Page 82 of The Shadows We Keep

“I was sorry to hear about your mother’s passing. I know it was a long time ago, but it was an immense shock to me.” My jaw drops. He talks as if we’re old friends sitting down to catch up. I don’t know how to respond. My brain is shell-shocked from the realization there’s someone else in the world that knew her, knew them. It somehow makes me feel less alone.

“It was terrible,” I stutter, not wanting to relive that day again for the second time in as many days.

It finally dawns on me that if he knew my father, he might know if he’s still alive. It’s likely, given how young my mom had me. But you could say the same thing about her. There’s no reason a woman in her thirties shouldn’t be alive. Unless something unthinkable happens.

“My father,” I watch as his whole body stiffens against the desk, but his chin drops guiding me to continue with my question, “do you still keep in contact with him?” I ask, almost desperately. I’m not sure why, I never had a desire before today to know him. He’d always been this illusive creature. A fairytale I used to tell myself when life got too hard. That maybe one day, he’d come find me while I was walking the streets or staying in sketchy apartments to have a roof over my head. But then the years passed by, and he never came. So, I stopped dreaming. And eventually stopped thinking about him altogether.

“Yes.” He stops, gauging the words on his tongue. “We grew up together. Your mother might’ve been an Irish princess, but your father and I were cut from the same cloth, practically inseparable.”

“What does any of that mean?” I pry.

“She didn’t tell you anything, did she?” His eyes hold a shred of understanding, but his fingers wrapped around the edge of the desk turn white. “I guess after the trauma she faced that day from handing over your sister, I can’t really blame her.”

My eyes widen in shock.

He knows about Alina too? Who is this man?

“How do you know about her?”

“I was there the day you both were born. It was a chaotic morning.” He stalls, his eyes locking in on something across the room. After enduring the stilted silence, my curiosity gets the best of me. I shift on the couch, turning to find where his attention has disappeared to. A small silver frame sits on a bookshelf, a fuzzy, faded picture of a young girl and a single baby in her arms fills the frame. I gasp in recognition. She’s young, but my mother’s strong features peek through, even if the bright blonde hair I was used to is dark like mine in the photo. There’s no doubt it’s her.

“Why do you have that?” I ask accusatorially.

He doesn’t answer me but starts off again where he left off, “We’d been in class. Your mom spent eight months hiding her pregnancy. Not only from the staff, but from all our friends and her family, the only person who knew was my uncle. If her father had known, he’d have shipped her off to live with his family back in Ireland. I remember the day she found out. She came stomping over from the girl’s bathroom, eyes rimmed red, cheeks to match. Her porcelain skin had no way of masking the emotions she was battling. But when she walked up to your father, there was a defiant gleam in her eyes. I saw the same thing when I walked into this room from you. You have her eyes.” He pauses, taking me in from head to toe. A sad smile donning his face.

“She stepped up to your father ignoring the busy hall and told him right there. It’d taken a moment for the news to sink in, but he didn’t believe her. Claimed she was lying to trap him, but that was a stupid thing to accuse her of. What fifteen-year-old wants to be pregnant, especially one from a family like hers. Not only that, being pregnant withhisbaby would have been the worst part for her father. His little Irish princess, defiled by some Italian scum and not just any Italian prick, no. The heir, being groomed to take over the family business.”

This is too much.

My mind whirls as the information slowly processes, forming around the memories I had of her. I knew she was young when she’d had us, but that didn’t really sink in until I was older. Then I could grasp why our lives seemed so different when I was little.

“Wait—”He can’t be serious.“You’re telling me my parent’s families were involved with the New York crime families?” I stare at him in horror.

This can’t be happening.

“Not involved with,mio cuore,they we’re the heads of the families.”

“Why are you telling me this? Who are you?” I ask again for what feels like the hundredth time. This feels like extremely dangerous information to know. The type of information where it doesn’t matter if you know because you won’t be alive to tell anyone about it.

I jolt to my feet. “Listen, I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know anything about my parents or their families.” Maybe I’m on the right track. Is he planning to use me to get to them, to use me for ransom? Why would they care? They don’t even know me. What’s a blood relation when you never knew they existed?

“Sit, Keira,” he says calmly, but there’s a tone of authority I have a feeling he’s used to having obeyed.

“I think I’ll stand,” I tell him, folding my arms over my chest.

His lips twitch and his mop of dark hair shakes ever so slightly as his head shifts back and forth. “Just like your mother,” he whispers under his breath, but I catch it anyway. “Fine, have it your way.” A loud buzz fills the room, pulling his attention to the intercom on the wall by the door. He moves swiftly across the room, pushing a small button before speaking.

“Yes.”

“Sir, we need to show you something.” The speaker crackles loudly into the intimate space.

“Right now?” he asks irritated.

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you at security.”

He turns, taking me in one last time before heading through the door. The lock clicks into place on the other side, and my body automatically collapses onto the sofa behind me. Self-preservation is an interesting trait. You can sense it take over your body and flip a switch in your brain. It tells you to push through emotions, shove them to the side, lock them down and move forward. To ignore societal decorum and respect, to put yourself first and get yourself to safety. The funny thing is, when you’ve spent almost your entire life battling your fight-or-flight responses, you become desensitized in genuinely alarming circumstances like this.

---