Page 15

Story: Vow of Vengeance

CHAPTER 15

Ophelia

While waiting for Haze to come home, I balance the normalcy of schoolwork with the unbelievable fact that I’ve left my home and I’ll soon be married. Gian’s presence helps me stay calm and focused instead of worrying the day away, entirely overwhelmed.

Gian cut me off at my second cappuccino this afternoon. He says it will stunt my growth. He has no idea how many milligrams everyone at my school takes in daily. There’s a Starbucks in the lobby of our rich kid school. If Gian’s logic was valid, my classmates with daddies—the word makes me blush even thinking of it—those with their parents’ limitless credit cards would all be four inches tall if caffeine stunts your growth.

Sipping the final delicious drops from my cup—so good—I rub my bleary eyes and stare at the computer screen. Would it be rude or a compliment to Gian if I licked the insides of the cup?

I settle deeper into my barstool. I’ve only been here a day or so, but I talk about this place like it’s my home. How have I become so comfortable so fast?

I eye Gian. He’s cooking pasta sauce for dinner. Apparently, it must simmer all day, and he refuses to leave his pot, telling me it takes constant stirring and love. He’s babysitting his sauce from the breakfast table by the window, soaking up sunlight. He wears silver-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose while reading an old-fashioned newspaper, one of the massive paper ones with the black ink that smudges your fingertips. We had to use one to research a paper for Current Events class last semester, and I remember having to wash my hands afterward.

My paper was about a crime family outside New York that runs the city's largest bank. Seeing Gian’s newspaper makes me think of my father. I wanted to find out what had happened to him, but my family wouldn’t tell me the truth.

Knowing more about my roots will make me feel connected to my father in a way that will fill this void, or whatever you call that constant feeling in my stomach. The one that tells me I don’t belong. The one that keeps me from letting people in.

Living inside the walls of a branch of one of the world’s most powerful crime families is the best chance I have of finding information.

I can’t let this opportunity pass.

“Mr. Gian?” I say.

He looks up from his paper. “Yes, my dear?”

“I have a question for you.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No more cappuccino, young one. I told you that too much caffeine is not good when you are still growing.”

“It’s not that,” I say with a smile. “I was wondering if you know anything about a—” I hesitate to use the word mafia. “A group based out of Scotland. In the same line of work as the Bachmans.”

He puts the paper down, folding it so perfectly that we may be spirit animals. He then lays it on the table. Taking off his glasses, he folds them and tucks them into his shirt pocket.

Cautious, he eyes me. “Do you know where they are based in Scotland?”

“Edinburgh or Glasgow.” I shake my head. “I’m not sure.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leans back in his seat. “There are two warring groups I know of in Scotland. One is called the King’s Mafia. They originated on a small island far from the mainland. They make their money running weapons and ammunition on the water.”

Weapons, ammo, that’s not too bad. Right? Could my dad have been born on this island? Maybe he was one of the King’s.

“And the other,” I ask.

“The Hoax. Based out of Glasgow.” The way his face twists in disgust makes my heart sink into my barstool. He shakes his head. “They are not good men.”

“Oh.” I’m too scared to ask how the Hoax makes their money. What if my father was one of those bad men? Do I really want to know?

He eyes me. “Why do you ask?”

Do I tell him the truth? His face is sincere. His baked goods have loosened my tongue. “My father was in a gang in Scotland. I don’t know anything about him.”

He stands, moving over to stand across from me. He presses his palms to the countertop. “What do you know?”

I tell him the only story I have about my past. “We were living in Glasgow at the time. My mom—Leah—briefly dated an older man when she was nineteen. Boom. Here I am. When he had visitation one day, my mom says he took off, kidnapping me and running to Edinburgh. We were right outside the castle, in a group of tourists, when he realized he was being followed. A beautiful woman with a pearl necklace was crossing the road. He thrust me into her arms for safety.” I glance down at my hands, swallowing back the tightness in my throat. I’ve never shared this. With anyone. “He was shot moments later.”

Gian exhales a deep breath. “God. That’s… I don’t even know what to say.” He shakes his head.

“The woman took care of me while she searched for my next of kin and finally found my mom and grandparents who came to get me. My mom refuses to tell me the name of the woman who saved me. I think I have a vague memory of her. A big smile and long blonde hair. She was always laughing. I loved the woman’s pearl necklace; as a baby, I would always play with it while she wore it, so she called me Pearl.” That part is true because my mom gave me the necklace when I turned eighteen. “When we left, the woman gave my mom the necklace, and my mom changed my middle name to Pearl as a tribute to her.”

“That’s sweet.” He eyes me. “Edinburg Castle, you say?”

“Yes,” I say. “At the crosswalk that led to the curving road that goes up to the castle.”

“I wish I knew more.” He nods. “I’ll ask around.”

My heart lifts with hope. “You’ve already done so much for me…”

He places a warm hand over mine. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The sincerity in his voice makes tears of gratitude prick at the back of my eyes. A new email notification appears on my computer screen, saving me. It’s the message I’ve been waiting for from my teacher, that the grade revisions have been posted. He promised if we got everything to him by three p.m., we’d have our revised grades by five.

“Grades are back, Mr. Gian.” Nerves flutter in my belly as I open the school portal. Will this grade be any better than the last?

Gian moves around the island to stand behind me, looking over my shoulder. “What did you get!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I hit refresh on my computer, hoping the number on the screen would magically change. It doesn’t. “All that work and only a 76!”

He puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Not bad for only one morning of work,” he says. “And now the average of the two grades is 70.”

“I passed!”

“Yes,” he says. “You did. Nice work.”

“Thanks to you!” I glance back, beaming a smile at him. “Let me see if he graded our essay yet.”

“Your essay,” he corrects. He squeezes my shoulder before going to the stove to check on his simmering pot of pasta sauce. “I only did a little editing. You’re a good writer.”

“And a dastardly speller,” I say.

“Speaking of tomorrow morning, at the same time and in the same place to study for your vocabulary test?” He dips a soup spoon in the sauce, bringing it to his lips for a taste.

“Yes, please.”

“It’ll be my pleasure. It’s quiet here in the mornings. Needs more salt. Always more salt, isn’t it?” He grinds his container of pink salt over the pot. I’ve never seen pink salt before.

I think of how much time Gian’s already spent helping me. “If you’re sure I’m not getting in your way. I am known to be a little too chatty at times.”

“I grew up in a big family.” He lays eyes on me to assure me. “I enjoy your company.”

“Thanks.” Shyly, I add, “Today would have been super lonely without you.”

“Mr. Bachman will be home soon,” Gian comments.

Blood rushes to my head. I snap my computer closed. Knowing Haze’ll be walking in that door any moment fills me with anxiety. A confusing flicker of heat licks at my core. I don’t know what to expect from our first “official” evening together as—fiancées. Is that the correct term for what we are? Or is it kidnapper and kidnappee?

Husband and soon-to-be wife?

Gian hangs a kitchen towel on the oven handle to dry. He looks at me. “Is there anything you need from me before I go pack?”

“Pack?” I almost shout. I lower my voice. “You mean, you’re leaving?”

His brow knits in confusion. “Did Mr. Bachman not tell you?”

“Does he tell me anything?” I ask.

He laughs. “I leave tomorrow afternoon, but I won’t go until I study with you and make you lunch—grilled cheese again?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.” I do like that grilled cheese. It was perfectly toasted with just enough butter and the melty cheese doing that stringy thing when you pull the triangles apart. But I need to know more about why he’s going on this sudden trip. I feel my face fold into an accusatory glance. “How long will you be gone for?”

He whisks his hand through the air. “You two need your space. To get to know one another better.” He tosses a bay leaf into the pot. “You don’t need a gray-haired third wheel in your space.”

“How long, Mr. Gian?” I ask.

He tries to divert my attention, hitting my weakest spot. “I’ll leave you chocolate ganache cake for your dessert.”

“Thank you,” I say. “That sounds lovely.”

Why won’t he tell me how long he will be gone? An unpleasant thought pricks at the back of my mind, making my gaze drop to the countertop. I tap the end of a pen against the marble. “He didn’t ask you to leave, did he?”

“Hmmm?” Gian is pretending to be enthralled with his stirring. He doesn’t want to answer me.

I press on. “I mean, if he did ask you to leave to give us space, please don’t go. We can get to know one another just fine with you here,” I beg.

Finally, Gian looks up from his pot long enough to briefly make eye contact. “He didn’t ask me. Please don’t mention it to him tonight—he’s still sore about the trip. It’s just a last-minute thing that came up. Family business.”

My stomach flip-flops. I squirm on my barstool. I picture being in this house without Gian and alone with Haze.

I need my new friend for emotional support and comfort—and let’s not forget that the food has been incredible—and he’s my only hope. Selfishly, I say, “I still need to talk to my family.”

“You’ve been working hard all day. Mr. Bachman will be home soon. Why don’t you lie down a little before you have to get ready for dinner.” Finally, he looks at me for longer than a second, and there’s a mischievous twinkle in his lingering gaze.

The look in his eye is the same one Grandma gives me when I’m going to the movies, and she’s hiding a little extra pocket money in my purse for candy.

He’s going to help me! “You know, I am a little tired. That’s a good idea.” I ease up from my stool. Standing, I stretch my arms up high, yawning. “I think I will rest for a bit.”

I’m hoping for a phone.

He clicks the knob on the stove off and sets a lid on the pot. “I’m going to pack. I’ll call you when dinner is ready. This will taste even better if it sits till dinner. Be sure I take the bay leaf out before we eat.”

“Thanks, Gian,” I say.

The thought of hearing my mom’s voice sends butterflies taking off in my stomach. I neatly put my school supplies and laptop back into my backpack, heaving it over my shoulder. Eager to discover what he left for me, I prance up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Closing the bedroom door, I stow my backpack on the closet floor.

Whatever it may be, where could it be? I look around. At first glance, nothing seems out of place. There’s a desk, desk chair, bed, dresser with eight drawers, two nightstands, the bed, and the closet behind me with doors I’ve left open.

The closet seems like a good place to begin. My backpack and shoes are neatly lined on the floor. A few things I’ve unpacked are on one of the center shelves. There’s a long, high shelf over the bars for hanging clothing.

If I had something to hide, I’d go high. Standing on the balls of my feet, I stretch upward, running my fingers over the smooth wood of the empty shelf. Nothing.

I go to the desk, carefully opening and closing each drawer. They’re all empty. I pull open the top drawer of the dresser. A colorful line of neatly folded panties greets me. Lifting a corner of a stack of boy shorts, I eye the three-stranded pearl necklace that means everything to me. I reach out, touching the cool beads for comfort. This necklace is my only connection to my father. I tuck the pearls back under my undies for safekeeping.

As I close the drawer, a chime goes off, the same one that sounds whenever the house's front door opens or closes.

Someone has opened the front door. My heart hammers in my chest. My head snaps to the closed bedroom door. Is he home already? I tiptoe over to the door and listen for his voice. I don’t hear anyone. I need to be sure.

Slowly, I inch the bedroom door open.

The hair stands up on the back of my neck as I call out, “Haze? Are you home?” I hope against hope for no answer. I’m met with total silence.

The door chimes again.

“Gian?” I call out.

“Just putting my bag in the car, darling! You have at least another half hour.”

“Thanks!” Closing the door, I lean against it, exhaling the breath I’ve been holding. I stare around the room. I have thirty minutes to find whatever he’s left me and contact my family.

Time is running out.

I search the rest of the dresser drawers and nightstands. No phone. No paper. Not so much as a postage stamp.

Haze will be home soon. Defeat weighs heavy on my shoulders. Drained by the search, I flop onto the bed. Maybe I will take a “wee nap,” as my Scottish grandma says.

I lie face down on the pillow, snuggling my cheek into the downy fluff. Closing my eyes, I slide my hands under the pillow. My fingertips bump into something hard and cold. Something that wasn’t there this morning when I fluffed this pillow up as my final detail in making this bed.

Silly Ophelia, of course he hid something under the pillow! He told me that when he hinted at me to lie down. I can’t believe I wasted so much time!

Still, victory is mine, and a huge smile beams across my face.

Kneeling on the mattress, I slide the pillow to the right to discover a small gray phone, an old one that folds in half. “Flip phone? Is that what they call them?”

Or, should I say, a burner phone—one you buy for twenty euros at a convenience store that can’t be traced to any established phone number.

I learned the term from a true crime podcast Carter listened to as he drifted off to sleep the last night he spent in my bed. Carter. Can I call him, too? If he even wants to hear from me. What Haze did to him was humiliating. Do I know his number by heart? Not having my contacts from my phone sucks.

I have ten minutes left. I flip the phone open. The number keys stare up at me, begging me to remember our home landline. It takes two tries to dial correctly. My heart beats faster as the first ring comes over the line.

Then, a second ring. “Please pick up.”

My skin goes clammy on the third ring. There’s no time left. They have to pick up! It rings again, and I think of my grandpa, always sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee or playing solitaire with his worn deck of cards. Where is he now?

The call rings out. No one answers. I flip the phone closed. Holding the cool plastic against my chin, I stare at the patches of my quilt.

Dread begins to sink in. Are they not answering because they never made it home? Was Haze lying to me this whole time? Why should I trust him? Though he’s practically a stranger to me, he knows me better than anyone in some ways.

He’s the only person I’ve done those things with. I entirely let go, fully embraced the climax, and lost myself in the euphoria. He’s better acquainted with certain parts of my body than I am.

The phone rings. How do you silence the ringer on this thing? More importantly, how do you answer it? I flip it open. On the front, there’s a small screen with no pictures, only numbers.

Caller ID?

The number displayed on the screen is not my home landline. It’s a number I don’t recognize. What if it’s Haze? Maybe Gian told him he left me a phone, and he’s testing me. Should I answer it and risk getting caught?

Or not answer it and potentially miss a call back from my family?