Page 5 of Salvatore

Yet, as quickly as those tears come, they abruptly stop. She dabs her eyes with the tissues I pass her. In the silence that follows, that harsh city kid I’ve come to know and adore returns. She stands, throwing her backpack over her shoulder and pointing at me. “You’re too much like a mom,” she tells me. “Get yourself some hot clothes and shoes and it won’t take you long to have your own kids to worry about.”

She’s trying to make a joke in order to lock up her vulnerability and keep it safe. It’s what’s helped her survive everything she’s been through. But I don’t bother to tell her something she already knows. “I’ll work on the shoes,” I promise.

“And the church clothes?”

I widen my smile. “That might take a few paychecks.”

She shakes her head and walks to the door. As it shuts behind her, my worry for her surges. Keon Monroe, the potential father, already has another child, whom he occasionally supports with the money he makes selling drugs. He’s had sex with several young girls who attend the high school. Tamira should know this, since it’s no secret. But, like the others, I’m sure she fell victim to his looks and devious charm.

Damn it.

I rise and return to my desk. For the moment, I can’t help Tamira. But maybe I can help someone else. My attention returns to the file I was reviewing before she stopped by. Apollo Romero is a freshman who’s already missed nine days of school, including today. What’s odd is his brother Gianno, a junior, hasn’t missed one.

Gianno is a gifted athlete who made the varsity wrestling team his first year. He and Apollo have so-so grades, despite their teachers believing they have tremendous academic potential. They’ve been in trouble for fighting outside of school, but it’s what they were subjected to in their home environment that disturbs me more. According to reports, their estranged father killed their mother in a jealous rage before killing himself. Apollo, only eight at the time, had let their father into the apartment. Gianno, only ten, had suffered multiple injuries trying to protect her.

These poor boys watched their mother and father die. I clutch my chest. Is it no wonder these kids have acted out? I flip through the folder, wondering if a relative took them in or whether they’re in the foster system. My brows knit when I see custody was granted to their brother six years ago. “What in the world?”

I pull the file closer. Salvatore Romero, who was only twenty-one at the time, fought for several long months to gain custody. How could a man so young be awarded guardianship? His actions were noble, but, my goodness, he was just a kid himself. I flip through the pages, thinking matters through. A court battle like this must have been costly, especially when represented by what appears to be private counsel. I skim down the page, searching for his occupation, assuming he must work as a plumber or in another trade that pays well. I pause when I see that he works in public relations . . . at night.

“This can’t be right,” I say out loud. I find a contact number and reach for my office phone to make a call until I catch sight of the long list of messages left by school staff.

My head falls into my hand. According to the email from Apollo’s homeroom teacher, if Apollo misses one more day, he’ll be automatically suspended.

I call the main office. “Hello, Mrs. Glenn,” I say when she answers. “This is Adrianna Daniels. I need to meet with Gianno Romero, a junior—”

“The junior class is on a field trip to the museum today, Miss Romero,” she interrupts. “Do you want his homeroom teacher’s voicemail?”

“No, thank you.”

“All right,” she answers and abruptly disconnects, having felt I wasted enough of her time.

Maybe it’s her “I could care less” response, or Tamira, or the countless other kids I’ve lost to the streets in the short time I’ve worked here. Whatever the reason, I’m not ready to put this case aside.

I pick up my phone and call Jalisa. There’s still an hour left in school and I’d blocked off the time to catch up on paperwork, but it will have to wait. “Hey,” I say when she answers. “You know how we’re allowed to do home visits when a case deeply warrants it?”

She pauses. “Yes?”

I glance back at the file. “Well, I have one that fits the bill . . .”

I drive my trusty white Volkswagen Beetle through one of the rougher sections of the city, but when my navigation system takes me past the area and into one of the more up and coming neighborhoods, I’m more than a little surprised. I find a spot across the street from the building when I realize the underground garage is strictly reserved for its residents.

Perhaps it’s better. It might be a nice neighborhood, but I avoid garages at all costs. I make my way quickly across the street, shuddering when the brisk air smacks against my legs and billows my skirt. I stop in front of the main door. Unlike the other mailboxes, the Romero residence isn’t marked by a name. But I have the apartment number and that’s all I need. That, and access to the lobby, which I quickly gain when an older woman slips out.

The building can’t be more than a few years old, something I find confusing. If Mr. Romero can afford something this upscale, I don’t understand why he isn’t more invested in his brothers’ futures.

I tried calling him to warn him that I was stopping by, only to hear a deep male voice on the voicemail say, “You know what to do,” followed by a beep. The blatant arrogance in his tone shocked me and left me with an impression that this so-called guardian is nothing more than a thug. But given where he and the boys live, I can only determine he’s too caught up in himself to worry about those who clearly need him as a role model.

I slip out of the elevator and hurry to apartment 4B, stopping only to text Jalisa and let her know I arrived. I take a breath before knocking, reminding myself I’m a strong, educated woman despite my young age, and that there’s no reason to be intimidated. When only silence greets me, I tell myself I can’t just give up. This boy needs me, so I knock again. By my third knock, I’ll admit, I’m discouraged. How can I help Apollo if his one parental influence is constantly unavailable? I knock again, this time harder. If this Salvatore guy is truly a PR rep who works evenings, he should be home?

The door swings open. “What the fuck?”

My eyes widen at the bulk of muscle standing at the door. This man is at least six-two, shaved head, wearing black boxers that fall slightly below the “V” at his waist, exposing a set of abs hard enough to grind diamonds, and arms and legs that belong on a seasoned wrestler.

Now would be a good time for that confident young woman to make an appearance?the one who came here?the one whose jaw isn’t dangling to her toes?the one who no longer has glasses strong enough to see into orbit, or teeth so bucked they end in another zip code.

The man’s tight face and stance relax as he leans his shoulder against the door frame. His brown eyes rake the length of my body, the intensity in his stare forceful enough to tug off my clothes. It’s not until his attention returns to my face that I catch his approving nod and subtle smile. “Nice,” he murmurs.

My face heats, which I absolutely hate. My skin is so fair, there’s no masking the blush that follows. I lift my chin. “Shouldn’t you put on some clothes?” I ask, well aware my voice is shrill and quivering.

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