Page 83 of The Daring Times of Fern Adair
“There was this loud cracking noise. Mrs. Gates screamed and ran toward the bedroom…but I knew. Our pop kept a Colt in the drawer next to the bed.”
Fern couldn’t breathe. It was unimaginable, unbearable. She wanted to cry for him, for the young boy who’d had to live through that immense loss.
“Anyway, after that, Rod wasn’t the same. He never cried. Not for Bets or for our ma. He was just…angry.”
Their mother, in her crushing grief, had chosen to leave them—whether she’d been thinking straight or not. It was easy to see how a young boy could become furious with the world because of her choice. But he and Cal had suffered the same losses. Why Rod had emerged from that wretched day as one thing, and Cal another, could only be attributed to who they each were, deep inside.
“He fell in with a gang before he was even fifteen,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I tried to get him out, I knew it would only be trouble, but it was the first time I ever saw him happy.”
“So, you fell in too?” she asked. “To protect him?”
“Not right away,” he answered. “But Rod racked up enemies fast, and after one put a knife in his back andnearly killed him, I didn’t have a choice. At least, I didn’t feel as if I did.”
Cal hadn’t been drawn to the idea of being a gangster. He’d just been trying to protect his brother. From there, Fern could imagine how easily his involvement had deepened. As Rod rose in power, and his number of enemies increased, Cal probably felt there was no going back.
“Helen says you’ve done everything you can to help Rod, but there’s no saving him,” Fern said after a minute. His fingers began rubbing those soothing circles on her skin again. “Do you think she’s right?”
Fern didn’t lend her opinion—that she agreed with their aunt. It could be argued that she just wanted Cal away from someone as dangerous and manipulative as his brother.
“There’s no saving either of us,” he answered. “Not after all the things we’ve done.”
Fern lifted her head. He was staring up at the ceiling. He’d admitted to killing before, though she couldn’t believe he’d done anything in cold blood, unprovoked. Then again, he was a gunman. One with a reputation for cleaning up his brother’s messes.
“What have you done?” she whispered.
“You don’t want to know. And I don’t want to tell you,” he added before she could object. “I like the way you look at me now, like I could be a good man. If you know the things I’ve done, you’ll look at me differently.”
The reverberations of his voice streamed through her body, and her heart ached for him. She moved upwardand kissed his mouth. “I see the real you, Cal. The same way you see the real me.”
He combed his fingers through her loose hair and brushed his thumb down her left cheek. She couldn’t remember anyone ever touching her scarred half, except for herself. Doctors and nurses had when she’d been younger, but their hands had been all business, assessing and quick. Not Cal. He stroked her cheek, then the thicker weal of skin stretching the corner of her eye, and the fan of crepe-like skin on her forehead, with tenderness. The swaths of pale, leathery skin allowed the barest tickle of his touch, and her eyes stung with tears.
“What do we do?” she asked. They couldn’t hide from Rod forever, even if here, in this stuffy, overly warm storeroom, it was all she wanted to do. Just be in Cal’s arms, away from the world.
He didn’t answer at first, only continued stroking her skin and wrapping curls of her hair around his fingers. It was so quiet, the sound of one boarder turning in his bed upstairs reached them.
“The sooner we leave Chicago, the better.”
Fern started, pushing herself up to stare at him. He was serious.
“Whatever Rod’s planning, it isn’t good for you. He still wants to destroy your brother and father. Maybe as much as he wants to take out Giacomo’s boys.”
Her ears caught on that name, but something else he’d said was more important. “You don’t hate my father and brother anymore?”
“I hate them more than I did before, now that I knowhow they’ve treated you. But they’re your blood.” He tucked a curl behind her ear. “I won’t touch ‘em.”
Because they were her family. Because he loved her. Fern’s eyes filled with tears, and she was glad for the dim lighting in the storeroom. Not that she should be ashamed to cry in front of Cal; he’d proved she could be honest, without judgment from him.
“Giacomo?” she said, the name still tugging at the back of her mind.
“Giacomo Bianchi. Runs the Jacky Boys.”
“Wait—” Her mind trampled backward to earlier in the day, when she’d spoken to her mother on the pay phone. “Mr. Bianchi. The restaurant owner?”
“Yeah, The Falcon on Dearborn. Why?”
Fern’s mother had mentioned the catering for the fete was from The Falcon. It was one of her parents’ favorite restaurants. Giacomo Bianchi. The first half of Giacomo sounded a little like ‘Jack.’Jacky.
“I think he’s going to be at my father’s fete,” Fern said.
