Page 31 of Mafia Scars

He turned, opened the door, and left slamming it shut.

My shoulders slumped. I pulled in a deep breath that did nothing for me, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl under a rock or get sucked into a black hole.

This was all messed up.

I turned to go back upstairs but noticed Gigi sitting at the top of the stairs.

Her face broke into a warm, open, friendly smile.

I needed friendly now. I needed my best friend.

A tear ran down my cheek when I saw her.

“Need to talk?” she asked.

I tried to smile but failed. “Yes.”

Talking was just the beginning of what I needed.

I looked at my best friend. A woman I’d known for so long and hoped with all my heart she wouldn’t shun me when I told her the truth.

I hoped that she would still be my friend. Gigi was the only normal I had in my life. Even with her crazy witch stuff. She was my normal and the only person who had been able to take me as I am.

Even though she never really knew my past.

Chapter 7

Amelia

* * *

Gigi stretched her arms out on the table.

She gazed down at the swirl of patterns that formed in the deep oak. She stared for what seemed to me like eons, then she looked back at me.

I’d told her.

I’d told her everything I could, leaving out the incident that caused me to leave home.

My father’s involvement with Agent Peterson’s murder would be something no one would hear from me.

It made me seem dirty indeed, like Sinclaire accused, but I had my reasons.

My father had never told me in his own words that he’d killed the man. He’d never confessed or admitted it. That was how I justified it in my mind.

Selfish, I knew it was selfish, and it was probably the thing that had destroyed me all these years. Knowing the truth of something and hiding it, so I could be free.

Maybe it would come out over the next few weeks.

Who knew what could happen?

Right now, I was concerned that my friend, my best friend in all the world, would be mad at me because I’d kept my secrets from her all these years.

I’d told her who my father was, my real surname, that my mother was killed, and how she died. I’d told her about my former life as a dancer, and about Luc. She’d really hung on to my words when I started talking about Luc. Probably because that part was fresh and filled with new emotion. Maybe I’d explained more than I wanted to, and she could see how conflicted I was.

“I prefer the name Rossi. It suits you,” she said to the table.

I straightened, waiting to hear what more she would say.