18. Emily

Ifind myself the unwilling recipient of way too much free time.

Seriously, it's overwhelming. I went from working two jobs every single day, burning myself out and grinding myself to dust, to suddenly sitting on my ass from morning until night with nothing to do.

I spend a couple days unpacking, but there's only so much I can do with that. Simon's not around much—he's busy doing mafia things, whatever those are—and I find myself puttering around the house, looking through drawers and cabinets, basically exploring my new world.

The only silver lining is a phone call from my father three days into my new life. I'm sitting out back with a cup of tea, my knees pulled to my chest and I'm wondering what the hell I'm going to do with my day, when his name pops up on my screen. I answer, nervous there's another problem, but he sounds ecstatic instead.

"It's the damnedest thing," he breathes into the phone, laughing like he's ten years younger. I can't remember the last time I heard my father sounding like this. "I got a call from the Social Security office, and it turns out they've been underpaying me for years."

My back's immediately up and all my warning bells blare red alert. "Dad, you know that sounds extremely shady, right?"

He cracks up, even though it's not funny at all, and assures me that he thought the same thing at first. "They never asked for any info at all, just said a check would be in the mail, and I told them sure, I'd believe it when I see it. Then guess what shows up?" He describes the envelope in loving detail, followed by the check itself, for an amount that seems ludicrous.

Then it clicks: Dad really did get scammed again. But this time, it's a reverse scam, and the man at the other end is my husband.

"That's incredible," I say, and I sink back into my seat. "Did the check clear?"

"Sure did, hon. Sure did. I'm feeling flush for the first time since—" He doesn't finish that sentence, only peters off into an uncomfortable silence. "It's a lifesaver though. Honestly, I don't know where we'd be without this money, but you don't gotta worry about me for a while now. The lady said that'll be the payment amount moving forward."

I close my eyes, grinning like a maniac, and finally, finally, all this stress, all this strangeness with Simon and his family, it all feels so worth it.

"I'm happy for you, Dad," I tell him, wiping a tear away. "Seriously, it's amazing."

He talks about what he's going to do with the money—mostly pay debts and such—and I make him promise to take it easy. "You don't gotta worry anymore," he says, laughing again, and we hang up.

I sit alone grinning like a moron, the sun bright and warm on my face, birds singing somewhere, the sounds of the city around me: cars rolling down the street, voices talking in some far-off room, a woman's laughter, the smell of pollen on the breeze. For the first time in a while, I'm happy.

Simon came through. I made him promise not to let Dad know where the money was coming from, and he went above and beyond. It's not great that Dad's accepting this without questioning it too much—I mean, who ever heard of getting more money from Social Security?—but I refuse to let that bother me.

The money is the reason I'm here. The pure joy in my father's voice is the reason I'll stick around.

That night, I cook dinner. I go all out and make lobster ravioli from scratch, which takes a while and the grocery delivery costs a small fortune, but Simon did make it clear he doesn't mind what I spend. By the time he comes in the door, I have everything plated, the ravioli drizzled with a light saffron sauce and garnished with fresh chives with creamy mashed potatoes on the side. I pour wine, light candles, and wave at the cloth-covered dining room table as he stares at me in stunned amusement.

"I'm willing to bet you've never had a meal like this in your own house before," I tease, getting him seated.

He shakes his head and admits he doesn't cook much. "But I could get used to this."

"Don't bother. This is a special occasion." I sit across from him and raise my glass. "To my father's recent financial windfall."

Simon gives me a sly smile and clinks his glass to mine. "I heard there were some irregularities at the Social Security office recently. I'm guessing your father's bonus check cleared? And he's looking forward to his increased allotment?"

"I don't know how you did it, but seriously, thank you."

He shrugs as if it's no big deal and takes a bite. The look on his face is worth all the effort. His eyes close and he smiles to himself like he's truly enjoying something for the first time in a long while.

"That's good," he murmurs and looks at me, his eyes hooded and sensual, a smile still on his handsome lips, and my heart races in my chest. I'm not supposed to find him so attractive, but it's hard when he looks at me like I'm about to be dessert.

"I'm glad you like it." I'm flushed all over, feeling weirdly proud of my cooking skills. I mean, it's not like I've had time to make anything in a long while and I wasn't really sure how this would come out. But he's acting like it's the greatest thing he's ever tasted, and that's flattering.

"I'll admit I was a little concerned. I wasn't sure your father would buy the whole fake Social Security thing, but I put my best people on it. The checks should look identical to the real thing."

"At this point, I think my dad isn't going to question much, so long as money keeps pouring from the sky."

He smiles as he continues to eat and I try not to look at him too much. We haven't spent much time together since I came to live with him and I was starting to think it was better that way.

But this is nice. It's dangerous, and I'm feeling a little too flushed just because some hot guy thinks my ravioli is good, but it's nice.

I've been lonely. It's easy to see it now that I have a little company. I was introduced to the rest of his family a couple days ago and while they were extremely nice—especially his mother, Freddie, she's one of those warm and inviting women it's hard not to feel good around—they're still all but strangers to me. And I'm used to being surrounded by people all the time, even if they are only coworkers. The quiet of this empty house is starting to get to me.

"I was thinking he could win the lottery next," Simon says casually. He leans back, his plate cleared, and sips his wine as he watches me.

I stiffen and slowly shake my head. "I don't know how much you know about what happened to my father, but the lottery is basically the worst idea imaginable. That's the scam he fell for."

Simon goes quiet for a moment before he stretches his arm across the chair next to his. "Tell me about them. What do you know?"

I don't want to talk about this, but it feels like the kind of information Simon should be aware of. Besides, at this point, it doesn't really matter anymore. What happened to Dad already happened, and we've been working to put it behind us ever since.

But talking about it still hurts. Those early days after it first went down, when he came to me a completely broken man, racked with guilt and shame, drowning in debt and terrified for his future, those were bleak, terrible days. I still start sweating when I think about them.

"Dad thinks they were American." I talk quietly, staring down at my plate. "At least, he says they had American accents and talked like Americans. That was part of what convinced him. They weren't foreign, and he figured, Americans don't scam other Americans like that."

Simon lets out a long sigh. "I wish that were true, but there's a growing industry of scumbags willing to work the most immoral and horrible schemes so long as they pay. But go on."

I give him as much detail as I can, but I'm pretty sure I don't know everything. Dad broke down early on and walked me through what happened, starting with the phone call that changed his life.

They told him he won a foreign lottery in Argentina. He'd been automatically registered because of some contest he'd entered, which should have been a red flag, and his name had been selected as the big bonus winner. Except the problem was, there were taxes and fees, foreign exchange surcharges, and all manner of extra payments to be made before they could transfer the money to him. At first, Dad played along: fifty bucks here, a hundred there, relatively minor amounts, and all the while his handlers were stringing him along with promises and excuses.

Dad liked the guys. He called them Will and Jonathan, but said he mostly dealt with Will. They'd talk on the phone for hours sometimes, chatting about nothing, not even talking about the lottery payments. They were his friends, or anyway, that's what he thought, and it was easy for a lonely old man to start to believe Will and Jonathan were on his side. Will would sometimes call just to check up on him, always promising that the money was nearly done, that there was just one more hurdle, one last bribe, one final fee to check off, and the whole lump sum would be transferred into Dad's account.

"It was gradual," I say, finishing my glass of wine and feeling drained. "One day, he'd paid a few hundred bucks, and the next he'd taken out a second mortgage and given Will every dime he had saved in retirement. When Will called and demanded more, and Dad broke down in tears and told him that he didn't have any more, that's when Dad finally admitted to himself that he'd gotten scammed, that Will and Jonathan weren't his friends, that they'd used him and tossed him aside once they'd gotten what they wanted."

Simon remains silent through my story, and when I finish, he leans back in his chair looking troubled. I get up and walk to the kitchen to refill my glass, my hands shaking. I don't want him to see how much this hurts me, how violated I feel on behalf of my father, and I'm not even the one that got scammed.

It's horrible. Those monsters. I don't know how anyone would take advantage of an old man like that, much less fool him into thinking he had friends on the other side of the phone. I think that's what gets my dad the most. He thought of Will as his friend, his real friend, someone he cared about. They shared pieces of their lives, or at least my Dad did. Who knows how many lies Will told him.

"I'm sorry that happened," Simon says when I sit back down. "If it feels any better, that's a more common story than you might think."

"Dad found a Facebook group of fellow scam survivors, but he said it's too damn depressing." I swirl my drink, wishing I hadn't talked about this. The night felt good, ripe with potential. Now I'm lingering on the worst time of my life.

"No lottery." Simon gets up and clears the plates. "I'll come up with a more creative solution then." When he returns, I get up and excuse myself, pretending like I'm tired and want to head to bed, but he catches my wrist before I can walk away. "There's no shame in what happened to him," he says softly.

"I know. I keep telling him that." I can't meet his gaze. "But I hate what it did to him. The money's one thing, but they took something worse. They took his trust. They took every scrap of self-esteem he had left and stomped it to dust."

His grip tightens on my wrist. He holds me, and I want to pull away, but that look's back in his eyes. I lick my lips, heart pattering wildly into my throat, as he leans forward and brushes his fingers across my cheek, pushing my hair from my face.

"You're loyal," he whispers, his mouth moving up my chin. "You should be proud of what you've done for your father."

"I'm just doing what's right. I wish I could do more." I shiver as his lips find the shell of my ear.

"You are doing more, topolina. You're giving everything."

I close my eyes. He's right, I am giving everything. I'm giving myself to a man like Simon to save my father from other men like Simon. It's a beautiful little circle of crime and I'm right in the center.

"I should go." I move to pull away, but he pins me closer against him. He's big and warm, and I suck in a surprised breath.

"I just want to say that you should be proud of yourself. There aren't many people who would step up and take care of their family the way you did. You killed yourself to help him. You're still doing it too. And I want you to know, everything I promised you, I'll follow through. Your father will be very comfortable for the rest of his life no matter what happens with us."

I blink back sudden tears. I shouldn't be this emotional—it's probably just the wine. "You already promised that, remember?"

"But I need you to hear it anyway." He kisses my cheek. A fire lights in my core, a sizzling, burning want. "I'll take care of you both, baby."

Then he releases me. I take a step back, hands pressed against my chest. He's looking at me like he's a step from ripping off my clothes, clearing the table with a dramatic swipe of one arm, and fucking me raw right here in the dining room.

And if he does it, I'll let him.

The moment hangs, the tension killing me, until he turns away and leaves me there, breathing hard, biting my lip to keep from screaming.