Page 80 of Vow of Vengeance

“Yes. Two. Billy Brooks, who fathered your brother. Half-brother, I guess you’d say, even though he’s your damn spitting image?—”

I stand there, absorbing her words and feeling dizzy. I have a brother. And he looks like me.

She tosses her stiff hair over her shoulder, and I tune back in as she says, “And we have my most recent marriage to a pawn shop owner named Falcon, which only lasted a little while. He has a daughter, Cleopatra, from a previous marriage, so you had a stepsister there for a moment, but you just missed her. They moved out on Thanksgiving.”

I quickly calculate, making sure I’ve got no responsibility to the girl, blood or otherwise.

The unlit cigarette is still between her fingers as she flips her hand through the air. “Just signed the divorce papers last month.”

“Better divorce than death,” I say. “I’m glad they both made it out alive.”

“Aren’t you funny? Yes, tragically, we lost your father, but both my current exes are alive and well.” She gives a dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately. There are bills to pay, and child support only goes so far for Blaze. Life insurance was such a nice chunk of change.”

I cringe. My heart squeezes, a pain zinging through my chest. I always did wonder if she killed my dad for the money. I guess I don’t have to wonder anymore.

There’s a glint in her eyes. A hardness there. An anger. For my father, or for me?

“You know I have a distasteful sense of humor,” she says. “I joke, but jokes don’t kill. I didn’t murder your father. I tried to tell you that, but you never believed me.”

“I honestly don’t know when you’re kidding. I think you killed him, then forced me to testify on your behalf. And now, after mentioning life insurance, something most people don’t joke about, you’ve got me thinking you did it all for money.” Poison drips from my words. “How much was Dad worth to you dead?”

“Sit,” she says, patting the open seat beside her.

I stay where I am, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I’m good standing.”

She briefly eyes me before changing the subject, “So, where have you been all these years? It’s like you fell off the face of the earth.”

I’m aware I sound like a petulant child. “Not like you were looking.”

She surprises me, saying, “I did. I even hired a private investigator to find you. He had no luck.”

She was looking for me.

My throat tightens. A bit of that childhood desperation to be loved sneaks up on me. No matter how old you get, it never goes away, does it?

I swallow it back down.

“Yeah. It’s been a minute,” I say.Don’t ask. Don’t be pathetic. Don’t ask.“So…” I clear my throat again. “You looked for me?”

“Yeah. No luck, though. Two-hundred dollars, and all he came up with was some cockamamie story about—get this—” She doesthat laugh again and flips her hair, but in its damaged state, it barely moves. “He gave me some story about you joining the mafia, of all things!”

“I moved to Italy,” I offer.

“Oh! That explains the tall tale. There was no way his cheap ass was going to make it across the world to track you down. I guess everyone stereotypes Italians as mafia—like they do us New Yorkers.” She laughs.

Having been part of a mafia in both places, I only shrug. “Why were you looking for me anyway?”

She shrugs. “Can’t a mom worry about her child?”

“I guess an old dog can learn new tricks.” Was that disrespectful?

“Ha! You call your mother a dog? I’ll match your saying with another one. Apples don’t fall far from the tree.” She stands, moving across the room to examine me. “You still have my nose and your father’s bad attitude.”

Wanting to move away, I hold my ground.

“You look the same.” Her gaze narrows. “A little older. Is that gray by your temple.”

She goes to reach for my face.

---