Page 16 of Brando

I turn around slowly to face Frank. There’s more of a distance between us since I started to walk away from him, but he might as well be in my face, in my space, breathing in the air that rushes from me, because I feel like I’m suffocating and my heart is about to stop.

“What did you just say?”

“You’re on the Cartel’s most wanted list.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Ain’t a damn gangster worth his weight doesn’t know what’s going on with you girls, Princess.”

And there he is. The smug bastard. The real Frank Falcone. I’m fifteen again and he’s suffocating me, taking everything from me. I’ve always known he was evil to some extent, but I couldn’t see just how toxic he was to my own health until I took a step away from him. Hindsight. Such a beautiful, wonderful, fucked up thing, if you ask me.

“And this concerns you how?” I ask.

“I care about you, Mia. I always have. I’m going to make sure you get your sisters back.”

I throw a look towards Uncle Mason, his hawkish eyes still plastered on us, then turn back to Frank.

“As you can see, I have all the help I need.”

He takes a step forward, regards me with a hard glint in his eyes. A look I know well. I trusted this man at one point in my life. But I know better than to trust him now.

“Your uncle doesn’t have the connections I have, Mia. Only I can help you with this, and I will. All I ask in return is that you give me another chance.”

“Another chance at what?” I stammer. He has the gall to suggest that I would even give him the time of day.

“Us. Another chance at us.”

“He knows something;I can feel it in the marrow of my bones.”

We’re on our way to the safe house where Brando is waiting for us.

“What did he want?”

Uncle Mason turns to face me, anxiety blooming on his face.

“Nothing he’s going to get.”

“What did he say?”

“Will you stop with the 20 questions, already?”

I sigh and lean back in my seat. Mason is quiet for a moment, before he too relaxes into his seat.

“You need to trust Brando, Mia.”

“Do you trust him?”

I turn to look at him, take in the worry lines etched into his face. His concern for me is palpable. He forgets that I know how to use a gun. Which reminds me…

“I do.”

“Do you trust me?” I ask him.

“My faith in you has never come into question, Mia. You’ve done a damn good job of taking care of your family after your mother died. And your sisters – you tried your hardest to protect them…” he trails off.

“I need a gun,” I tell him.

“What in the ever-loving world for?” he screeches. He forgets that he’s the one that taught me how to hold a gun, and how to use it.

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