three new sons—one to replace yer namesake, one for the American, and one for me? Wit son? Huh? All yer boys, three of them, or the whole lot of ‘em are bairns, aye?”
Big Brody shouts, “Get out!”
I glance back. My husband fists a bottle of whiskey, downing the venom like water. “Nae, Da. I’m staying, love me a good story.” He places his boots on the table, legs locked about the ankle.
Lips trembling, I sit straight forward. “Please, just tell me what you know, Big Brody.”
The muscles in the older man’s jaw constrict. He softens his tone. “Chevelle, do ya mind a man name, Fausto DeCastillo?”
Uncle Fausto? “Yes, I remember him. I thought he’d take me, ahem, instead of my adoptive mother.”
“Adoptive. . . .” Leith’s voice breaks into fragments of quiet laughter. He swigs more alcohol. “That’s another thing, Chevelle’s a scary one. Angry at the arsehole who showed her nothing but love and forgive—”
“Shut up!” I’ve had about as much as I can take from Leith.
“Nae. The bitch who adopted ye could be deid. But ye forgive the wrong feckers.” Slowly, he drunkenly spews venom. “I’d place my hands around her neck, like so―” Now, he’s just being a dick.
“Aye, and choke the lass,” his father rushes, annoyed. “Leith, mind yer manners if ye have any love for yer mam!”
“I do.”
Big Brody’s fingers curl under. His chest expands, then compresses a few beats. “Fausto grew up with yer da. They did everything but pass the bar exam together. Fausto attended a shitty law school while yer da graduated from a prestigious university.”
A fond memory creeps into my mind. Uncle Fausto was always coming around. Like Mia demanded presents from her new aunties, I always expected and received gifts from Uncle Fausto.
“Fausto made a friend in the Roman family. Then he got unlucky, was about to do hard time. Went to yer da, a prominent do-right attorney who worked his way up at Levine & Sons Law Firm—the best of the best. But even while working for Levine, yer da took the cases for blue-collared workers. It led to some big money. Pissed off gentrification owners.”
“I remember.” I nod, still too numb to appreciate my father’s legacy.
“When Fausto went to him for legal aid, yer da said he wasn’t a criminal attorney. But even if he were, he wouldn’t touch a feck up like that.”
“Hmmm,” I reply.
“Fausto got off somehow. He was still yer da’s friend.”
“Sure. My father was always someone’s friend,” I mutter, recalling one hand after the other, palm empty but opened wide for the fruits of Dad’s labor.
“Fausto became jealous. He went back to the Romans and made like yer da was speaking to the DA against him.”
I gasp.
“The night they were murdered. Someone else was there.”
“Was it them? Did the Romans . . .” I stutter. “What do we do about them?”
“Them?” He gives a pointed look. “Nothing. Him. We kill him.”
“But he—”
“Chevelle,” Big Brody begins. “Nae Roman was at the house when yer parents were murdered. Additionally, Frank Roman himself said he couldn’t stand Fausto, but the little shite married into the family. Fausto’s a widower. Frank only consented to Fausto’s request the other day out of respect for his departed cousin.”
Fury tightens my chest. “And La—that lady who raised me?”
“Overdosed, sweetheart. It was she and Fausto who planned and executed the entire plan of revenge on yer da. If she were alive, I would have—”
“Then only Fausto.” My words fly out, echoing in my own ears. “What about my dad’s business. He was a good lawyer. He helped people?”
“Aye. Lots of people. He was a good man, Chevelle. That woman lied to you.”
I pull in air and hold it. My every action has been contrary to the bull I’ve preached all my life. I blamed Dad for everything. I placed him in a box, craving any negative thought that could help me hate him more, which was a feat all on its own. I thought the worst of him. I thought the worst of myself, of my DNA.
I stand from the chair, too energized to stay put. “But those fucks shot at my daughter—your granddaughter—all of your family!”
Big Brody holds up a hand. “Our family, Chevelle. Ye’re a member of this clan whether ye’re feeling up to it today or not. We’d take a bullet for ya, sweetheart.”
Literally. I was their target. If not for Erika, I’d be dead.
“Leith!” Big Brody’s anger resonates in his voice.