of partner. Even if we are going to be married, or are married by now, a phone isn't a reason to give in. I'm not materialistic.

As I stare down at the phone, a pit forms in my stomach.

I can call my father. I can speak with my father—whenever I want.

I can ask him what this is all about. He can give me the truth. Finally, I can get the truth I've been looking for since the day in the restaurant when he told me I was going with Enzo. The truth that has kept me up most nights but in bed all day.

So why is it I haven't called him yet? Why don't I have him on the phone? What is holding me back?

I want to speak with him, tell him I miss him. I want to know the truth. But what if he doesn't tell me? What if he lies? Will I know if he's lying? What if he tells me the truth, and it makes it absolutely impossible to ever get used to living here?

Or worse…

What if he tells me the truth and it makes me hate him? What if it makes me unable to be angry with Enzo? What if this is all my father's fault and I've been fighting Enzo for nothing? I've always been a fair person. At least, I like to think so. I place blame where it is deserved and like to stay neutral whenever I can be. So, if my father explains what happened to me and blows the anger I have toward Enzo out of the water? What do I do then? It's bad enough I'm warring with myself knowing Enzo saved me and my father gave me up.

Why do I need more? Why am I still so angry with Enzo after knowing that?

Because you want to hear it from your father's mouth.

How will I ever know if what my father tells me is truth?

I click on the phone button to open the apps.

Two numbers, just like he said.

Matteo.

Vincenzo.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. My finger presses down on my father's name, and I tap the phone button because there is only one way I'm going to get these questions answered.

How will I know if my father is telling me the truth?

Well, I think I'll just know.

My chest constricts as I bring the cell phone to my ear. It rings once. Twice. Thr—

"Hello?"

I don't say anything right away. My voice literally won't work.

"Hello?" he repeats, this time more harshly.

"Daddy?"

He's quiet for a beat. "Jordan?" he whispers. "Jordan, is that you?"

"It's me," I say in a small voice, fighting back tears.

"Sweetheart, how are you—does Enzo know you're calling?"

"He does," I say, this time with a stronger voice. "He gave me a phone to call you."

He sighs a relieving sound. "How are you, sweetheart?"

"I'm okay."

"He isn't hurting you, right?"

That shouldn't annoy me, but it does. He cares enough now that I'm calling, but not enough to make sure it wouldn't happen beforehand? If he thought there was any chance Enzo would hurt me, why would he make the deal?

"No, nothing like that."

"Good," he says. "I've been so worried about you."

"I miss you," I tell him.

"I miss you too, sweetheart."

I want to ask the question burning on my tongue, but my stomach? My stomach is going nuts. Almost like it knows something I don't.

Even if I don't like the answer, I need to know. I need the truth. The fact of the matter is, I am stuck here. And the only way I'm ever going to come to terms with it is by letting go of all this stuff holding me down and holding me back. If I get every bit of truth now, I can work through it and move forward.

I need answers.

"I need you to do me a favor," I say, licking my lips and adjusting the phone in my grip.

"Anything, Jordan. Anything at all."

"I need you to tell me why I'm here."

"What?" He sounds shocked. Like maybe he thought I would ask for money or to bring me over a shirt that was forgotten at home.

"I need to know what happened."

He's silent for a beat and says, "Enzo didn't tell you?"

"Some of it, but he won't tell me all of it. Daddy, I need to know why I'm here. If I'm ever going to accept this, I need the truth. Please, just tell me."

He sighs, and I can picture him shaking his head. Pleading never did go over well with him, but that's probably because I never really had to. My father gave me everything I wanted, so when he said no, I accepted it. There were few times I begged for something, but his answer was always his answer. No is no. That's that.

"I got deep into debt."

I wait to see if he's going to say more, but seconds tick by and he says nothing. So I speak.

"From what?"

"Gambling."

I hold back a sigh. I know my father enjoyed gambling, but I didn't think it was a problem. Not like this. We always had so much money, so many nice things. If he was gambling all our money away, how were we surviving?

"So you owed some people money and couldn't pay them back?"

"Yes, but I also owed Enzo money. From years ago, for—Christ," he growls. "For the same thing. I've had a problem for years, and I'm working on it, but it's so damn hard, Jordan."

I furrow my brow. That's so hard? What about being forced to marry someone? What about being used to pay off a debt because of that gambling problem? What about being forced out of the house you've lived in your whole life and brought to a strange place where everything is dictated for you? What about that?

Of course I don't say any of those things. Instead, I yell at my inner voice to shut the hell up.

This is my father, and he loves me.

"So then what?" I force the words out.

"It got really bad, and Enzo reached out to me to say he'd strike a deal with me. These people I owed money too? They were ready to kill us, Jordan. Both of us. I'm sorry this was the only way, but I couldn't have you hurt."

I already knew this. Everything he's told me, Enzo already explained. There's something else. There's more. There has to be.

"What else?"

"That's it," he says.

It's quiet. So quiet.

Enzo said there was something he wouldn't tell me. Something I needed to hear from my father.

"Are you sure that's all?" I hold my breath as I wait for him to answer me.

"Yes, sweetheart, that's all. It was a lot of money."

Why don't I believe him? Everything in his tone tells me he isn't lying, but in my gut, I know he's lying to me? He's holding something back.

Enzo is the one who took me, the one who is keeping me here. He's the one I shouldn't believe. I have no reason to trust anything he says.

Yet, it's my father who has me questioning his trust.

He isn't telling me the truth. He's keeping something from me. I know this because Enzo said there was more. My father has information he doesn't want to share with me. Why?

"Why didn't you tell me Enzo was in the mafia?" I ask instead. "That you were tied up with them?"

"It wasn't something I wanted you to worry about, sweetheart. That's adult business. Men's business. Enzo was a close friend, and I didn't want you to fear him."

"What about the clubs? What about you?"

"My answer is the same, Jordan. It wasn't something you needed to know, and I wanted to protect you from the dangers of it. I figured if you knew nothing, they could never use you for anything, but I guess I was wrong."

Yeah. I guess you were.

He changes the subject and asks me questions about being here, but I answer robotically. My head is miles away. I barely recall that part of the conversation when we hang up.

My father is lying to me—again.

As if he hasn't done this to me my entire life? As if he hasn't already messed everything up, he's only making it worse now.

He asked me to call him tomorrow before we got off the phone, and I said I would, but— I'm not sure I want to.

I don't feel better after speaking with him. In fact, I feel worse. I was thrilled when I was told I could call him. No, that's not true. That isn't quite what I was thrilled about.

My excitement was about Enzo trusting me. Enough to allow me to have a phone.

A step in the right direction.

Maybe even enjoy our life one day.

Maybe…

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling until it grows so dark I can't see. Still, I stare up, unable to sleep. My body and mind are relatively calm, but something isn't right. I feel like hundreds of ants are crawling beneath my skin.

My phone lights up, brightening the room. I turn toward it to see a text notification. I pick it up to look at it, wondering why my father would be awake right now. But it isn't my father.

Enzo: Did you speak with your father?

Me: I did.

Enzo: Do you feel better having the truth?

Does he think my father would tell me the truth? Or is he mocking me? Was he banking on knowing this would happen? Is he manipulating me because my father is an asshole?

Me: I don't think I have the truth.

The little texting dots form and disappear a few times before another text comes through.

Enzo: I'm sorry. I'd hoped he would be honest.

Enzo: For once.

I hadn't expected such a genuine and caring response from Enzo, but I need it right now. I need an ounce of compassion, so I take it.

Me: So did I.

Enzo: I won't be around for most of the day tomorrow. I'll try to return for dinner.

I stare at the text, wondering why he's suddenly being so nice to me. Is it possible he cares that my father is an asshole? Does he care that I'm forced here when I don't want to be? Not enough he'll let me go, so I guess not. If he cared, he wouldn't be doing this. He could have paid off my father's debt and left me alone.

If my father cared, he wouldn't have done what he did.

So it seems the only person in the world who cares about me is me.

And I don't feel like doing that anymore.