Page 22 of The Fox

“Are you going to make fun of me?” A smile breaks out across my face. The way she is looking up at me, her eyes full of hesitation and unease with the possibility of rejection.

“No. I will never make fun of you, baby.”

“This one.”

“So, you like dinosaurs, Amelia?”

“Who doesn’t like dinosaurs, Rhodes?” She playfully snaps back, running her tongue along her bottom lip before glancing back down. “I never was one for fairytales, anyway.” She leans back in, shrugging against my chest and I tighten my hold on her. Her skin is soft and I feel moisture hit my body as she silently weeps. My thumb runs against her arm, hopefully soothing Amelia. It is taking every fiber of restraint to not push her, asking for the reason she’s crying. I settle for holding her, being an anchor in the emotions she’s releasing.

My eyes dance around her home, taking in the little pieces of her. The narrowness of her handwriting, that grocery list posted to the fridge; the grey sweatshirt--well worn to the point of holes–thrown across the couch, shoes haphazardly laying against the door frame.

I’ll worship at her temple for all the ages if it means I get this softness.

CHAPTER 16

Amelia---Touchstones

AMELIA, AGE NINE

The rain hides the tears streaming down my face. It violently ricochets off the bronze casket currently draped in roses. Mama would have hated it. My skin crawls beneath the black lace of my sleeve. Papa had insisted on this dress, his desire to present me as a woman apparent. I’m just a little girl. His large hand grips my shoulder, squeezing harshly. A warning. Pulling my upper lip between my teeth, I pray for my tears to stop.

I am not allowed to grieve; the expectation to maintain decorum now falling to me.

I see Papa’s men walk toward us, puddles splashing onto their pant legs as they move. Each one shielded by dark sunglasses. It is not sunny. I am the only one without a veil to hide my true emotions. Papa leaves me, meeting the men at his command. His absence is a slap to my face, a reminder of what I mean to him—what I am to him. Santiago offers me a small smile as Parker comes to stand with me. Her hand brushes mine in a silent offering of support. If anyone here understands the undertow I’m currently fighting, it is her. Nikolai stands across the cemetery, his body harsher than the stone that will mark Mama’s grave. I see his father nod at Papa, a silent acknowledgement between families.

I watch the grounds staff lower her casket beneath the dirt. My feet refuse to move from this hallowed spot. I lift my gaze, finding Papa’s back turned to me, his focus on business at hand. Parker pulls me into her side, hiding the sobs wrecking my body. We aren’t particularly close but it doesn’t matter. I pull the sleeves of my coat over my hands, wiping my nose roughly.

“I’m sorry, Amelia.” Her voice is soft. Soothing. She is the first person to speak to me this way, the only person to acknowledge my loss.

“Ames,” I whisper into her jacket, the plaid fabric comforting in a way my mama was. “She called me Ames.” Parker’s grip tightens on my shoulder as she nods. I want this one last piece of my mama to live on…for someone else to call me what she once did.

Parker releases me, angling her body so that we are facing each other. Her green eyes are clouded with sadness. My pain is one she knows well; the sole bearer of her lineage, left in the pits of the devil’s playground.

She pins me, resolution in her features. “You and me, Ames.”

AMELIA, AGE SEVENTEEN

Darkness sweeps walls, the only source of light coming from a cracked door at the end of the hall. Papa had been angry at dinner, his body wound tighter than a snake coiled for attack, and I know something—no, someone—has earned his displeasure. I creep along the hardwoods, my feet soft against the dark grains. I’ve learned to hide, to make myself blend into shadow, as a way to survive the inevitable.

I can hear him, the way he growls skittering like shards of glass upon my skin. The conversation becomes clearer as I near the office, a slap causing my feet to still. I wait, keeping my eyes trained on the light streaming through the small gap, the anticipation of being found overwhelming me. Holding my breath, I hear the sliding of a chair. Papa orders someone to be restrained. I hear the sliding of a drawer, one I know is perpetually locked, filled with secrets I’ve not been deemed worthy to learn.

My feet shuffle slightly, moving me forward until I can peer into the room. There he sits, the king of all, his hands steepled as he rules with an iron fist. There is no room for mistakes, no margin of error in this life. You live and you die by the rituals. By traditions. By rules dictated and enacted by the generations before.

I see Rafe standing behind the wooden chair, restraining someone as Papa watches. I don’t care for Rafe. His beady gaze makes my skin crawl. I really hope Papa doesn’t make me marry him. I don’t know if I’d survive that, honestly.

My eyes dart to where my father sits, landing on the gun before him. My heart sinks with the realization of what I am about to be exposed to. His face is hardened, barely more than stone, and he slips a knife beside the gun.

Papa doesn’t give choices. His word is law and those who serve him bow at his feet. I can hear sputtering as Rafe shifts, revealing the body restrained. I don’t recognize the back of the man’s head, the salt and pepper melting into deep brown. Surely he is one of Papa’s soldiers, but what his name is, I couldn’t be certain. I watch as my father stands, rounding the desk, and stopping in front of the man. Turning slightly to grab the knife, Papa rests one hand on the soldier’s forearm. Whimpering begins to fill my ears as the blade closes in. I can hear Papa ask a simple question. All of Papa’s questions are simple. Either the answer pleases him…or it doesn’t.

Screams bounce off the walls as my father flays skin from muscle, each millimeter lifted resulting in agony. Papa doesn’t do anything quickly; every decision, every movement made is meticulous and calculated. He pauses, gently laying the piece of flesh in the man’s lap before leaning in, their noses touching. The soldier can barely utter a response, his head shaking and hips bucking in an effort to break the restrains placed on his body.

No one leaves Papa’s office if he doesn’t allow them to.

Minutes turn to hours, each breath I take more painstaking than the last. The whimpers have morphed to sobs, and the once whole man now sits broken and resigned to his fate. The head of the Conte Family is ruddied-faced, tendons popping from his neck as he erupts. Fuck.

Papa grips the soldier’s hair, yanking his head back and pushing the bloodied blade into his neck, making sure the pressure is firm against the man’s carotid artery. One misplaced shift, and the man will die. I press my hand to my lips, struggling to contain my gasp as tears run down my cheeks.

Turn it off, Amelia.

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