Page 12 of Brutal Legacy

“That’s undeniable, but there’s something not quite right about the waist.”

I reached for my measuring tape, and she stuck a hand up in front of me.

“Halt! It’s nearly midnight, and you promised me drinks tonight. We are going out. I’ve been your mannequin for three hours. I’ve earned my fifteen-dollar cocktail.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “Fifteen dollars? If you want to drink branded spirits, then we are going to the Weaver.”

Erica huffed. “Great, so you can buy me a free drink? There’s never anyone cute there.”

“Then statistically, it’s due for a visit from a hottie.” I grinned at her and tidied up. My tiny apartment was hardly big enough for dressmaking. The only spot was between the refrigerator and the sitting room sofa. It made cleanup easy.

I stabbed my last pin back into the pincushion on my wrist and tugged it off. My apartment was groaning under the weight of the extra work I’d brought home from the dressmaking shop I worked at, so I had to keep everything tidy and in its place, or I’d disappear under bolts of fabrics and jeans needing hemmed. I should have been trying to catch up on my work — there was always an endless amount of tailoring needing done — but it was the weekend, and I’d wanted to work on my passion project for one evening. I’d have to make up for it tomorrow.

I reached for my measuring tape. “Come on, let’s go, or if you’ve changed your mind, we could redo the entire hem—” I started.

“I’m going!” Erica blurted and tried to take the dress off, letting out a short scream.

“Watch the pins!”

Ten minutes later, we were both dressed, my design on a hanger, dangling on a clothes rack, and I was wrestling with my front door lock. The damn thing always jammed.

“You need a new door.” Erica watched me critically.

“I’ve got it, it just needs to be jiggled the right way,” I said, trying my damnedest to make the damn thing turn.Come on, don’t embarrass me now.

“You need a new apartment. You can’t stay here for long. It’s a miracle you haven’t been mugged or robbed yet.” Erica peered down the stairs like the building was the ninth circle of Hell. Clearly, she didn’t know about the damn loan shark who came sniffing around looking for repayment of my late husband’s debts every month, and it was going to stay that way. The only person more broke than me was Erica, and knowing her, she’d try and help, putting herself last.

“To be fair, I have nothing to steal, so more fool them. Anyway, my lock might be a difficult little bitch sometimes, but she’s mine and she doesn’t let just anyone in.”

Erica narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you talking about yourself or the lock?”

“Fuck off.” I grinned at her and turned the key triumphantly. “See! Easy,” I forced the pant from my voice.

“Whatever,” Erica said and headed down the stairs.

I followed, taking a step and pulling my vibrating phone out of my jacket. It was a message. In Italian.

I dragged my thoughts away from the doom spiral before it began. Step one to recovery was to recognize the thought patterns that marked the beginning of an emotional deep dive.Then, try to stop yourself from plummeting. I was better at that when I had someone else to focus on.

I paused on the stairs and read. I was embarrassed to admit my mother tongue was rusty. I’d been living in America for fourteen years.

A deep chill spread through my limbs, and the hand holding my cell went numb. I didn’t need to refresh my Italian to understand the message.

Mrs. Conti, I am a lawyer representing your father. I need to speak with you urgently. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. I am awaiting your call.

The first ruleof continuing to live when your heart has been broken into a million pieces is not to think of the past. Draw a line through it. Stay away from thinking about things associated with it. Push it all away. That was the reason why I hadn’t seen or spoken to my father in over ten years. He reminded me too much of the worst day of my life. In the beginning, I’d sent him updates on my life, entirely false, pretty, rosy images… to keep him and his concern away. Over time, even that had stopped. It hurt too much.

To my father, my life was a carefully curated feed of happy photos and cheerful memes. A lot of people scorned social media for setting unrealistic expectations for others, but sometimes, that was what I valued the most about it.

Why should I have to bare my soul, and every excruciating disappointment and stress in my worthless existence, to curious outsiders? I didn’t. I could hide behind the perfect shot and a holiday card written in a cheerful tone. Sometimes, the fact that no one else knew how low I’d fallen was the only thing that kept me going. Even after all this time, I still had my pride. I didn’t have much else to my name, so I figured I should be grateful.

Why was a lawyer contacting me about my father? Had he died?

“What’s up anyway? Since we left your place, you’ve moped like your cat died. Cheer the fuck up!” Erica demanded.

I blinked at her. My mind was far, far away from the dive bar we were sitting in.

In my mind, I was thousands of miles away, in a small town, overlooking a different sea, young and naive… and about to be irreparably shattered.

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