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Imagine living her life. Drivers to take you everywhere, more money than you can dream of, never having to worry about anything.

I guess it’s not as simple and dreamy as it seems.

Living in the mafia is dangerous. She told me that Nestor protected her from the lifestyle, keeping her mother and her safe all this time and not exposing them to most of it.

She knows how things work, but she’s never had to deal with it herself.

He’s done everything for them. He’s carried that burden alone, and it makes my heart melt for him even more.

I stand on the top step, watching her drive away, out of sight. And still I don’t move to go back inside.

Nestor deserves someone who really cares about him, too.

Someone who’s on his side. Someone who takes care of him.

I think that person is supposed to be me.

I want to be that person.

When I walk back into the house, I’m still thinking about family—my own, in comparison to his.

My father is a liar and a cheat. A manipulator who uses people every chance he gets. I guess that’s why he become involved in the lower levels of the mafia, being a criminal suitedhim. But even if he was working for the mafia…that’s no excuse to be a bad person. Nestor isn’t like that. He has integrity and treats people with respect. Even his lower-level workers. It has nothing to do with what he does for a living; Nestor is just a good man. And my father is not.

The thought should hurt me.

But it doesn’t.

Maybe it’s time for me to call him. I haven’t had a proper conversation with him since he sold me to Nestor. I was angry, but now I might be starting to see that good can come out of bad choices.

And I might be starting to understand that being angry with my father is a waste of time and energy. He doesn’t deserve that from me—because he doesn’t deserve anything from me.

I want closure.

I want to accept him for who he is without letting it affect my self-worth or view of who I am. Because I spent my whole life living in the shadow of his shame—right up until the moment that Nestor freed me from it.

***

Upstairs in my room, I’m lying on my stomach on the bed, propped up on my elbows, staring at my phone.

Somehow, I understand that nothing good can come of speaking with my father—he hasn’t changed in any way—but I need to do this.

With a heavy sigh and anxiety stirring in my stomach, I sit up, dialing his number.

It rings a few times before he answers.

“Sweetie pie,” he says, gushing into the phone.

“Hi, Dad. How are you?” I ask, my throat tight.

“I’ve missed you.”Really? Before or after you sold me to a crime lord?

“Have you been doing okay?” I ask, ignoring the comment.

“Yes, no. I’ve been struggling. I could really do with some help.”

I roll my eyes—here it comes.

“Dad, I’m just calling to see how you are,” I say coldly. He hasn’t even asked me how I am. He hasn’t even bothered to say sorry for selling me before he asks me for something. Can he really bethatself-centered?