Page 134 of Flawed

Dante interjects, "Everyone needs to calm down."

Angelo spins, warning, "Don't you dare try to make this not as big as it is."

Tristano claims, "I don't understand what the big deal is. Those motherfuckers all needed to die, especially after what they did to Pina. Why do you even fucking care?"

Tully fumes, "A bomb isn't a gunshot! You can't hide it! Who do you think the Feds are going to look at? We're going to be tied to those bombs."

"Who said that? I'm sure whoever did it knows how to cover their ass," Brody states.

Tully's rage grows. He jabs Brody in the chest. "It was you, wasn't it?"

Brody keeps his hardened stare, responding, "I only made an observation."

"Goddamnit!" Tully shouts.

The interrogation goes on for hours. Nobody accepts responsibility. Angelo and Tully finally dismiss all of us.

I leave and get in the Chevy. For the first time in months, I return to my penthouse.

I'm finally free. After all these decades, I'm finally free.

Once I'm in my penthouse, the shock continues to hit me. I gaze at the New York skyline, feeling like I might have a nervous breakdown.

My palms press against the glass, and I peer closer at the bustling city.

Where does my stellina live?

How do I find her?

With every breath of freedom I take, I make a new vow.

Iwillfind her.

Iwillearn her love and trust.

And I willnever againput anything above her.

24

Chanel

A Month Later

"Zara,we're going to be late," I call out, shoving my earring into my lobe.

She replies, "I'm not ready yet."

I sigh and go into her bathroom. "Chop, chop! They won't wait for—" I freeze.

Zara's distressed expression grows. A semi-orange, way-too-dark foundation is smeared over her birthmark. She glances at me, snapping, "It looks horrible. I know."

I clear my throat and walk over to her. Since the day at the store, I've never asked her about her conversation with Pina. I was too embarrassed to admit I was eavesdropping. Plus, I avoid all discussions about her father if possible. I ask, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like? Making a mess," she frets, trying to rub it in.

I take the tube of foundation out of her hand. It's a horrible shade for her. It doesn't match her creamy skin, and I want to ask her how she picked it, but I decide it's best not to. I gently say, "Sweetheart, this shade will draw more attention to it."

Fiery green eyes glare at me. She admits, "It looked right in the store when I dabbed it on my hand."

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