Page 143 of Trapped With You

Sometimes, I felt like it was my parents who orchestrated the entire thing from above, ensuring that Olivia and I found a home that cherished us.

Finishing braiding Olivia’s hair, I tied a little bow at the tail. “All done, Livvy.”

“Thank you.” She turned around in her chair to give me a hug. This morning must have really spooked her—the possibility of losing me—and I understood why she needed to hold on longer than usual.

I hugged her back and gently patted her back. “You’re welcome. Did I do a good job?”

“The best!”

Every evening, my little sister demanded I do her hair. It was a daily ritual whenever I wasn’t occupied with urgent work. I knew Olivia wouldn’t be a kid forever and one day she may not need me—which was a scary thought—so I was making the best out of these moments.

When we pulled away, she mumbled, “I miss Ella.”

I sighed. “I miss Ella, too, kiddo.”

“Is she coming back?”

Early this afternoon, I drove to her place and dropped off some gifts.

I poured all my love into a letter and hoped it was enough to get through to her.

Because I didn’t think I could survive any longer without Ella.

“Yes.” I smiled at Olivia. “She’ll be back soon.”

Late into the evening, I strolled down the hallway to Uncle Vance’s office. There was an overdue conversation I needed to have with him. It wouldn’t be easy, but he deserved to hear the truth.

I knocked twice on the closed door.

“Come in,” he replied.

Entering his office always felt like walking into the lion’s den. The mood was dark and always felt a little predatory. He continuously remained on the edge of squandering any enemy who threatened his reign.

His mancave was adorned with black walls housing numerous paintings, a skylight ceiling, a mahogany bureau with pictures of our family and, behind his vintage throne, an entire wall encasing his coveted knives collection.

As South Side’s kingpin, Vance Remington was known for having quite the notorious reputation. You didn’t want to cross him. My uncle made killing look like a sport and was still ruthless at forty-five years old, the way he’d been two decades ago when he took over the family business.

Currently, he sat on his throne like a heedful monarch, playing with a switchblade between his scarred fingers, hisOxford-clad feet crossed and resting at the edge of his desk.

Uncle Vance’s sharp eyes watched me close his office door. “What can I help you with, son?”

I took a seat in one of the leather chairs before his desk. “I need to talk to you. Is this a bad time?”

Sensing the severity in my tone, he straightened his posture and smoothed a hand over his three-piece black suit. It was wrinkled after a long day, his tie discarded somewhere, and the top three buttons of his dress shirt open, showcasing the small pendant he wore around his neck. It was a gold square with all our initials engraved. “No, I just finished some paperwork for the new art gallery. I’ll need you and Josh to go over there next week and help with the incoming shipment.”

“Sounds good.” The incoming shipment would no doubt contain a few priceless paintings with pounds of cocaine strategically hidden within the packaging.

“Oh, before I forget.” He yanked open a drawer and threw the De la Croix gun in my direction. “They confiscated it, but Officer Tate gave it back.”

“Tate’s really out here doing the Lord’s work, eh? Sorry, I meant the Devil’s.”

Uncle Vance let loose a tired chuckle and the blade between his fingers did an impressive flip. “You can say that again.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked. “After you came to pick me up, I saw you exchanging heated words with some of the cops.”

“Everything is fine.” He cracked his knuckles. “Though I forgot to mention that I have a copy of your mugshot. I’ve framed it and now it’s sitting on my mantel.”

My head whipped towards the fireplace to our right and I barked out a short laugh. True enough, my mugshot sat like a proud trophy alongside other family photos. “No way. I can’t believe you actually kept it.”