Page 6 of Dagger in the Sea

He gave it to me to manage.

I was a success.

But I hadn’t forgotten my mother. So I devised a stinging, crude plan. I seduced her friends one by one, her close circle of three—one was divorced, the other married, the other newly separated.

They were flattered by my attention, obviously attracted to me, my manners, my repartee, my sexual suggestiveness. I already knew each one’s interests and did further homework. I planned each one carefully, and one by one down they fell.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The first was a one night stand at her apartment where I’d fucked her against the wall in her foyer the moment she’d led me through her front door. The other gave me head in her chauffeured limo after the ballet. The third dragged it out into a two week sex fest, meeting me at hotel rooms on her lunch breaks. Yes, everyone gave in to their dark little desires eventually. And I was happy to satisfy them.

I made sure Erin noticed. Once at a gallery opening, another at a ballet premiere, a fundraiser at one of her restaurants. I wanted to provoke her. To show her I was indeed the blight on her great moral compass. I wanted her anger and indignation. I wanted her to be offended and horrified. A duel. But each time Erin Cavanaugh Bradley would ignore her friend, glare at me for one long moment, her cold eyes spearing mine, then look away and glide on. Not quite the explosive response I’d hoped for. Fuck it.

Mauro was married and had a son and a daughter a few years younger than me. Sometimes, he’d invite me to have a drink at his favorite bar, just the two of us. He would tell me that one day, when his two kids got a little older and settled, he might share with them that I was their brother. “Sure,” I’d say. “Sure. Whatever you think, it’s up to you.” He’d raise his glass at me, his eyes suddenly glassy and wink, saying a soft,“Salut.”

He appreciated my understanding. I liked that, that was good. I felt liberated from any constraints. I was the master of my own life now.

Or so I thought.

2

Turo

2003 - present day

“I need to see you.”

Simple words. A simple request from a mother to her son. If we were an ordinary mother and son.

Erin Cavanaugh Bradley and I hadn’t spoken in the ten years since she’d fired me. We’d seen each other around town on occasion, but had only exchanged heavy looks. She remained unapologetic, and I bitter. Yet my pulse had raced the second I heard her clear firm voice on my cell phone. The blare of horns and sirens on Michigan Ave fell away as she invited me to her office.

Eyes followed me as I moved through my mother’s spectacular new corporate offices in River North, a loft in a converted factory on the Chicago River. I recognized a few faces from when I’d worked at the company years ago. The sleek, minimalistic space was impressive. I’d read the article about her moving the company here inChicago Magazine,seen the photographs.

“Hello, Marjorie.”

Erin’s personal assistant stared at me, eyes wide behind her glasses. She stood, her posture erect, stiff. “Let me take your coat.”

I handed her my Burberry trench and her thin lips pressed into a barely recognizable smile, like being polite to me was bitter medicine she had to swallow. So loyal.

Marjorie asked, “Would you like coffee or—”

“Nothing, thank you.” I smoothed a hand down my suit jacket.

“She’s waiting for you.” She opened Erin’s office door.

I strode in, and my mother stood and came around her massive desk. Her eyes—my eyes, we shared the same amber hazel color, she and I—held mine.

As beautiful and well maintained as ever. Not a lock of that professionally blown out honey golden hair, which fell to her shoulders, was out of place. We both stopped moving and took each other in. To be in her presence again, after having worked side by side, learning from her, making decisions, brainstorming, getting excited, complaining together, arguing, laughing.

“Turo.”

She used my nickname. She knew all about me, it seemed. Accepted my new life.

“Mother.”

Her chin lifted a degree at the sound of that familiar yet now somewhat foreign word. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit.” She gestured at the sofa beyond her desk in front of the huge swathe of windows revealing a cloudy, rainy Chicago.

“Would you like coffee or—”

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