Page 62 of Wicked Tricks

Sensing that I was uncomfortable, she smiled, “you don’t have to tell me, Rome.”

“No, it’s OK,” I said, “uh, my adopted mother, Yasmin was murdered by her husband, Peter, when I was fourteen. He died in prison a few years ago, so I’ve heard.”

“Oh,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“It doesn’t really bother me,” I said, my jaw tightened.

It did still bother me, and I often had nightmares about the event.

Coming home from school to Yasmin screaming for me to run. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t want to leave her behind either - and because I hesitated, he caught us.

He locked the doors and shot her in the head.

Peter had the barrel of the gun placed at my temple before the sound of oncoming sirens scared him off. They eventually found him and took him down with a shot to the arm.

To this day, I remembered being disappointed that they had missed his head.

I was your textbook-typical orphan with trust issues. I had been in several homes over the years before I met Yasmin, and I bonded with her instantly.

It was perfect - at first.

We played the role of a typical, suburban happy family. Peter would tuck me in and kiss me on the forehead at night, and dance with Yasmin in the kitchen on Sundays as she made pancakes. But year after year, month after month, the darkness and violence that was once just a rare outburst, became life for Yasmin and I.

“I got placed with another foster family after the trial, but they were just as bad. I just ran away and never looked back. My best friend, Bea, and I kept each other alive until Diana ran into me, stealing bras one day from Victoria’s Secret,” I chuckled, remembering the mischief that Bea and I once got up to, “and she put me to work. I started out cleaning, bartending, then dancing - and eventually she let me into their other business dealings.”

“Like this?” Grace asked, holding up the envelope with her new identity documents in it.

“Yeah,” I said, “among other things.”

We didn’t start in the forgery trade until I had suggested it. As a young, bright-eyed girl full of hope, I dreamed of getting into graphic design. Before we entered this particular racket, I worked with Mina and Bea, pulling off small-time robberies and slinging counterfeit garbage, among other activities I didn’t enjoy remembering. Diana wanted me to do something that would suit my talents and she paid for me to take graphic design courses.

When Livie came along with her masters degree, we were set.

I didn’t exaggerate when I said that I would be dead if I had not met Diana. She taught me to be strong, to have grit, and to claim my power. She showed me how to protect myself, how to fight for myself - so no one would ever have any kind of power over me ever again.

I would never again suffer at the hands of a man.

“I hope she doesn’t remember any of this,” Grace mumbled sadly, glancing again at Elle in the back seat.

I reached out and touched her briefly on the arm, “she won’t. But she’ll have a better life from now on, OK? So will you.”

Grace nodded and smiled, and turned away to look out the window.

She eventually fell asleep leaning against the door, lightly snoring. I listened to the radio, willing myself not to spend the next few hours overthinking.

Part of me so badly wanted to let Antoni in, to trust him and just give it a shot, but another part of me beat those thoughts down as soon as they entered my head.

I felt like two sides of me were at war inside my mind.

With frustration, I punched at the stereo, turning it off.

There was enough going on inside my head and the extra noise of the radio felt like it could send me over the edge.

Would I ever give myself a chance to be happy?

How many years had I already spent, angry and alone? On the other hand, doing so had kept me safe. But why, after all this time, did I feel the need to question my tried and true methods of survival?

This was the first time I had ever even considered breaking my own rules.

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