Page 29 of Kingpin

I logged into my account, but it kept telling me the login credentials were wrong. I tried it again, and still, nothing happened. I got up and walked over to my laptop bag. I pulled it out and logged in, pulling up the entry page.

When I tried it manually, that didn’t work, either.

“The fuck?”

I tried to recover my password, but my gut sank when it happened. After typing in my email to receive an email, the screen told me that an account with that email didn't exist. I shot up from the bed. I walked over to my phone and stood on the balcony again. I dialed my uncle’s number and held the phone to my ear, but all I got was his voicemail.

The stupid thing didn’t even ring.

I called my aunt, and I called Brianna. I called my uncle’s bodyguard, and even his secretary. I called anyone who might know how to get in touch with Uncle Pava, but all I got were voicemails. All of them. No phones rang, no voices picked up, and no one provided me any answers.

Or any grace.

“Fuck!” I exclaimed.

I fell back down into the wrought iron chair and put my face in my hands. I had no one. I had nothing. I had a husband who was hellbent on torturing me, a bedroom that wasn’t rightfully mine, and a bunch of lingerie, bikinis, and outfits for a trip that would never happen at that point. I let the tears fall as I sat there alone. I felt like I was five again, talking with that police officer as he told me my parents had been killed.

I sobbed in the cushioned chair out on that terrace.

And literally nobody cared.

After crying out my frustrations, I decided crying was no longer a good use of my time. I finished my coffee, took a very hot shower, and made myself up for the day. I decided to go ahead and be myself. There was no use in attempting to be someone else any longer. It was obvious my own family had abandoned me. If death was my future, there was no way I could outrun it.

At least then I’d be reunited with people that loved me.

I cleaned the kitchen with worry rushing through my veins. I swept the pristine floors, barely scooping up any dust or dirt in the first place. Israel kept his penthouse painstakingly clean, but I needed something to do. So, after cleaning the place up a bit, I made my way back into the kitchen to prepare something for dinner.

Maybe a feast would at least get us at the same table.

I worried that Israel was going to frame me for a crime I didn't commit. However, as the day dragged on, that worry shifted. I worried about my family. About my cousin. About where that left them, and what might happen to Israel. If they had cut me out of the plan, that meant more hits on my husband’s life were to be expected.

I wondered if they’d kill me in the process.

I distracted myself with cooking. I slow-cooked pig ribs in the oven and threw together the most decadent dessert I’d ever created. I brewed fresh iced tea and crushed up blackberries to infuse the drink with. I plucked the perfect bottle of wine out of the cabinet, just in case Israel wanted something stronger.

Then, I watched the clock.

Upon reflection, having money wasn’t the worst thing in the world. I wasn’t a big spender of it, and the things I personally wanted to spend it on usually kept me entertained for a while. I enjoyed movies and books and roaring fireplaces. I enjoyed secluded cabins in the mountains instead of expensive trips to romantic destinations. A night in with takeout was just as decadent as a night out on the town. And usually, an eighth of the price.

“You can do this,” I whispered to myself.

Even though it was well past seven, I set the table for dinner anyway. If all else failed, Israel could come home and heat himself up a plate. I still wanted to present it to him in a fashionable way. I set the massive pig ribs on a silver platter and brushed them with a bit of sauce. The vegetables were steamed just right, and I’d whipped up a honey-chipotle sauce to drizzle over them for a nice kick. I popped open the bottle of red wine and poured it into the decanter.

Then, I waited.

Until I heard the elevator finally rising up the shaft.

“Israel?” I called out.

I heard the doors slide open, and I made my way to the kitchen doorway. I stood there in my dress and my heels, hoping he’d at least let me welcome him home from work. He didn’t come toward the kitchen. Instead, I heard him venture toward the stairs.

Undaunted, I followed him.

I caught sight of his bloodied clothes as I trailed him.

“Israel?”

He didn’t stop walking down the hallway as he stripped his tie from around his neck.

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