Chapter Three

Adele

I secure my bike in my designated parking spot and glance at the skyscraper before me. Two weeks of living here, and I still can't believe this is home now. My best friend Kira's penthouse suite towers above, a world apart from the sprawling mansion I grew up in.

My phone buzzes as I push through the revolving door into the cool, polished lobby. I check and see that it's a message from my boss:

O'Shea. I heard you rescheduled your flight from 10 to 1 and went home instead of heading straight to the airport. Do I really need to remind you how crucial this assignment is?

I roll my eyes. Big deal. Doug Harrison can suck it up. I need time to change into something more presentable before heading to Chicago. Surely, it'd be in everyone's interest if I didn't turn up in my baggy jeans and rock band T-shirt?

Doug's hissy fit forgotten, I step into the private elevator. As it ascends, a familiar wave of guilt washes over me. The same guilt that's been gnawing at me since I moved out of the house and stopped taking my dad's calls. The mansion I grew up in suddenly feels hundreds of miles away, despite being only a fifteen-minute drive from here.

I firmly push the guilt aside as I've done countless times over the past two weeks since I moved out.

No, I made the right choice.

At twenty-three, moving out was long overdue, but considering Dad and I are all the family we each have left in the world, we'd stuck together for much longer than necessary. But his betrayal had tipped the scales and made me question if I wasn't better off alone than living with a man I no longer knew.

Kira's offer to move in with her couldn't have come at a better time. She'd recently moved back to Boston and into this penthouse and kept complaining that the walls didn't ‘echo right' and she needed to hear another human being to ‘keep things balanced.' I finally caved and moved in with her after Dad and I had that massive row.

The elevator comes to a smooth stop, and I step out onto our floor. I shake off my conflicted thoughts and open the penthouse door. The aroma of fresh basil and sizzling bacon wafts through the air, making my stomach rumble. I'd been in too much of a rush this morning to have breakfast, and right now is one of the reasons I'm so glad I moved in with Kira.

"Thank God," I mutter as I cross the cool marble floors of the large, brightly lit living room toward the open-plan kitchen, the sounds of my uneven footsteps muted in my work sneakers.

I spot Kira standing by the induction stove, her sleek black ponytail swishing as she works. Although she doesn't turn to acknowledge my nearly soundless approach, I know she heard me from the moment I came in.

Heck, she probably even heard the elevator doors swish open from outside the penthouse—her sense of hearing is that keen. Not that she needs it—Kira has every inch of this place mapped out.

She moves with the kind of ease and confidence that comes from familiarity, thanks to the subtle vibrations from her wristband—a device that helps her navigate the space around her.

"Everything okay, Addy? You left less than a couple of hours ago, and you're already back," Kira notes in her distinctive dulcet voice as she flips a pancake with a precision and grace that belies someone who has been without sight since the age of four.

Ever since I stumbled into my dorm room in my second year of college and found Kira, a performing arts major and a part-time DJ, with her headphones on, hands flying over a tactile mixing board, I've been in awe of her. And she only got better over the years.

By the time we graduated, Kira had become a sought-after DJ. She may not see her audience, but she sure knows how to make them move.

I slide onto one of the four white leather barstools arranged along the shiny black breakfast bar. "Doug needs me to go pick up a sample . . ." I pause as if delaying saying it out loud would change my reality before finally finishing with a sigh, ". . . in Chicago."

Kira tilts her head slightly, the corners of her lips twitching upward as if she's caught onto something I haven't said. "Oh really!"

She turns toward my voice, her eyes wide with excitement and fixed at a point just over my shoulder. She has these striking hazel eyes that would make anyone do a double-take, and her eye movements are so coordinated they leave people oblivious to the fact that she can't see.

"Yeah, Chicago," I confirm.

"Oh my God, Addy," Kira gushes, "you'll finally get to see the city! I just know you're going to love it."

Er, no, I don't think so.

I shudder even as a pang of guilt hits me. Kira still has no idea that I've already been to Chicago. She knows nothing of my relationship with Dante or the disastrous birthday dinner two and a half years ago.

Kira continues, oblivious to my conflicted mood, gesturing wildly as if trying to capture the essence of the city. "Chicago is . . . vibrant, gritty. It's like a full-bodied experience. It also has a dark vibe to it. It's so you, Addy."

"What do you mean it's so me?"

She smirks, "I mean, your morbid fascination for the darker, more complex sides of things. Of people. Of life in general." Kira returns to her pancakes, her hand hovering over the pan to gauge the heat by the rising steam completely unaware of how my heart lurches and my gut tightens with unease.

Kira is much too perceptive. She doesn't even know I'm a crime junkie or about my blog, yet she's calling me out. But really, what did I expect being roomies with a girl who can hear subtle changes in people's breathing? Before I can open my mouth to deny that logic, she continues,

"And don't even get me started on the men."

"The men," I repeat, chuckling because I already know what she'll say next. I could even mime her next words.

"You know . . . the Italians. And no, don't roll your eyes at me," Kira scolds, just as I do exactly that.

"Come on, Kira. Chicago doesn't have a monopoly on hot Italian men. You can find them pretty much anywhere."

"Nope." She pops the p with emphasis. "Not the likes of which they've got in Chicago."

"Riiight," I drawl, shaking my head with a smile.

Kira and her mom moved here from Turkey when she was little, and except for attending Loyola Boston University and recently moving back here, she's lived in Chicago all her life. It's no surprise that to her, everywhere else pales in comparison.

I often tell myself that's part of the reason I didn't tell her about Dante, the man who just about ticks every box on Kira's perfect man list. That Kira's bias would cloud my judgment, but that's not the truth.

Dante is my secret—the one thing I should never have tried and that ended badly. Like that dangerous game you sneaked out to play and then got hurt and had to hide the injury from your parents.

"So, how long are you going to be there for? I could recommend some really cool places to visit." Kira leans forward, her fingers drumming eagerly on the countertop.

I force a laugh, but it comes out more like a strangled cough. "It's not that type of trip. I'm only going to collect something, so I'll probably be there for an hour, maximum. And then it's straight back to the airport."

I feel another twinge of guilt as I watch Kira's enthusiasm deflate slightly. If only she knew the real reason I'm dreading this trip. But some secrets are better left buried, even from your best friend.

Pushing aside my unease, I focus on Kira's puzzled look. "Someone in Ecolab forgot to do their job and send the correct samples to us."

"So why not get Ecolab to send it over then?"

"Right?" I throw my hands up. "You'd think that'd be the obvious solution, but Jim Pearson came and tore my boss a new one, and suddenly I'm being thrown on a plane to fetch."

I rub my arms, mimicking a shudder. "You know, I wouldn't want to be on the other side of the likes of Jim Pearson in a courtroom, Kira. He's like a snapping turtle."

Kira's lips quirk upward in a knowing smile. "Oh, I would be more wary of Martelli's defense team if I were you."

"Who said anything about the Martelli case?" I straighten in my chair, wondering if I've let anything slip about the upcoming trial of the mafia boss. I never talk about the cases at work.

Kira's shoulders drop slightly as she shakes her head. "You really think I don't know about Tommy Martelli's upcoming trial?" Her fingertips dance across the raised buttons along the edges of the overhead cupboards, quickly finding and pressing the right one to pop open the door.

"Addy," Kira begins, reaching in to grab the plates. "Tommy Martelli was part of the crime syndicate in Chicago. It's called ‘The Outfit.'"

"He was?"

She nods. "He was exiled for doing stupid shit. So he went to New York, and instead of laying low, he did even more stupid shit that eventually got him arrested."

"By stupid shit, you mean . . . ?"

"Believe it or not, criminals have a code of conduct too, and Martelli broke it repeatedly. Anyway, both the New York Don—a super sexy guy, by the way, and the Chicago Don are teaming up to get him off the hook, hence the kickass defense team."

Kira takes a breath. "I hate to break it to you, Addy, but your so-called snapping turtle will be having his ragged ass handed back to him after the courtroom floor has been thoroughly wiped."

I gape at Kira, shocked by her seemingly vast knowledge. "How do you even know all this?"

She shrugs, smirking. "Just check any of the legit vlogs dedicated to Tommy and the trial. Besides, I told you, I like Italian men."

I see. It's a load of fan base crap, then, which goes to show how the world loves their antiheroes. Still, I'll take Kira's juicy conspiracy theories over the boring facts I glean from work.

I lean forward, lowering my voice. "Okay, so if Martelli offended both Dons, why are they trying to save him from going down?"

Kira's face lights up, her smile stretching from ear to ear as she pushes a plate of pancakes and bacon with strawberries and cream toward me. The savory scent makes my stomach growl but I find myself hungrier for Martelli's story.

"Addy, they need him off the authorities' hook so they can deal with him the mafia way. And I bet Martelli is on board with it too. At least this way he can, you know, negotiate for the life of his wife and kids."

"Why wouldn't Martelli negotiate for his own life?"

"Because he's a dead man whether he goes to prison or not and he knows it. At least with the mafia way, he can strike a deal to save his family from the bloodbath awaiting them."

"Oh, wow." I blink rapidly, my jaw working soundlessly as I process it all. "And you got all this from your Italian mafia fan club website or vlog—whatever?"

"We like to think of it as a support group. Anyway, your dad called again," Kira says, changing the subject.

I groan as my intrigue, as well as appetite, vanishes. "Of course he did."

Kira leans against the counter, her unseeing eyes somehow locking with mine. "Addy, I know you're angry with him, but he's your father. You can't just cut him out of your life."

"Yes, I can." I stab at the pancake with my fork, feeling my frustration mount.

"Adele . . ." Kira calls me gently. The Italian way. Probably something else she learned from her so-called ‘support group'. It makes my heart skip a beat because there's only one other person who says my name like that.

Three syllables that make goosebumps prickle on my skin. It's been well over two years since I heard him say it.

Whisper it . . .

Groan it . . .

I snap myself out of the fog of lust gathering in my core and focus on my strained relationship with my dad. "Look, I don't know if I can forgive him, Kira."

How can I reconcile that the stern man who raised me to always tell the truth and respect the law is the same man involved in fraud and counterfeit currency?

She reaches out, her fingers brushing against my arm. The touch is gentle and comforting. "People make mistakes, Addy. It doesn't mean they don't love you."

That's the problem. I'm not so sure it was a mistake. It looks like my discovery of his double life was the mistake. "You don't even know what he did," I say to Kira.

"I would if you'd tell me."

I remain silent, unsure how to explain to her.

Kira nods as if understanding that I'm not ready to talk about it. "Is it worth losing your only relative for, though?"

I bite my lip. "I don't know. Probably not."

"That settles it then. You don't have to forgive him outright, but you should hear him out, Addy."

I look at Kira, marveling how so wise and confident she is. It strikes me how much strength resides in this woman who navigates the world without sight yet sees more than most people ever will.

"Maybe you're right," I concede with a sigh and take a bite of the pancake, the flavors exploding on my tongue.

"Of course I am," Kira smiles and returns to her own food, munching on the strawberries. "You'll feel better once you talk to him."

We fall into a comfortable silence; the only sounds are the clinking of silverware and the distant hum of the city.

***

After our meal, I head to my room to change out of my top, bootleg jeans, and sneakers. I instead choose a button-down white shirt tucked into a black pencil skirt that stops just above my knees and kitten-heeled boots then I pull my hair into a bun.

Next, I grab my work bag and empty it of sheaves of paper to make room for the small metallic evidence box.

This is so wrong, I muse, looking at the fingerprint-activated box. It should have been sent through secure post, or at least transported by a security personnel. Well, who better to bend rules than bad-tempered lawyers?

Shouldering the wide strap, I start to leave my room when my phone rings. It's my dad.

The phone suddenly feels like a deadweight in my hand, as Kira's words ring in my ears. I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the screen. Then I take a deep breath and swipe to connect.

"Adele." His voice comes through, flat and cold.

"Daddy," I reply, forcing some steel into the tremor in my voice.

"You've been ignoring my calls." His Irish twang, usually more pronounced when he's upset, is oddly muted.

"I've been busy with work," I say, tugging at a loose thread on my sleeve as I begin to pace, fully expecting to be guilt-tripped for ignoring my father, but I'm surprised when all I get is a noncommittal grunt.

"When are you coming back home?" He may as well be asking me what time it is. Over the past couple of years—ever since he started talking to me again after Chicagogate, that is—I've noticed my dad has been decidedly . . . more detached. He still hasn't forgiven me.

Well, I haven't forgiven him for being a liar and fraud, either.

A flash of irritation replaces my unease. "I'm not coming back, Daddy. I've moved out. I'm looking for my own place now. And it's about time, too, wouldn't you say?"

"Adele," he says, and for a moment, I think I hear a flicker of something in his voice. Warmth? Concern? But it's gone as quickly as it appeared. "You don't need to do that. There's more than enough room at the house. I know you're shocked and disappointed, but if you'd just let me explain some things about my job . . . about our family."

My free hand clenches into a fist. "Explain what exactly? How you turned ripping people off into an art form? Even if you could spin some story for that, nothing could ever make it right."

There's a long pause, then he says in a stern, eerily calm tone. "There is something you really need to calm down and hear. Something I couldn't tell you before now."

Instinctively, I know that whatever he has to say will change everything. And that's exactly what I don't want to happen. A familiar buzzing begins in my ear, but I ignore it. "Alright," I snap, suddenly needing the call to end.

"Good. So shall I expect you later today, then?"

I scoff, glancing at my watch. "No, you shan't. It'll have to wait a few days." I hesitate, debating on saying more, but in the end, I just blurt it out. "Because I'm going to Chicago."

There's a pause on the other end of the line, so long that I wonder if he's trying to set a world record for awkward silences.

I'm unsure why I felt the need to tell him that. I could say it's because I promised to keep him in the loop, but to be honest, that ship sailed the moment I realized he didn't deserve my honesty.

No, it's because I wanted to rattle him the way he did to me with that eerie pronouncement just now.

Finally, he speaks, and I can't stop my smirk as I hear his Irish twang. "Chicago? Do ye mean that?"

"Yep," I confirm, letting the satisfaction curl in my gut like a lazy cat. These days, getting a rise out of my dad is the only way I can tap into the well of emotions he used to spill more freely before.

I've apologized a million times for what happened that night of my twenty-first birthday, yet he continues to punish me with his icy detachment.

It's been two and a half fucking years, I often want to scream at him, but I know doing that would only push him away further.

His voice comes out sharp, almost shaky. "No. Adele, ye can't go there."

I chuckle, "Too late, Daddy. I'm already heading to the airport. Besides, it's for a crucial case at work. I can't not go."

Another pause, loaded with unspoken words, and I imagine him silently melting down.

While I understand my dad's overprotectiveness, it can be unsettling, a foreboding that clings like cobwebs in the corners of my mind.

And then I hear him say with a forced casualness, "Is it for the Martelli case?"

My breath catches. How did he guess? "I can't discuss it, Daddy," I remind him sharply. "Look, I'll be back tonight if that makes you feel any better."

"It bloody doesn't, Adele," he snaps, his voice completely devoid of emotion once again.

And then it's the dial tone.

Wow, how long did that flicker of emotion last there? Two minutes?

Why the fuck do I even still bother with this guy?

Because you know how much he's suffering. How much he's lost. You're all he has in this world.

And, like it or not, he's all you have.

I think back to that night in Chicago. As if sensing that my world was falling apart, my dad's call had come in moments after I ran out of Dante's restaurant. Shaken and scared, I immediately confessed to him where I was.

Of course he'd lost it. I'd fully expected him to, just not to the degree that he did. He stopped speaking to me, and if he could have grounded me for months, he would have done so.

But there was no need. I'd seen enough of Chicago anyway. Enough of the world, in fact, to tearfully promise myself and him that I'd never go there again. That I'd never leave Boston without telling him.

Yet here I am, leaving Boston and heading back there.

I grab my coat and shout to let Kira know I'm leaving. My reflection in the elevator mirrors brings me up short. The woman who stares back at me looks flushed. Terrified, even.

I take a deep breath to settle the flutters in my belly and say to her. "Chicago is a huge city, and your assignment is simple. Pick up the sample and come straight home. I promise you, the odds of running into him are one to three million. Practically zilch."

If only I could get my heart to believe me and stop racing like a horse going into battle.