Epilogue One

In an apartment, somewhere in New York City…

Softly closing the door, I made my way back into the living room.

All I wanted to do was curl up with a good book and read.

I had thought about taking Drew to Rockefeller Center last night to watch the tree lighting ceremony, but at the last minute he started running a fever, which was quickly followed by vomiting. So instead, I got to spend the last twenty-four hours shoving fluids down him, cleaning up vomit, and bathing him.

I still didn’t know what was wrong, but I was praying for a twenty-four-hour bug. Well, I prayed that was the cause because I really didn’t want to spend the entire day in the emergency room.

After grabbing a bottle of water, I curled up on the couch and reached for my book when I eyed the phone Shame gave me.

Picking it up, I flipped it open and just like all the times before, nothing.

No calls.

No texts.

Flipping the phone closed, I sat up and looked around the small two-bedroom apartment.

It was cute.

Quaint even, but it wasn’t home.

I knew I would never see home again.

The Society made damn sure of that when they burnt my home to the ground after killing my dad.

I thought after Mom died, we were free of all that shit.

At least that’s what my uncle and cousin told me.

After that night, my dad, Drew, and I disappeared with the help of a man named Salvatore Valentinetti. He was nice and made damn sure that no one would ever find us. And for a few short years, everything seemed normal, until it wasn’t.

I should have known they would find us.

My mother was a pro at finding anyone before she killed them.

I hated her. I hated what she did, who she was, what she made me do. Most of all, I hated that, even in death, she was still causing problems. I just wanted them to leave me and my brother alone.

They already killed my dad.

What more did they want?

Reaching for the phone, I flipped it open and scrolled through the contacts.

There was only one.

His number.

I smirked at that.

Shame. What a name for a biker.

The night the Society found us and killed my dad then burnt down my house, Shame was there, offering me and my brother Drew a way out, and I took it. I didn’t know how to reach my uncle or cousin or if they were even alive. Besides, anything was better than what the Society had in store for me and Drew.

So, for the last few months, Drew and I had been living a low-key life. Off the grid but not. My only communication with the outside was a simple flip-phone that Shame gave me or when the delivery guy showed up with our groceries. It was a solitary existence, and if not for Drew, I would have gone nuts by now.

I hated being cooped up, not being able to step out into the world in fear someone might recognize me. I thought last night would be our chance to get out for a bit. Big crowds, everyone enjoying the coming holiday season. No one would look twice at us, but then shit happened.

It always did.

What I missed the most was talking to someone.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved talking to my brother. He was a cool kid, but he wasn’t an adult. When Shame first moved us into this apartment, he would stop by every weekend, stay for dinner, and even play a game or two with Drew. But he hadn’t been by in months and I was beginning to worry.

When Shame gave me this phone, he told me to only call in case of an emergency, and even I knew that boredom didn’t constitute an emergency. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from making the call. Listening while the phone rang, I wondered if I was doing the right thing when the call connected.

“Hi, Daddy.” A little girl giggled. “I found your phone.”

Looking at the phone, I said, “Hello?”

“You not my daddy.”

“No, sweetie, I’m not. Can I speak with your daddy?”

“Brianna, Dad is going to be mad. Give me that phone!”

“NO!” the little girl screamed. “I talk to the lady!”

“DAD!” the other girl screeched loudly.

“What?” a gruff male voice groaned in the background.

“Bri has one of your phones and won’t give it back.”

“The nice lady talk to me, not you!”

“Brianna, give me the phone. Now,” her father sternly said.

“But, Daddy, the lady talk to me!” the little girl cried.

The next thing I heard was a firm, “Who the hell is this?”

Muttering, I whispered, “My name is Carly Mitchell. I’m looking for Shame. Is he there?”