Page 57 of Forbidden Girl

“Wait a second.” Elisa scrunches her nose at her father. “Does this mean I can’t have the Lamborghini you promised me as a wedding present?”

Alfonso pats her hand. “You’ll still get your Lambo, bambina.”

Well, shit, I didn’t realize our nuptials were worth a Lamborghini to him. I should’ve driven up my selling price. “We actually have a Huracán on standby—sky blue, black spoiler. The original buyer backed out.”

A low chortle leaches from Alfonso and crescendos to full-blown maniacal glee. He resembles an unhinged Santa Claus, round belly jiggling as he caws. “The benefits of this arrangement keep piling on.”

They do, indeed. Sweet freedom is whispering in my ear.

TWENTY-THREE

JULES

Because he’s a tech idiot who doesn’t know how to turn off the speakerphone once he’s inadvertently turned it on, I overhear my father in the kitchen on a call this morning, arranging a shipment for Friday. A man with a thick accent I can’t place informs him that a boat will arrive at the wharf at 2 a.m. I’m not sure how much or what kind of product he’s moving, but it means two things: His holdings are going to be significantly depleted and a lot of people are approaching their demise. Rowan has to accelerate her timeline. It’s a literal matter of life and death.

I have to wait for my mom—and Henry, Dad’s goon who’s been reassigned to accompany her everywhere, save the bathroom—to get home from the grocery store so I can use her phone. The more sneaking around I have to do to contact Rowan, the more annoyed I become with my father. It’s harder than it was in the beginning, when nobody knew about or even suspected us. Now I’m under constant surveillance if I leave the confines of my bedroom. When my dad’s out, it’s Teague who has his broken nose all up in my grill. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

“Hey.” He hobbles into the living room, reaches for something on a high shelf in the tall, recessed bookcase opposite the entertainment center. It’s a monumental effort for him. He fails, groans, and rubs at his ribs. I hear him mumble “fuck” and am tempted to help him retrieve whatever it is he’s going for. But I’m also getting a sadistic sort of pleasure from watching him writhe. It’s like those Japanese game shows where people are pelted with balls as they’re trying to accomplish near-impossible tasks. He tries again. Fails again. Fails worse.

For crying out loud. “Yo, Frankenstein, what are you looking for?”

“Uno.”

“What?”

“Remember when we were kids? It was our favorite game. Aunt M told me the other day that there’s a deck up here somewhere.”

“You want to play Uno?”

He signals at my book. “It’s not like you got other plans.”

Typical. He doesn’t ask, he assumes. He’s been that way as long as I can remember. I’ve spent countless hours with him, and I can’t recall a single time he’s asked me what I wanted to do or see or eat, where I wanted go, how I felt about anything. Is that a guy thing, or is it specific to Calloway men? I’ve kept quiet, let them discount me. I refuse to do that anymore.

“No, I don’t have other plans, but I’m not interested. I’d rather chew on broken glass than hang out with you.”

He scowls. “I fucked up, little cousin. I know it. I really fucked up.”

Every once and again as I was growing up, I would wish I were a boy. Because then my father would’ve taught me all the things he didn’t want a daughter to know. He valued me, but not the way he does Teague. I’m a possession. Teague is his protégé. Seeing the way Teague turned out, I’m thankful I’m not a boy. I’d be just like him, lowkey misogynistic and myopic.

“Have you ever stopped to wonder about why you hate Rowan so much? Before the accident with Gino—and that is what it was—you hated her. She never did anything to you though, did she? I mean, you’ve both stayed out of each other’s way your whole lives, haven’t you? So, what is it? Her name. That’s all. You’ve been made to hate her because of her name. It’s pathetic that you’re incapable of thinking for yourself, making your own judgments. You’re a sheep. A sheep masquerading as a wolf.” I go over to the bookcase and grab a deck of playing cards. “Here. Entertain yourself with a few rounds of solitaire.”

Mic drop. I don’t look back to confirm it, but I know he’s standing there with his mouth hanging open. It’s dawning on him that he doesn’t have to be dead to be dead to me.

I’m hiding in the bathroom with my mom’s phone and the shower turned on so I can talk to Rowan in earnest. It’s too much information to send via text, and it’s too sensitive for it to exist in written words, anyway. I wish I could see her face, but FaceTiming about a coup while we’re both in our fathers’ homes is unwise.

“Friday. This Friday? That doesn’t leave me much time to prepare,” she says.

“No.”

“Okay. It’ll have to be done tomorrow night. It’s a rush job, but I’m sure Callum won’t hesitate, being the greedy bastard that he is. I’ll text you when we’re on our way there. You know what to do.”

“What do you mean ‘we’re’? You’re not going to be there, are you?” Oh God, I’m going to throw up.

“I have to be. I’m back in his good graces since I was able to smooth things over with the Rossis. That doesn’t mean he trusts me one hundred percent. He won’t think anything of it, as long as I’m putting my own ass on the line right beside his. That’s how it works with him.”

“I hate this.”

“I’ll be out of there long before anything happens, I promise. I gotta run, though. I have a call to make.”

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