Page 4 of Shield and Savior

Housework and cat duty. Figures. Alana is my boss, my emergency contact, and my roommate. She’s saved my life countless times. I can’t say no to her. Not with chores, and not with this Four Families job.

It looks like I’m a babysitter to the mob for the foreseeable future. But at least I’ll get steak for dinner.

ChapterTwo

Izzy

My brother Donnie lays on my couch. No, that’s not correct. His feet are thrown up on the back of my couch, his nasty socks pressed against my new wall, leaving toe prints. I got here a few hours ago, and he’s already screwing it up. He scratches his belly under his T-shirt, and his track pants make a swishing sound as he shifts to get comfortable. “Your couch sucks.”

“That’s because you’re sitting on it wrong,” I say as I open another box. Sweatshirts and tiny football jerseys. Not my stuff.

My living room looks like a demo crew imploded a box fort. I should’ve done a better job labeling everything, but I was rushing to get myself and Drew out of there. Most of my stuff is still en route or in storage. Not sure whose guys they were, but someone came in and packed while I was at a Holiday Inn off of I-95 in North Carolina.

My cousin Joey crosses his arms. He always looks like he just walked into someone else’s fart cloud and is trying to protect their dignity by not reacting to it, but doing a piss-poor job. Even back when we were kids, my brother Donnie was the fuckup, and Joey was the realist. I was the future, until I became the fuckup.

My brother and cousin work with my dad in the family business. They might be hard-ass criminals ready to throw hands whenever, but I worked the late shift at a Waffle House, so we all know who’s the better fighter.

Joey punches Donnie in the shoulder. “Put your feet down, you animal.”

Donnie presses his feet against the wall and slides them down, making a squeaking sound. Gross, how sweaty are his feet?

I push the box with my foot, tweaking my ankle and causing a chain reaction of jerking and wincing as my ribs choose to remind me of their injuries. I must’ve made a groan because Joey rushes to my side. “See Izzy, you should’ve let us help you from the beginning.”

I squirm out of his grasp. “I don’t need your help. I need my kid to get his clothes.” Calling over my shoulder, “Drew, found your football stuff,” I cross my arms, discreetly hugging my ribs, and wait.

My little man walks out of his bedroom with an action figure in his hand, drops his head back, and whines, “Do I have to play football here?” He never liked football. Tackling and getting hurt isn’t his thing.

“Already signed you up for basketball.” We lost the hoop in the parking lot back home. The least I could do was make sure he could play here. He smiles as he bends over and pushes the box with all his weight.

Joey calls out, “Kiddo, shut your door. I’ve got to talk to your mom.”

Drew worships Joey like he is the sun and Spiderman wrapped in one. “Wanna see my room when I’m done getting it ready?”

“Absolutely.” Joey legit smiles. Once we hear the door latch, he turns to me. “I know you don’t like this.”

“Understatement of the year,” I say while bending over to go through another box. This one jiggles and clangs. “Move this into the kitchen.” Joey peers into it, at his perfectly pressed suit—not quite Armani, but custom tailored—and back at me.

I raise an eyebrow. “Try me, bro.” He sighs and heaves the box.

Placing the box on the counter, he starts unpacking it. “Listen, he’s dangerous.” Joey refuses to say my ex’s name. Like it gives him more power, like an orc or a wizard. Or it could be he’s been calling him Shithead for so long, he may have completely forgotten it.

I know my ex is a threat—my bruised ribs support that thesis. My mantra repeats. “I can handle it myself.”

Joey snorts as he stacks the plates I got from Target when I moved out on my own. There are only four plates because Drew’s were all plastic with cartoons on them and I wanted something to make me feel like an adult. Target dishware was the only thing in my budget, and since I didn’t have many friends, I only needed one plate. Having four meant I didn’t need to do dishes often.

“You’ve been on your own for so long, you don’t even remember what help feels like.” His eyes flash a softness he only shows to me, and only when it’s a quiet moment.

The action is sweet, and I appreciate it, but it goes against everything I believe in. “I don’t want this.” I spent the last ten years on my own and free. Now I’m trapped in my family’s prison, while they wrap it with good intentions.

“There are these things called conversations,” Donnie starts to say as he swings his leg off my couch. “If you tell us what you want, spoiler alert, we willknowwhat you want.” My brother sits up for a second, rubs his forehead, and flops back down. “That’s the beauty of conversations.”

Joey’s jaw locks as he closes his eyes to regroup. “I reached out to a friend.”

“What kind of friend?” My gut twists. All my family’s friends come at a cost, and not always cash.

Joey opens one of the cabinets and places my four adult plates on the bottom shelf. “She runs a security company, and she’s sending over her best guy.”

“A bodyguard? Are you kidding me?” The last thing I want, or need, is some beefed-up alpha-hole bossing me around. “I don’t like being told what to do.”

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