Romi
Silently reeling from Presley's admission the whole drive home, I reluctantly asked if he wanted to come inside to clean up when he pulled up outside my house.
After all, he'd taken a fist to the face for me.
When he thankfully declined my invitation to come inside and waved me off, already late for swim practice, I quickly left the safety of his car and dashed into my house, keeping my head down, and not daring to glance sideways at the sprawling, newly-erected fencing that separated my family's property line from the Capaldi's.
"I have the clarity to see through the bullshit and I have the composure and self-restraint to find the truth without beating on terrified little girls."
Yeah, those words had scared me far greater than anything Sketch ever said. Presley was a freaking genius and knowing that he was onto me only made the hysteria bubbling up inside of me worsen.
With terror spiking inside of me, I quickly let myself inside and scurried through the entryway, passing Lance, head of my father's home security team, as I moved straight for the winding, iron-cast staircase that led to the second and third levels of the house.
With countless properties and businesses littered throughout the state of Louisiana and beyond, my father was wealthy in the extreme, hence the excessive extravagance I lived in. With a lumber yard, car dealership, and two bars based in Pocketful alone, it was safe to say that we weren't short on money, but Daddy's real fortune came from his ships. He was co-owner of Capaldi and Dillon Holdings, a multi-million-dollar overseas shipping company that emphasized on maritime haulage with fleets docked up and down the east coast of America and traveling to destinations all around the globe.
Because of this my father insisted on keeping security tight. Our three-story home located on the outskirts of the dreary and painstakingly boring town of Pocketful was ridiculously large and set on several acres of neatly tended lawns and gardens. And even though we never had a single incident or intruder at the property since my existence, my father insisted on having a guard on hand 24/7. Chris and Sketch's father enforced a much higher level of security in their house, so it never felt weird to me to see hulking men in suits lingering nearby.
Our house was far too spacious for just my father and me, but in my eighteen years on earth, I'd never lived anywhere else – well, except for the six months spent in juvenile detention.
This was the house my father and mother had brought me home from the hospital to and planned to fill with many more children. Tragically, my mother passed away when I was six, leaving me his only child. My father didn’t have the heart to sell and relocate, nor had he had the urge to remarry at the time. So here we remained, in Pocketful, Louisiana, living side by side with his business partner, Christopher Capaldi, his wife, Georgia, and my best-friends, Chris Jr. and Sketch.
Former best-friends, Romi.
Chris is gone and Sketch hates your guts.
Close to my breaking point and still clutching my schoolbag tightly to my chest, I padded up the rest of the steps, ignoring our housekeeper when she called out, "Ramona, are you home?"
Like it mattered if I was. Mrs. Bane was paid to be nice to me. A paycheck signed off by my father once a month was the only reason the woman spoke to me anymore.
Holding my silence, I continued to the second level of the house, not stopping until I was safely tucked away in my room with my door closed behind me.
With my back pressed to the white frame of my bedroom door, I expelled a shaky breath, feeling like I could finally breathe again.
You're not safe here, Romi, look at what happened to me, a niggling voice that sounded hauntingly like Chris's continued to whisper in my mind.
"…It's a lie. All of it. Don't trust these people. Protect my brother and get out of Pocketful,"
"I can't."
"You have no choice."
"I'm so scared."
"Good. Your fear just might keep you alive..."
Shaking my head to clear the maddening thoughts, I tossed my bag on the hardwood floor and made a beeline for my bed, knocking the small stack of unopened birthday gifts off my bed as I moved.
Dropping face down on my mattress, I crawled up the length of my bed until my head was buried in my pillow. Toeing off my heels, I held my breath and remained motionless, body rigid, heart heavy, and brain completely fucking done with the world.
In the silence, my mind replayed this afternoon’s events, and the reality of coming face to face with Sketch came crashing down on me. Reliving the look of hatred in his eyes and his cruelly spoken words crushed my heart, and cinched out my will to keep going.
When would it end?
It wouldn’t.
Not unless I left the town of Pocketful.
Or died.
You shouldn’t have put your foot on that brake pedal, Romi. If you hadn't, you would be with Chris now…
The prospect of finishing senior year in this town, surrounded by people that both despised me and wanted to cause me physical harm, was depressing. The prospect of staying in this house was worse. But it was the not knowing that was the worst of all.
"Trust no one, Romi…"
Panic clawed at my gut, bringing with it a wave of silent hysteria, the pain in my heart making me wish I was a strong enough person to snatch my father's pistol from his desk drawer, put it in my mouth, and pull the trigger. But the coward in me would never pull the trigger.
God knows I'd tried.
"Romi?" A soft knock came from the other side of my door moments before it creaked open and my father's concerned voice became clearer. "How was your day?"
Pain engulfed me the moment I heard him.
So many lies.
So many secrets.
"Fine," I managed to say, though my response was muffled from the pillow pushed to my face. "How was yours?"
I heard his heavy sigh and then the sound of footsteps approaching. Moments later, the mattress dipped and his large hand was on my shoulder, giving me a gentle squeeze. "Why don’t I believe you?"
Because I'm lying. "Don’t worry about me."
"I always worry about you, sweet pea."
God, that hurt worse than being called killer. For a moment, I contemplated throwing myself into my father's arms and begging him to get us both out of this poisonous town. I debated telling him what I saw that night. What I heard...
But the same doubt, fear, and paranoia that kept me from putting a bullet in my brain stopped me from spilling my secrets.
Chris told me not to trust anyone around me, but surely that didn’t include my father? But if he did mean my dad, then who would protect Sketch in the aftermath?
"Save yourself and my brother…promise me you'll protect him from the truth, Romi. Don’t let him avenge me. He'll die trying…"
"I'm okay, Dad," I pushed the words out, knowing that he needed to hear them. Lifting my head up, I forced myself to give him the respect he deserved and looked him in the eyes. "I swear."
"I know you're not," he countered, and his light brown eyes, so similar to mine, flashed with emotion. "But I want you to know that you can talk to me, baby girl. Whatever it is that's stuck in your head, be it memories of that night or anything else, you can tell me."
Could I?
Chris's face flashed in front of my eyes. In my mind, he was shaking his head and putting his index finger to his lips.
Shh.
Trembling, I repressed the urge to jerk away from him and run.
"I won't judge you."
"I ah…" I opened my mouth, feeling my tongue run dry as I deliberated with myself – while I drowned in my inner turmoil. Chris had to be wrong about my father. I could trust him. I knew I could. All I had to do was confide in him and he could turn this all around, make it all go away. He was clearly as clueless as Sketch. So why didn’t I? Why couldn’t I get the words out? "Daddy, I–"
"Cal, is everything okay?" Victoria's thickly accented voice filled my ears and I swiftly clamped my mouth shut, swallowing down my words.
Swallowing my truth.
My father's eyes burned holes in mine for the longest moment. When he realized that I wasn't going to speak again, he exhaled heavily and bowed his head.
I disappointed him.
Again.
"Good afternoon, Romi," Victoria said when my father didn’t answer her. Stepping inside, she walked over to the gifts scattered on my bedroom floor and scooped them up. "Happy birthday, dear."
Placing them on the bed between us, she moved to stand behind my father, placing her slender hands on his shoulders. Looking far too young to be involved with a man my father's age, she flicked her curly, jet-black mane over her shoulder and smiled down at me. She had that beautiful olive skin-tone so common in Italians and was undeniably gorgeous.
"Victoria." The moment I saw the glittering diamond on her left hand, I tore my gaze off her newly-acquired engagement ring and met her stare head-on, unwilling to show weakness in front of this woman. She was twenty-six years old and young enough to be my sister. Instead, she was fucking my soon-to-be fifty-year-old father and it made me sick to my stomach. Every muscle in my body coiled tight at the sight of this shark in supermodel skin. "Thank you."
She offered me a wide, pearly-white, insincere smile. "Your father wanted to gift you a car for your special day," she told me. "Obviously that is not quite possible now – what with your license being suspended."
Twist the knife why don’t you… "Of course," I agreed, slowly pulling myself into a sitting position. It was hard for me to make and keep eye contact with people anymore but I forced myself to do just that with this woman. "I wasn't expecting anything."
"That's enough about that," Daddy was quick to rebuke, still giving me his full attention and Victoria his back. She did not like that. Not one bit. "Today is a happy day," he added, clearing his throat. "My baby girl turns eighteen."
It took everything I had to garner a smile in this woman's presence, but I did it for him. "Thanks, Daddy." Reaching for the gifts, I leaned close and pressed a kiss to his stubbly cheek. "I love you."
"I love you too, sweet pea," he replied, voice thick with emotion. "Always and forever. Through hell or high water."
Victoria definitely didn’t like hearing that and she showed her displeasure by widening her smile so deeply that I thought her perfectly proportioned cheeks might crack.
Actually, I was surprised she could contort her face in such a shape considering the number of Botox injections she'd had administered.
Yeah, my father's fiancée was a whore. Victoria Quatello was a grade-A, devious, vindictive, plastic-faced bitch sent straight from the fiery pits of hell to ruin my life.
So far, she'd done a fabulous job and, four years in, I feared she was only getting started. In the beginning she was just my father's arm-candy, a nuisance but no real threat to me. But since he put a ring on her finger eighteen months ago, she had become Satan in a G-string.
Having me back under my father's roof was pissing her off to no end, and there was no doubt in my mind that she had been praying the judge would throw the book at me.
In a sick way, I found it darkly amusing that the very person who had caused a wedge between my father and me was the very person who had pushed me and Chris together in the first place.
My wariness and suspicion of Victoria was what had bonded Chris and I together after my breakup with Sketch. When I could barely get out of bed because of my depression, I had concentrated all of my energy on the new woman in my father's life, on unearthing her flaws and revealing her motives for being with a man almost twice her age. Chris had helped me with a level of support and enthusiasm that I'd both needed and clung to in those early post-Sketch days.
Chris and I had spent months spying on my father's fiancée and I knew more about her than she realized. More than was safe for her.
"Mrs. Bane is making a lovely family meal for us in celebration of your big day," Victoria told me, her cold green eyes levelled on my face. "You are more than welcome to invite some of your friends over to join us." Her smile deepened and there was a wickedness in her eyes that chilled me to the bone. She was enjoying my pain, knowing full well that I didn’t have any friends left – Presley excluded, and even then, he'd been Chris's best friend, not mine. No, because my best friend was the boy who currently wanted to inflict bodily harm on me.
"I think I'll take a walk through the gardens before dinner," I said, turning back to my father, purposefully avoiding her eyes. "Work up an appetite." I didn’t wait for a response. Climbing off my bed, I grabbed my shoes and moved for the door.
"What about your gifts, dear?" Victoria called after me, not masking the victory in her tone. "Your father and I went to an awful lot of trouble for you not to open them."
"Let her be, Vic," my father replied quietly. "She can open them later."
Flinching at the pain in my father's voice, I kept going and walked out of my room, needing to put as much distance between me and that bitch as I could before I exploded.