Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
I consider that and shake my head. “In some ways, yes, but in most ways, no.”
“Then you’re more like your American father, and all the pity for it.” She looks at Peter. “We have work to discuss.”
“I won’t be dismissed.” Anger bubbles up in my guts. “I’ve been through hell lately and I came all this way—”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, you came all this way for me? Casse-toi, little girl, I did not ask for that, and I think you are a liar. You think I don’t know about you? About what happened with the Russians? But more important than that, what happened with the money?”
I sit back in my chair and glance at Peter. “I don’t know what you mean about the money.”
“Your parents, our mother, left you a fat wad of cash. You think I haven’t heard? You think I haven’t gotten questions from my employers about perhaps I could get some of that money, since I am also the great Eve Courbet’s daughter and all? But no, that money is yours and yours alone. Don’t make me have to keep saying it. Go fuck off and let us do business.”
Peter says, “Adrienne.”
I glare at him. “I don’t need to hear it from you.”
“She’s right. We need to talk business and you’re in the way.”
I take a slow breath. I feel like this is spiraling out of my control but Peter’s right, I can’t sit here and listen to them talk about their criminal enterprises without compromising myself. And besides, I doubt Reina would let me stay even if that’s what I wanted.
“Take my email,” I say and hurriedly scribble it down on a napkin. “I know it’s silly—”
“We can be Facebook friends. Maybe you can like my cat pictures.” Reina doesn’t take it. “Go away, sister. Know when you aren’t wanted.”
I push my chair back, livid and embarrassed and hating everything, but I leave the email. Maybe she’ll use it and maybe she won’t. Peter looks sorry for me and I hate that too, like that bastard has any right to pity me? I shake my head and turn, trembling too much, too close to tears to do anything but storm off like a little girl. As soon as I’m outside, I stand on the sidewalk and gulp down air, feeling like a moron, mortified beyond belief, and hating myself for walking away like that. But what was I supposed to do? Stay and let Reina keep abusing me?
All at once, I have to sit down as a wave of dizziness floods over me. I close my eyes and I’m back in that basement again, in the basement of that Russian bratva’s mansion with its many doors and its horrifying prison cells with the drains in the floor. The drains for blood and puke and whatever else bodies can drip. I’m back on the bed, curled up in a ball, beaten within an inch of my life, aching all over, spitting blood from a wobbly tooth, and wanting to die, practically begging God to come down and kill me then and there. It was the weakest I’ve ever been, utterly vulnerable, totally pathetic, at the mercy of those people all because I couldn’t do anything to defend myself, and Reina makes me feel that way. Maybe not as badly, but like I’m so weak I couldn’t lift my hands to defend myself even if she came at me with a knife.
I hate this feeling. I hug myself tightly, loathing myself for having it. Why do I keep letting this happen, over and over again? Why am I so weak and defenseless? It takes me a few minutes to calm down, and a waitress puts a coffee and a pastry in front of me with a sad little smile. When I try to give her money, she shakes her head and disappears back inside.
Even strangers think I’m pitiful.
Peter’s inside for around an hour. He comes back out and squints at the sky then looks down at me where I’m sitting in front of the empty coffee cup and the pastry crumbles. He nods once. “You’re still here.” He sounds surprised.
“Where would I go?”
“I don’t know. I half expected you to run off.”
I stand up. “Where’s my sister?”
“Went out the back. I think she’s avoiding you.”
“Is she always that horrible?”
He doesn’t answer right away and starts to walk. I have to hurry to keep up, but eventually, he glances at me with a strange frown. “Family is complicated,” he says. I snort and don’t reply. He’s right—family is complicated. It’s a cliché, but it’s one of the true clichés. “And I did try to warn you.”
“I didn’t think she’d hate me so much. I didn’t expect a warm welcome, but I also didn’t expect that.”
“Family is particularly good at hating each other. Nothing hurts like family.” He doesn’t look at me as he takes out his phone. “I’ll call us a car. You should pack when we get back to the apartment.”