Page 2 of Hers to Control

Sure, he loved me in his own way my entire life. In a selfish kind of way. The kind of love that makes you fond of your childwithout motivating you to change your ways. To change your life for the better.

But he has never apologized.

Not once.

Not ever.

Not when I was given to a foster family at seven. Not when he was in jail for my high school graduation. Not even when he couldn’t refuse a job assigned to him by the mob when I was sick in the hospital at nineteen. “You’re an adult now,” he’d said. “You understand.”

And I had. By then, I’d long ago accepted that I couldn’t rely on my father for anything, even as I still held out hope each time. But never had I heard an apology for the things he’d put me through.

Until now.

Every muscle in my body is tense, knowing that he wouldn’t have said those words if there weren’t a very good reason for them. My father was callous with my emotions, but he wasn’t stupid. At least not stupid enough to think that his death would be a harder burden to carry than his constant ability to hurt and endanger me.

No, his apology had nothing to do with his own fear of being killed by the Russians. There was only one thing that would make him apologize. He knew he’d put me at risk for real this time. Not the kind that constantly hung over me as the only relative of a man dumb enough to rob the Russian mob. No, whatever he’d done this time meant he believed I would pay the price for it. He was sure of it in a way he’d never been before.

Closing my eyes, I suppress the rush of pain. I need my head clear to think. Except there really is only one thing left for me to do.

I lift my phone again and make a call. When Gianna answers, I don’t bother with a greeting. “I just got a call from Millhaven.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds frantic.

“Your father called you?” Gianna sounds surprised.

“Yeah. He said he’s sorry.” I blow out a breath of air, realizing the hand pressing my phone to my ear is shaking. “He’s never said that before.”

There is a moment of silence at the other end of the line, and I know Gianna is grasping the significance of that apology as quickly as I did. She’s from the same world, and it still amazes me we found each other. That I managed to find an actual friend after so many years of solitude.

“You’ve got to take off.” Gianna’s voice is urgent.

She knows, just as I do, but that doesn’t make the next words any easier. “I know. I’m calling to say goodbye.”

Alone again.Not that Gianna and I had the kind of friendship that involved girly sleepovers and shit like that. She’s heir to the Bruno syndicate and as badass as they come. But she was the first genuine friend I made in my life. And now I would lose that.

“Where are you right now?”

My best friend’s voice is uncompromising, and I know I need to ease her worries. It’s the one thing I can do for her. “It’s fine, Gianna. I’ll start over somewhere.”

Or die trying, but I don’t say that.

“The fuck you will. We’ll deal with this. It’s the Russians, right? Maybe we can figure out a deal through Mikhail.”

Her conviction in her tenuous alliance with Mikhail Tsepov makes me laugh. It’s not the funny kind of laughter, but the cynical kind. The one my father’s actions have taught me. “The man might be working with you right now because it serves his interest, but he’s still a god-damned Russian. I can’t trust him, and neither should you. He’s doing what he doesbecauseitserves his interest. The fact that you guys are having some fun between the sheets isn’t enough to bridge that gap.”

After a moment, Gianna agrees. “You’re right,” she says, her voice holding some emotion I can’t pinpoint through the phone. It makes me wish I could see her expression right now.

“Tell me where you are. I have another plan,” Gianna demands. “I’ll send you Eric. You need backup.”

I hesitate. I’ve seen Gianna’s cousin on a couple of occasions, but each time was brief and the guy hadn’t uttered a word beyond a curt greeting.

Gianna’s offer of help is genuine, I don’t doubt it, but she’s caught up in more shit than any sewage treatment plant could hold, and I’m not sure waiting for the bodyguard she wants to send is a good idea. Who knows how bad things are? How badly my dad screwed up?

That thought has me answering Gianna without wasting any more time. “I’m headed out of my apartment right now. I’ll go to the Union Station Bus Terminal. I think it’s best if I cross the border.”

I don’t lie to Gianna. I’ve spent my entire life lying and keeping people at bay. Our friendship is founded on the understanding that some things need to be left unsaid, but something in me wants Gianna to know my plan.

If there is anyone in this life whose opinion I’d heed, it’s hers, so I hold my breath as I wait for her answer.

Is my plan sound? Does she see a flaw in it?

---