Page 11 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

I bite my lip. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“That settles it then. You don’t have to forgive him outright, but you should hear him out, Addy.”

I look at Kira, marveling how so wise and confident she is. It strikes me how much strength resides in this woman who navigates the world without sight yet sees more than most people ever will.

“Maybe you’re right,” I concede with a sigh and take a bite of the pancake, the flavors exploding on my tongue.

“Of course I am,” Kira smiles and returns to her own food, munching on the strawberries. “You’ll feel better once you talk to him.”

We fall into a comfortable silence; the only sounds are the clinking of silverware and the distant hum of the city.

***

After our meal, I head to my room to change out of my top, bootleg jeans, and sneakers. I instead choose a button-down white shirt tucked into a black pencil skirt that stops just above my knees and kitten-heeled boots then I pull my hair into a bun.

Next, I grab my work bag and empty it of sheaves of paper to make room for the small metallic evidence box.

This is so wrong, I muse, looking at the fingerprint-activated box. It should have been sent through secure post, or at least transported by a security personnel. Well, who better to bend rules than bad-tempered lawyers?

Shouldering the wide strap, I start to leave my room when my phone rings. It’s my dad.

The phone suddenly feels like a deadweight in my hand, as Kira’s words ring in my ears. I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the screen. Then I take a deep breath and swipe to connect.

“Adele.” His voice comes through, flat and cold.

“Daddy,” I reply, forcing some steel into the tremor in my voice.

“You’ve been ignoring my calls.” His Irish twang, usually more pronounced when he’s upset, is oddly muted.

“I’ve been busy with work,” I say, tugging at a loose thread on my sleeve as I begin to pace, fully expecting to be guilt-tripped for ignoring my father, but I’m surprised when all I get is a noncommittal grunt.

“When are you coming back home?” He may as well be asking me what time it is. Over the past couple of years—ever since he started talking to me again after Chicagogate, that is—I’ve noticed my dad has been decidedly . . . more detached. He still hasn’t forgiven me.

Well, I haven’t forgiven him for being a liar and fraud, either.

A flash of irritation replaces my unease. “I’m not coming back, Daddy. I’ve moved out. I’m looking for my own place now. And it’s about time, too, wouldn’t you say?”

“Adele,” he says, and for a moment, I think I hear a flicker of something in his voice. Warmth? Concern? But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “You don’t need to do that. There’s more than enough room at the house. I know you’re shocked and disappointed, but if you’d just let me explain some things about my job . . . about our family.”

My free hand clenches into a fist. “Explain what exactly? How you turned ripping people off into an art form? Even if you could spin some story for that, nothing could ever make it right.”

There’s a long pause, then he says in a stern, eerily calm tone. “There is something you really need to calm down and hear. Something I couldn’t tell you before now.”

Instinctively, I know that whatever he has to say will change everything. And that’s exactly what I don’t want to happen. A familiar buzzing begins in my ear, but I ignore it. “Alright,” I snap, suddenly needing the call to end.

“Good. So shall I expect you later today, then?”

I scoff, glancing at my watch. “No, you shan’t. It’ll have to wait a few days.” I hesitate, debating on saying more, but in the end, I just blurt it out. “Because I’m going to Chicago.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, so long that I wonder if he’s trying to set a world record for awkward silences.

I’m unsure why I felt the need to tell him that. I could say it’s because I promised to keep him in the loop, but to be honest, that ship sailed the moment I realized he didn’t deserve my honesty.

No, it’s because I wanted to rattle him the way he did to me with that eerie pronouncement just now.

Finally, he speaks, and I can’t stop my smirk as I hear his Irish twang. “Chicago? Do ye mean that?”

“Yep,” I confirm, letting the satisfaction curl in my gut like a lazy cat. These days, getting a rise out of my dad is the only way I can tap into the well of emotions he used to spill more freely before.

---