Chapter Nine - Fiona

Listening to the loud chime of my wall clock, I stare at the small box in front of me, still shellshocked from the impromptu meeting with my father. What documents are inside that need to be protected so much? I'm itching to look inside the box, but I'm also scared of what I may discover. Why was this the last thing my father wanted before settling on his death bed? I reach for the box, opening it. I'm shocked when I look inside because there's no files and there's no hard drive either.

Just one picture. And that picture is of a large, dilapidated warehouse with red shipping containers in front of it. Puzzled, I stare at the printed picture searching for clues as to why my father would only have one glossy photograph inside the box.

Where's the files? "Luca, what does this even mean?" I scrape around, turning the box upside down, checking there's nothing attached to the box, but I can't find anything. Flipping the picture back and forth in my hands, I can't see any other information on it.

Huh? He said files, but why can't I find any? Okay. Let me call. I retrieve my cell phone out of my bag, contacting my father on the last number he called me from. It was likely from a burner phone, but it doesn't make sense what I'm looking at. Dialing the number, I chew nervously on my bottom lip.

Come on, pick up, Luca . What is this? I need more information. I'm about to give up hope as the phone rings all the way out. My finger hovers over the end call button but he finally picks up.

"Dad, about the box you gave me," I pause, sucking in a deep breath, but there's no reply on the other end. "Dad?" I squawk in a high-pitched voice, worried that he might have slipped away already, and seeing him at the restaurant was my last time.

Please. No . There's something wrong. My stomach somersaults in response as light chuckling echoes in the background, my hand growing warm from the box.

Shit. Who is that? The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as the chuckling continues, along with heavy breathing. My hitched breath catches in my throat, while waiting for my father to answer.

"Oh no, poor bambina, your daddy's dead, but we want the files he left for you. Do you have it?" says the charming lace of a venomous voice, spiraling down the line as my intestines turn inside out. The timbre of the man's voice is chillingly familiar, but what did he say?

My father's dead. A sickening wave of nausea shifts through me as I press my eyes shut. My worst fears actualized. I don't know if I can handle these turbulent emotions back-to-back like this… but the voice.

Why do I know it?

The shocking realization hits me in a way I can't explain as I pick up the faint murmurs of voices in the background.

Fuck. It's Ruslan.

A flashback occurs as I recall his silky voice whispering compliments in my ear at the Destiny Bar. Only this time his whisper is one of death filtering down the line. A tear slips down my face because I knew there was something supremely dangerous about Ruslan when I first met him, but I just couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. It feels as if a hand is gripping my throat, but I manage to speak regardless, and it's tough to reconcile letting a murderer take your virginity.

"What?"

"Listen, your daddy's dead, and all you have to do is hand over the files to us. If you don't… I'm going to hunt you down," Ruslan remarks ruthlessly.

Hunt you down. Hunt you down. Shuddering at the sound of his voice, I reason that Ruslan must be part of some sort of mob operation himself, because why else would he want what my father had?

There's a great irony amidst the fact I couldn't outrun the mob, because inadvertently I ended up sleeping with a mob man. Fuck.

I click the phone dead; the triple whammy raining down on me like a ton of bricks. My father's deceased, and I didn't get the opportunity I wanted to bond with him. But to be honest, I don't even know why I'm crying. It's not as if the man was a mainstay in my life. It was my mother and sometimes my aunts who had a hand in raising me. Originally, we all resided in the Midwest, in Ohio until I was age six, but during that time, all I remembered was him in and out of the house a whole bunch.

Often, I would stand near my bedroom door at night, only to hear them shouting back and forth. Their voices were so intensely loud they'd wake me up in the middle of the night, and I would rush out to see what's going on.

"You knew what I was when you married me! You were attracted to me because of it, and now you don't approve?"

"Not like this. I don't want this lifestyle for our daughter. No Luca—you can't. I don't want her mixed up in what you have going on."

"Is it so bad? I can protect her."

"Luca, you are crazy! You have men coming and going at all times of the night, and you don't have the time or the inclination to protect your daughter properly. You don't have eyes in the back of your head. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I'm Luca Marino—the fucking Don, and any daughter of mine will be well equipped for this life. I can even organize a bodyguard for her."

"A bodyguard? You know, Luca for all your smarts, you're a very stupid man. My daughter will have a normal life. She will go to school with her friends. She will do her homework, and she will be like any other child in the neighborhood. I will not have you turning her into some ruthless killer! I don't want her ending up like you."

For weeks on end, the arguing got worse, until one night, it just stopped altogether, and that's when I knew things had changed for good. My father stood in the middle of our childhood home, a pained anguish lining his face.

"It's over. Your mother and I have decided what's best for you. You're going to stay here." I'd flung my arms around him, pleading and begging for us to stay as my mother clung onto the edge of the door watching with a steely expression.

"No! Please, don't leave me, Daddy!"

"Where your father is going is no place for young girls. You're coming to live here for good with me in Ohio, and your father's going to Chicago," she told me that morning when I started bawling about my father departing. He would peek out the window, pulling the curtains back as I watched the amber headlights of his vehicle light up and the engine start. Sometimes he wouldn't arrive back until late in the morning, only to slip right back out the same day. At the time I was too young to grasp what was going on.

Underground rumblings from the kids at school is what made me realize how notorious my father truly was, and that was on top of everything else.

"Is your father Luca Marino?" the kids would ask during recess and lunch breaks.

"Yeah, so what about him?"

"He's in the news. Isn't he going to jail?" the kids would taunt in grade school.

"No, he's not going to jail. Mind your own business?"

"Your father's a jailbird. He's a jailbird. He's going to jail. Luca Marino's going to jail."

I distinctly recall my mother grasping my hands as a young girl before I watched my father pack all his bags into his car before giving me a quick peck on the cheek and that was his last goodbye.

" Okay, kiddo. I have to go. I'll be in touch."

"Daddy! Daddy! Where are you going?"

"Someplace you don't wanna go. Stay with your mother; you'll be safe here."

The memory bubble pops as I break down, tears flowing like a river. He's dead, he's dead, and now what the hell am I supposed to do with this box?