Page 25 of Volatile Vice

What would it do to my family? Mom and Dad? To my brothers? To Robin?

Andto Vinnie?

I swallow. “I want to stay alive, Falcon. I didn’t fight this hard to die a young woman.”

“That’s exactly how I feel, Raven.” A small smile creeps across his lips. “You and I have something in common.”

“Yeah, our bone marrow.” I let out a nervous chuckle.

He laughs. “Yes, that. But also, we had part of our lives stolen. Now we’ve got them back, and it’s time to live. And not just for today either. Live for the next fifty years, Raven, because that’s how long we both have.”

8

VINNIE

I’ve created a new definition of nauseating awkwardness.

It’s sitting next to your grandfather in a huge-ass living room, across from the eleven-year-old girl you’re supposed to take as your wife seven years down the pike.

Declan McAllister sits next to his daughter, Belinda.

Belinda looks every bit the eleven-year-old girl. No signs of puberty yet. Just a little girl dressed in what can only be described as a pink party dress complete with ruffles and lace, white bobby socks, and black patent-leather Mary Janes.

All I can see is Savannah.

Savannah, who was ten years old when I left the country. She looked a lot like this little girl. No body shape yet, nothing to indicate she would one day be a woman.

Belinda sits with her hands in her lap, not looking at any of us, including her own father.

Grandfather and I are each nursing a bourbon. Declan drinks Irish whiskey. And Belinda?

A Shirley Temple.

Jesus Christ.

A Shirley fucking Temple.

Grandfather and Declan are discussing business. Nothing super detailed, of course. There’s a child present. Just a few odds and ends. I listen intently, acting as if I care.

I nod, give a grunt of approval every now and then.

When they’re finally finished, McAllister clears his throat. “We have a special treat for you, gentlemen. Belinda has just perfected the Chopin waltz in C-sharp minor. She would be honored to play for you.”

“Of course,” Grandfather says. “And we will be honored to hear it, won’t we Vincent?”

I force a smile. “Absolutely.”

Belinda rises from the loveseat where she sits next to her father and walks over to the black lacquer Steinway. She sits down on the bench daintily, and she closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she places her fingers on the keys and begins to play.

I don’t know anything about music, but her playing is excellent, to my ear at least. She’s playing from memory, as no music is sitting in front of her.

I’ve heard this piece before. I’m not sure where, maybe from a commercial. It’s in a minor key, so it has a certain somberness to it. But it still has the lilting three-quarter time of a waltz. Belinda’s fingers, perfectly curled, fly over the keys as she plays a series of runs up and down the scale. Then the music shifts to a more hopeful major key for an all-too-brief moment, before another series of runs brings us back to the dark theme where we started.

Just like this damned business I’ve gotten myself into. No matter how good things can get—and with Raven, things got pretty freaking good—I always end up in the dark tonality of my grandfather’s shadow. Never escaping. It’s like Chopin wrote my fucking life story.

When she’s finally finished, she closes her eyes for a moment and then lifts her fingers from the keys.

McAllister begins to clap, and Grandfather and I follow suit.

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