Chapter Fifteen

Justine

IT’S BEEN A long time since I’ve stood over the Long Island Sound.

My father’s warehouse is on the Hudson River, but he used to meet me here after school at one of the dock-and-dine restaurants so the two of us could get something to eat. The waterfront of my teenage years is long gone, replaced by ritzier locales and looming property investments, but he still manages to find a proper seafood shop for a pound of fried clams we can share and sit with out by the shore.

Wide, rickety wooden chairs and their thin cream-colored cushions are ensconced in a narrow barricade, meant to keep the young and the drunk from toppling into the sea. Away from the usual lunch hour, it’s close to quiet, save for the perpetual wandering caw of gulls. I take my seat as close to the water as I can, comforted by the slow roil of the waves. The tide rarely climbs high here, but its gentle and constant crash washes over me like white noise.

“Did you sleep well last night?” My father asks, pushing the basket of clams toward me.

After everything that happened in the theater, staying close to my parents seemed prudent. Campbell accepted my absence over text, admitting they would be out working for most of the night anyway. I resisted the urge to ask how their hunt was going; they would never answer over a line that could be exposed with a single pulled phone record.

Instead, I said I loved them and went to sleep in a room that hasn’t been mine since I was nineteen. A room full of art books and dozens of scattershot dreams—hanging a painting in the Louvre someday, teaching at Sotheby’s, fending off dealers wanting to auction off my work for millions—welcomed me, enshrouded in shadows and dust. My once-favorite brush is lodged in a rigid mosaic of paint, unsalvageable save as an ornament of a different time. The closet is still full of canvases, secreted away from the sun.

I haven’t forsaken everything. Ever since Campbell and I got together, I’ve produced several pieces, nearly half of them in Campbell’s image. My hands remember charcoal and watercolors, the incessant care of oil paint and linseed. Ulysse adored my still life of his flowers, despite them being the first plants I did since college.

But as I stood in the tomb of my oldest ambitions, loss yawned wide and swallowed me whole.

“I slept fine,” I say, trying to summon a smile while I reach for the basket. The first clam has a piping hot capsule of golden breading that surrenders its savory center with a firm bite— terrible for the heart, unmatched for my nostalgia. “God, these are good. Don’t let me eat everything.”

My father immediately grabs two and pops them into his mouth. “I won’t.”

I laugh, and his eyes brighten. His joy always shows there, rather than the curve of his mouth or the lines of his face. “And it was nice to watch a movie with Mama again. You still have the best theater in Flushing.”

“I’m not sure how much time she’ll be spending in there now, with as many tickets as she likes in the city.” His tone is light, so I busy myself with more clams. “She pulled up the Art Theatre’s schedule for the whole week. She might start going every day.”

If anyone has the stamina for that many films, it’s my mother. “And is your watch working? Better than the old one?”

I mean to tease, but my father’s face blanks out like chalk swept off a board. He looks down at his wrist, turning the watch back and forth until sunlight jumps to meet the inlay of nacre and titanium. “It’s very expensive.”

That’s not a yes or a no. “Campbell can afford it. I promise.”

“I know. I…noticed.” His mouth twists as he searches for the right words. “When you were growing up, there were a lot of young people with new money. Jackets and cars, endless supplies of jewelry and champagne. The sons and daughters of some of our neighbors, but we knew it didn’t come from them. They were very generous, trying to hide the fact that they were selling poison, addicting people for life.”

“Campbell doesn’t sell drugs,” I say quickly. Of all the things I have to hide, at least that isn’t a lie. “They’re not part of some triad conspiracy.”

I knew some of those same kids growing up, but most of them were playing at the life, selling weed and blowing their cash at karaoke bars on the weekends. The heroin scare of the eighties was out of vogue by the time I was born, replaced by ecstasy and LSD, or white-collar cocaine. Danny tried the latter once and warned me away from it, but I never had much interest anyway. In terms of idols, I leaned more toward Pan Yuliang than Warhol.

My father pauses, then huffs, soft and apologetic. “I want you to be happy, Justine. I just worry. Widows get taken advantage of.”

I’m not sure that counts if I widowed myself. “They take care of me in every way that matters. And barely ask anything in return.”

He nods. “You deserve that. I thought I would be the one taking care of you, that this business would go to you one day, but God gave me an artist. Perhaps Campbell is a better patron, mm?”

Regret pierces me in two directions, one impalement bisecting another. Without a marriage, without children, I’ve left my father’s work completely adrift. One day, he’ll need to retire and have to sell the warehouse to the first eager buyer. In this economy, it’s sure to be a stranger, someone who doesn’t understand how many families he keeps thriving, a hundred pillars of the community that could be wiped out by a signature.

I can’t even offer to take over in good conscience. My mother has done the books since the first ship came in, and after so long, I don’t remember anything but the basics. No one can suddenly manage an international trading operation on a whim, and I wouldn’t want it handed to me out of nepotism. Never mind that accepting would mean settling here in New York, where Campbell is presently trading a life for a life with the Mafia. Not the wise guy stereotypes I grew up hearing about, but actual kidnappers and killers. How could I ask the person I love to stay in a city where an entire organized crime family knows their face?

The same family that might be after my father. “Mama told me about the men pressuring you at the warehouse.”

Surprise catches him off guard, but my father wrenches his face into a serious, distant mask. “That is not your business, Justine.”

On any other subject, I would apologize and move on. But here, I can’t, not when it’s the only thing within my power to change. “Of course it’s my business. I don’t want what happened to Mr. Baek to happen to you.”

The mention of his old friend earns a grimace. “I told Sang-wook they would never be happy with one shipment. Once they have what they want, they blackmail you for more. There’s no escape when they can turn you in to the police at any time.”

“Is that what happened? He tried to fight back?”

My father shakes his head. “Sang-wook asked them to double the delivery. His son needed chemotherapy again. He was desperate. But it changed the weight in the container too much. The port authority noticed. When the container was opened, the smell alone said everything. It’s like…vinegar. So bitter.”

Now, Mr. Baek is in prison, and his son has nothing. I wonder if he even knows what happened, or why. “When did they start coming after you?”

I don’t get an answer for five stubborn minutes, but if I took anything from my father, it’s that streak of resilience. He stares off at the sea, not meeting my gaze until breaking the silence with a soft, “Three weeks ago.”

Nearly a month. Both of my parents endured this without a word to me in Chicago for nearly a month. Baba could have been hurt or worse, and I wouldn’t have had the first clue why. The distance I demanded pushed them away, suffering in silence.

I have to fix this.

“And you told them no.”

His eyes snap to mine. “Of course I told them no. No amount of money is worth what they do to people. I have a good business. I’ve done everything to keep it that way.”

Which is exactly why they’re trying to undercut him. “Mama said they were intimidating your employees. Is everyone safe?”

“For now.” His jaw tightens. “I’ve told them to go home together in groups, not to answer strangers’ questions about the warehouse. But they’re afraid. And why wouldn’t they be? I can’t protect them from men like that.”

No, he can’t. So I have to choose my next words very carefully. “Is there anything you can tell me about them? There are people who can help.”

Silence answers me again. His shoulders are rigid, subtly shaking like a wall about to collapse. For as much as my father cares about shielding everyone who works for him, I know part of this is pride. How humiliating it must be—to sacrifice for years and have the world he built threatened with such ease. Despite everything he’s been taught, and what he taught me, being a good man won’t save him.

It often doesn’t.

With a grim sigh, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. I’m not sure what he’s doing until he brings up the video app and directs the screen my way. It takes me a second to make sense of the shapes and why everything looks so strange.

“Can you turn it the other way?” I ask.

He frowns, but does, and when the video flips right-side up, the blur at the bottom of the screen is clearly the inside of my father’s pocket. Two pairs of legs are visible just above, wearing tailored trousers in navy-blue and black respectively.

The one in black speaks first. “Mr. Zhang, this is a simple equation. We had a good deal with Sang-wook, and we can do the same for you.”

His accent is straight Brooklyn, undercut with the rasp of a lifelong smoking habit. When an arm drapes briefly in front of the camera, displacing his jacket, the faint bulge of a handgun reveals itself against the fabric. I’ve seen the same thing every time Campbell gets dressed in the morning, there and gone again.

“I told you, I’m not interested,” my father insists on the video. “He’s in prison because of you. No bail, no hope. If you have so much money, why not put it there?”

I have to give him credit for holding his ground, especially when the man in navy gets up in his face. The phone is jostled but keeps recording without issue.

“If you care about your business,” he says, “you’ll think real hard about what you do next. You think the cops matter? I got friends all the way up to the FBI covering my tracks.”

“Cesare,” the man in black interjects. “Give him time. I’m sure he’ll come around.”

My father doesn’t say a word, keeping still until both figures disappear from the screen. I hear the slow drag of steel as the warehouse door is drawn shut, and then his fingers fumble to pause the recording.

I look at him here and now, unable to conceal my shock. “That was very brave, Baba. And it was smart.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” He sets his phone on the table, screen down. “But I needed evidence, something in case they called the police, or ICE.”

The latter might be worse—immigration isn’t picky about what kind of warrant they get, if they bother with one in the first place. “Can you send a copy of that to me? In case you lose your phone, or something happens to it.”

I have to show Campbell. Even without faces on screen, they might recognize the voices or the name. If this is anyone associated with the Mafia, or with Sofia, then the two of us could step in and—

God, what am I thinking? I’m not equipped to shake down a mob boss, and Campbell is already trying to kill one against a ticking clock. Except I can’t look the other way when it comes to my family, not again. This time, it is my choice, and I won’t leave my father to the wolves in order to save my own skin.

“Justine.” His tone is heavy with protest, with worry. “I’m not sure if—”

“Please.” I look him in the eye; I’ll beg if I have to. “Send it to me. You don’t have to deal with this alone.”

He relents with a sigh, picking his phone up again. A gentle chime issues from my own, and I immediately forward the file to Campbell with a quick text: Someone’s threatening my father at the warehouse. Watch this when you can.

I expect a delay—they could be anywhere in the city right now—but Campbell texts back less than a minute later: Cesare is one of Stefano’s men. Galici. When did this happen?

Three weeks ago, I message back.

That’s right after their shipment went missing. Who’s Sang-wook?

My father gives me a curious look at the rapid texting, but I don’t have an easy lie to deflect, and getting answers is more important. A family friend. He needed their money, but he got caught.

Campbell doesn’t answer for a few minutes. I’m tempted to call them, trying to distract both myself and my father by fussing with the basket of food between us, but finally, a reply comes: Come to the apartment. I have a plan, but it might not work without your help. And I have a gift you should see.

A gift? I don’t have the first clue what that might mean, but if they have any idea how to get my father out of the Galici crosshairs, then the apartment is exactly where I need to be. I’ll be there in half an hour. Love you.

The single black heart emoji Campbell sends in response is oddly endearing. I tuck my phone into my purse and look at my father, calling up a smile. “That was Campbell. I promised I’d be back at the apartment soon.”

He looks relieved to be away from the subject of the video and promptly pushes the basket my way. “Then eat. You used to finish a pound of these by yourself.”

That’s true; I’d forgotten. My appetite for everything used to be so much larger, consuming every experience I could to filter it into my art. I wanted more color to draw the eye, more light to emboss every shining detail, more darkness to teach me how reality looked in shadow. Whatever the world had to offer, I welcomed it, fearless. I’d give so much to reclaim that effortless confidence, but it would be like a snake trying to squeeze into her old skin again, a dry husk of the real thing.

Although if the last year has taught me anything, it’s that I have fangs and venom to spare.