Page 14 of Assassin's Obsession

"Aren't you a little old to be leaving your stuff lying around?" Cookie snarks.

Knowing that as the older sister, it's my job to set a good example, I stifle a tired sigh. "Yeah, I am."

Grabbing the backpack, I trudge to the bedroom we share to hang it on the hook on my side of the room. And then I just plop down to sit on the edge of my bed, letting my body and mind decompress from what happened tonight.

I've been running on nerve driven autopilot since Angelo dismissed me. When I left, I didn't care if he squared things with Ugo, or not. I couldn't stay after what that lech tried to do.

I know I'm lucky that this kind of thing doesn't happen more often, but every time it does, I question my life choices. I know we need the money I make at Pitiful Princess. There's no other job I can get that will pay me nearly as much.

Despite my hands off rules, I'm one of the top earning dancers. Maybe because of it. Men always want what they can't have.

So do women, I guess. I sure wish I could quit and find a job teaching in a community program, or something. But that's just a pipe dream.

One reality ground into dust a long time ago.

Dancing is pure joy for me. But I cannot make enough working at a dance studio to support my foster mom and sister.

My path is set, whether I like it or not, but Cookie's isn't.

Diamond Miller, aka Cookie, and I don't share a drop of DNA. What we do share is a foster mom who loves us like we are her own. The hub of our three-person family, Mira Czabok, took Cookie in first. My sister's birth mom died just like mine, but unlike me, Cookie was only a year old at the time and was placed immediately with our mom.

Cookie's birth mom and Mira had been friends. They'd prepared for what would happen when Ms. Miller died. Because money has always been tight for mom and it wasn't any better for Cookie's biological mom, the two women worked with social services to get mom approved for fostering.

Mrs. Miller wrote a letter of intent to designate mom as Cookie's guardian after her death, but didn't name her that in a will. With all of Mrs. Miller's family still living in Nigeria and her dead husband having no family at all, Cookie's social worker was more than willing to deal with the red tape to place my sister in mom's home.

She was, and still is, one of the good ones. This allows Cookie to get medical and dental insurance through the state, like I did when I was in the system.

My mom was more of a dreamer than Mrs. Miller. Bonbon was a dancer like me, but unlike me, she offered extracurriculars. I guess she was one of my sperm donor's favorites. She thought when she got pregnant, he would divorce the wife he didn't love and marry her. But that's not how Stefano Bianchi works.

He's a traditional mafioso through-and-through. He doesn't believe in divorce and he already had two sons. He had no interest in claiming me.

Mom loved me. I know that. But unfortunately, she was still fantasizing a version of my sperm donor where he played the hero when she died. She told me he'd come for me. That he'd promised to take care of me.

That didn't happen. Within hours of her death, a full-fledged ward of the state, I was placed in a group home. The sperm donor didn't even come to her funeral, much less make arrangements for the daughter he'd never once acknowledged.

Things got ugly in my last foster home and that's when I ended up with mom as a temporary emergency placement that turned permanent.

Mira Czabok might have debilitating arthritis that stops her from working fulltime, but she's fierce. She made sure I stayed just like she made sure Cookie was never moved to a different placement. Mira studied the ins and out of the social services system so intently, she knew more than the case worker who was supposed to be my advocate.

Which is why I will always take care of her, just like she took care of me. I aged out of care a long time ago, but mom never made me leave. She says I'm her kid.

She would've adopted me but didn't have the money for the paperwork and the lawyer. She's my mom no matter what the documents say. And my sister is more my sister than my brothers by blood.

They'll never acknowledge me any more than our father has. My last name is Brigliano not Bianchi and that's the way it will always be.

Pushing away thoughts of the past both distant and recent, I toe off my shoes and change my clothes. The thin tank top and sleep shorts I put on are more comfortable than the hoodie and baggy jeans I wear as a uniform to ride the subway.

The shorts have been washed so many times they're bordering on threadbare and super soft. Perfect.

When I come back out to the living room, mom and Cookie are once again engrossed in the movie.

Relieved I don't have to talk right now, I settle on the sofa beside my sister and steal the popcorn bowl from her lap.

Instead of complaining, Cookie gives me a guilty look. "Sorry I gave you crap about leaving your backpack on the floor."

Tugging on one of Cookie's many braids, I say, "Don't sweat it kid. You were right. Leaving stuff on the floor only makes it harder for mom to get around when she has to use her chair."

"Yeah, but I could have got it for you."

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