Page 19

Story: Vow of Vengeance

CHAPTER 19

Haze

We’re back in the black Alfa, and I drive this time. I love the control of being behind the wheel, though I miss being in the back seat with her.

I drive down the gravel road, winding deep into the dark forest. The road widens. The wheels are no longer crunching on gravel, and we’re riding on smooth pavement.

A clearing surrounded by woods has a helipad, with a shiny black helicopter parked on its paved center. The black paint contains the gold emblem of the Bachman Brotherhood: a large gold B in a thick font and a slighter B in a more delicate one. The letters are encapsulated in the same gilded circle as the Villa’s emblem.

She scoots forward in her seat, looking out the windshield. “You guys have a helicopter hidden in the woods?”

“We do.” I pull the car to the side, putting it in Park. “I thought you might like to see where I work.”

She eyes me. “You work at the Villa with Liam.”

“I do,” I say. “We all do. But we have our own responsibilities as well.”

“I thought you walked to work this morning.” She shakes her head. “Was that only this morning?”

“Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?” We share a look. Heat passes between us. She’s the first to break our gaze. “Have you ever ridden in a helicopter?”

Tossing a look at me, she says teasingly, “What do you think.”

“No?” I laugh. She constantly makes my world feel upended. It’s only fair to pay it forward with a helicopter ride. “I thought you might like to see what I do for the family. And this is the best way to travel.”

She’s quiet as we climb in the chopper. I outfit her with her safety gear first, showing her how the microphone in the headphones works so we can talk over the engines, and then I settle myself. She’s not said a word. This is one of her quiet, nervous times. I almost miss her chatter. Almost.

“Ready?” I ask.

Finally, she admits, “I’m a little scared.”

I flash her a grin. “You trust me?” My breath catches as I wait.

Finally, she says, “Yes.”

“Enough to leave the ground beneath you?”

“I—” A smile comes over her, and she looks down at her lap. “Sure. Why not?”

“Good.” I prime the throttle. “We’re going to fly over our island, so this is the easiest way to show you.”

“A private island?” Holding her hands against the sides of her headphones, she laughs. “Should I have expected any less from Bachmans?”

I check the switches and flip on the battery. “Italy has over four hundred islands in the Mediterranean, Tyrrhenian, and Adriatic Seas.”

She quotes. “Italy’s well-known islands includeSicily, Sardinia, Capri, Ischia, and Procida. Last year’s geography lessons.”

“Good to see my money’s gone to good use,” I tease.

She shoots me an eye roll.

“Get ready. It’s going to be loud.” I turn the ignition switch and start both engines. They roar to life. I check the gauges and set the RPMs to fifty percent. I often fly alone at night to clear my mind. My pilot's license has a night rating, and the chopper is outfitted with navigation and landing lights.

Before putting on my night goggles, I peek over at Ophelia. She's a little paler than her usual, if that’s even possible, but she’s good. She looks up and gives me a brave smile, followed by a nod. She’s ready. I put on the goggles, engage the clutch, and turn on the alternator switch and timer.

As we rise from the concrete helipad, we lift off, and I can see the black Bachman Brotherhood emblem below us, guiding us home. Night flying can be dangerous, so I stay focused on the task while keeping her safe. I’m not used to having a passenger beside me on these evening flights. It feels… nice. I like having her here, beside me.

It feels as if she’s always been in that seat.

As we fly, I tell her about the project I’ve been focused on for the past five years. “We’re growing fast. We need more space. It doesn’t make sense to lose the protection of the forest at the Villa. I never was one for deforestation in the first place. I don’t want to clear more land.”

“Gian and I wrote an essay about humans’ impact on biodiversity,” she interjects.

“We’re keeping that in mind as we build. We have the funds and the resources to do it safely.” Speaking of safety, I add, “The Villa has the protection of the mountains, the woods, and the lake; I thought, why not the ocean? We’re already doing it with the Parish, an island off the coast of Greece.”

“Funny name,” she says.

“The origin story is that the family bought boats from a priest to first get to the island,” I explain.

We’re leaving the mainland now, flying over the ocean. The moonlight reflects white over the capped peaks that rise in the dark, glittering waters.

“The water is so beautiful at night,” she says. “I’ve never seen it like this.”

Pride rises in my chest that I’m the one who gets to show her these firsts. The island comes into view. We fly over. The shoreline is a narrow strip of rough, rocky terrain.

Tendrils of brown poke out from between the craggy stones. Stubborn vegetation determined to reach the sun. The soil doesn’t have the nutrients it needs. Still, it won’t stop reaching its goal. It's the same as me.

“I had a meeting with Liam today.” I don’t mention that it didn’t go well. “Afterward, I came out here to do some work.”

And clear my mind. Not knowing I’d come home to find Gian gone.

“You seemed out of sorts when you left this morning,” she says shyly. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

I can hear that I hurt her with my abrasiveness. I’m used to being surrounded by rugged, grown men. I need to soften for her. “Sorry about that. I woke up in a bit of a… daze.”

She shrugs. “S’okay.”

“After that meeting, I had to get away and blow off some steam, so I came here to hit some nails. Got a head start on the framing before the rain comes.” I point to the early stages of the first structure I’m building. “It’s dark, but you can see a bit of it.”

“Hit a few nails?” She stares out over the concrete pad and the two-by-fours. “It looks like you single-handedly framed half this building.”

“The framing phase goes fast.” It’s funny she knows the term for the framing phase. I joke, “Did you take carpentry at that fancy school?”

She surprises me with her answer. “I did, actually. Since we go to this rich kid school, one of the board members thought it’d be good for the students to take what they call a fundamentals class—something to do with their hands. Most of them can’t fry an egg in a pan or do a load of wash. I think they have people for that.”

Her words make me bristle. “Like me? Gian ironed this shirt before he hung it in my closet.”

“We are flying over your private island in the family helicopter,” she sniffs.

“I work hard for what I have. I came from modest beginnings.” I grip the clutch tighter. “Nothing was handed to me.”

“Same,” she says. “Except for what was handed to me,” she corrects herself. “The scholarship for the school, of course, and the stolen tuition that doesn’t need to be mentioned again. But I work hard at school, and when the opportunity arose to learn building skills, I jumped on it.”

“That’s brave,” I say.

“Yeah, as you can imagine, all the boys signed up for carpentry, and the girls signed up for gardening. There were a lot of jokes about ‘banging’ aimed at me, but I ignored them and worked hard.” She gives herself a nod of approval. “And it was the first class I aced.”

“I might have to pick your brain when I finish the housing phase of this project,” I say, pointing out into the water. “The second phase of building is out there.”

She stares over the sea. “In the ocean!”

“A place of protection for any Bachman who may need a safe space to hide out or lay low for a while—” I stop myself.

I’ve already shared too much. There’s a limit to what I can tell her. She’s not family—not yet.

I think of the futuristic prototype stored in my phone, a structure in the water, one large white circle in the center, four smaller ones outside of that, the edges of all the circles the same as our emblem. The first layer of housing is above water, with walls of windows to bring in the sun. The lower level will be a bunker, a safehouse underwater.

We're silent on the car ride home, enjoying the forest's peace. I like the fact that we can be quiet together. We’re pulling up to the house now. The porch light shines warmly over the navy blue door, illuminating the gold Villa emblem. Pulling into the drive, I relax, knowing we’re home.

We’re home. That’s a strange thought. Cutting the engine, I glance over at her. I trust her. I want to share with her. I pull out my phone, handing it to her. “Want to see the prototype for the structure in the water?”

She takes the phone. “You’re asking the queen of biology class here. I haven’t got the grade back yet, but after that essay, I'm sure I have a solid C in the class. Of course, I want to see this.”

I have a passcode I can give her that will allow her to log in to a separate profile I keep on my phone for when I want to share something with a non-family member. I share it with her now. “The password is one—two—seven—capital B—five—nine—four.”

“Okaaay. Got it. We’re in—” Her tone completely changes to an icy chill. “Haze. What the hell? How did you get this?”

I glance down at the illuminated phone screen. My stomach lurches to my throat. I’d forgotten the screen saver I’d applied.

A four-line poem that I still can’t get out of my mind.

It was the one that made me feel close to Leah, the one that gave me hope, thinking that I could find someone like me in this world.

The void inside grows deeper still.

I search and seek but cannot fill.

Did I create the chasm on my own?

Or was I born to be alone?

My throat feels tight. My voice breaks as I speak. I reach out to take the phone back. “I meant to delete that.”

She holds it away from me, her wide blue eyes filled with confusion, locking her eyes on my face. I stare out at nothing but feel her gaze on me.

Finally, she demands, “What are you doing with this?”

Whatever delicate trust we’ve built between us seems to disappear as quickly as it formed.

My gut roils. I stare out the window. “I don’t want to say.”

The color drains from her face as she stares at the phone in her lap. “I have a journal I write in when I feel lonely or out of place. I’ve never shared any of my writing. No one has ever laid eyes on what I’ve written. You know why? Because I don’t want them to. So why on earth is my poem on your phone screen?” She huffs out an angry breath. “Well, four lines of it, anyway. And it’s not even the best four.”

Wait…

The poem is… hers?

I turn toward her, leaning my back against the car door. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s for my eyes only! I tuck it between my mattress and bedframe. How did you get it? Did you steal it when you were in my room that night?” She stares out the windshield, thinking, then shakes her head. “No. You didn’t have time. I was there every moment. You couldn’t have taken it then.”

My chest is tight. My fingers grip the steering wheel too tightly. None of this makes sense. All the turmoil I first felt when I found out I’d been had comes bubbling to the surface, bile rising in my throat.

I feel the heat from her eyes flinging fire at my face. “You haven’t snuck in my room before, have you?”

“No. I haven’t.” I grip the wheel tighter to keep from pounding it with my fists, demanding answers.

Bewildered, she whispers. “I’ve never shared that journal with anyone.”

Everything tilts. If the poem came from her journal, did her mom steal it? “It was one of your mom’s messages to me. It… meant something to me, and I typed it in my notes on that profile. Didn’t realize it saved as the screen cover.”

“Wallpaper,” she snaps.

I shoot back, “Whatever.”

“Mom? She said she wasn’t even the one who sent the messages?—”

I open my eyes, turning toward her. I feel my brow wrinkle. “When did she say that? I thought you had no idea about that other than your mom saying your tuition was paid.”

She waits a beat to answer, and when she speaks, her words sound breathless, like she’s been running. “When she told me about the tuition, she also said something funny about having the money but not being responsible.” She heaves a breath. “I can’t exactly remember—but it was something like that. It didn’t make sense then, but now...”

Her words trail off. She peeks over at me.

I’m deep in thought. “Why would your mom steal a poem from your journal?”

“Four lines,” she grumbles. “The rest was better.”

“I liked it.” I laugh at myself. “Obviously.”

“Thanks.”

The best I can think of is, “She was probably leaving breadcrumbs in case you eventually found out about the stolen money.” I stare at the house, thinking.

“My mom respects my privacy.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t see her rooting through my room.”

“If she wasn’t sending me the messages…” I catch her gaze. “Who the hell was I talking to?”

She eases back against her seat. “I have no idea. But whoever it was will get a piece of my mind.”

“The messages came from your home. We know that by the VPN. It was someone who was in your house and had access to your journal and the family desktop.” I think of the boy. “Could it have been someone from school? Who has been in your house this past year?”

“Let’s see… me, Mom, Grandma—Grandpa can’t even log in to the computer—and…” She’s debating saying his name, but finally, it comes out. “And Carter. There have been times when he’d be waiting for me to return from work. It could have been that he was in the house alone, but not often.”

I hate feeling this way again. Humiliated. Hopeless. I rake a hand through my hair. “Fuck!”

“Wow.”

I glance over at her. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” she smiles. “We’re home. Let’s go in.”

Home. There’s that funny word again. I think of our two bedrooms.

She clicks off the phone, sliding it into the cupholder. “Want to have a sleepover in my room tonight?”

I feel the grin spread over my face. “Will you leave the window open for me?”

“You’re special,” she says softly. “You get to use the door.”

I’m so grateful for her at this moment. I grab her hand, bringing it up to my lips. I lock eyes with her and love what I see in them. She wants me, too.

I brush my lips over the back of her hand. “Am I the only one to hold the privilege?”

She gives a shy smile. “Yes.”

“I don’t share well with others,” I say.

“I’ve noticed.” She scoffs out a laugh. “I believe the last boy you found to be competition was thrown out my window.”

I shake my head. “I’m lying.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“It’s not that I don’t share well.” I move in closer. “I don’t share. At all.”

I close the space between us, devouring her in a hungry kiss.

We lose our clothes as we kiss our way up the stairs to her room. I love watching her, enjoying every inch of her body as she reveals it. She laughs and fumbles over her feet, stepping out of her sweats as we reach the second-floor landing.

My heart stops.

She’s not wearing panties.

“No panties again.” A feral growl comes out of me as I scoop her in my arms and lift her naked body against mine. “What are we going to do about that?”