Page 55 of Forbidden Girl

“Juliet, it’s important.”

“Fine.”

Teague is in my chair. Another thing I begrudge him for. I take the one across from him.

My father runs a hand through his short, sandy hair. It’s not like him to be worried over words. “I’m getting older. And my enemies are getting bolder. I’m not going to live forever. You and your mother each have a trust in your name, and those belong solely to you in the event of my death. However, Teague and I have discussed it and, when the time comes, he’ll be taking control of my ventures.”

Oh no, say it ain’t so. “Okay.”

“That’s it? ‘Okay’?” Teague leers at me, his battered eye smaller and more squinty than the other.

It’s no great loss. I only wish the dynasty were mine so I could tear it asunder. It would be fitting—a Calloway built it, a Calloway obliterates it. “Yes, Gollum. It’s your precious. You want it. I don’t.”

Dad is caught somewhere between disappointment and satisfaction. “I assumed you wouldn’t.”

“Great. It’s sorted. Can I go?”

He dismisses me with a nod. “Enjoy the game.” He’s so clueless he has no idea that I don’t fucking like baseball.

Heading back to the quiet solitude of my room, I wonder if it’s possible I can still total the car despite not being in the driver’s seat. Indirect saboteurs can be as ruinous as deliberate ones. I go to find my mother, who, like me, has been hiding herself away in this big house lorded over by a sad little man. She hasn’t voiced it, but that’s how I know she’s as disgusted with him as I am.

“Mom, I need to borrow your phone.”

“Rowan?”

“Yeah.” We’ve been conspiring via my mother’s phantom phone number in case my dad decides to turn on my phone and try to access it. It’s not connected to a secondary device, thus it’s more secure than sending messages from my iPad.

She switches from her main to her alternate number and I shoot Rowan a text.

Teague has to go, too. He’s going to inherit the throne and the cycle will continue.

Rowan texts back pretty quickly.

It won’t be a problem. One more body in the room when shit hits the fan. When it’s time to toss the bait, bait them both. Teague’s eager enough to bite.

I don’t make a habit of seeking my mom’s approval. But if I ever needed it, it’s for this. “Tell me we’re doing the right thing.”

“We are, darling. It’s been a long time coming, and it would have happened eventually, with or without us to nudge it along.”

TWENTY-TWO

ROWAN

Giacomo’s, 8:00 p.m. That’s what my father arranges. I get there five minutes early, ask the host for the table reserved under Rossi. He leads me to a booth set for three in a quiet corner tucked away in the back. I don’t like crowds, but I dislike the location of this table more. There’s a brick wall to my right, a tall, dark, solid wood partition to my left. It’s too secluded and cage-like. Deal with it.

Alfonso likes to make people wait. It’s a power move he and I both have in our repertoire. I don’t care; he can make it. He does have the power in this situation. I’ve pissed him off, jeopardized his potential for enterprise growth and, worse, hurt his daughter’s feelings as well as her pride. While I have no fucks to give about his business, I do have guilt about upsetting Elisa.

I take the liberty of ordering a bottle of chianti for the table and pour myself a glass as I wait: 8:05, 8:10, 8:15. He arrives right on time, in other words fashionably late, with Elisa in tow. He’s in a gray suit, no tie. No tie is good: He’s not so angry as to view this as an official business meeting, more a casual meal with an associate. Gray is also good: It can’t hide bloodstains so he probably, hopefully, isn’t itching to put a bullet in my head or anywhere else.

Elisa is in an unfussy black cocktail dress, hair down, makeup understated. Pretty, as always. It’s not that I don’t find her attractive—I do. Maybe we could’ve happened organically if our parents would’ve allowed for it, but being forced, pressured… It was never going to work. Neither love nor connection can be compelled into existence.

I stand up. “Alfonso, Elisa, thank you both for coming.” The handshake originated in ancient Greece circa the fifth century BC. Its purpose was to prove to acquaintances, new and old, that you were unarmed and had affable intentions. That’s what it means tonight in twenty-first-century Boston, inside this hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant; I come in peace, please don’t fucking gut me like a fish.

He shakes my hand. Practiced as I am at remaining emotionless to the outside world, internally I’m relieved. We all take our seats. I pour him and Elisa a glass of wine, take a huge gulp of mine, then begin. “I owe you both an apology and I mean it, sincerely. I apologize. I meant no disrespect to either of you.”

“Not another word,” Alfonso says, signaling stop with his hand. “I’m too hungry to talk. First, we eat. Then we see if this is reparable.” He motions the waiter over without so much as a glance at the menu. As he listens to the night’s specials, Elisa looks at me.

“Gnocchi, right?” she asks with a wounded half-smile.

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