This was Sasha’s thing. On days he knew he was getting on a flight after practice, he would double back on his way out. Claimed he needed to see my face one more time before he left.
It didn’t matter that he’d only be gone overnight; I knew I would miss him, so the chance to kiss him one last time had excitement thrumming through my veins, and I raced toward the door.
Throwing it wide open, I teased, “Forget your keys, baby?”
But when I saw the man standing on the porch, my blood ran cold, and I stumbled back to put space between us—an instinct born from years of learning what a mistake it was to get within arm’s reach.
If I’d been looking for that other shoe to drop, I found it. It just rang my doorbell.
On some level, I’d always known my whereabouts wouldn’t remain a secret forever. This moment had been inevitable since the day I left Chicago.
Time’s up, Gemma.
I could barely hear my own voice over the buzzing in my ears. “Dad?”
The sneer on his face, as his eyes glittered with malicious intent, had me pulling my cardigan tighter to my chest, though the shiver that rolled down my spine had nothing to do with the January chill.
My father and his brother may have been identical twins, but the lives they led had altered their appearances enough that it was easy to tell them apart—even before only one of them remained alive.
Uncle Dominic favored double-breasted suits, giving off an old-school gangster vibe and commanding the authority that was his birthright. He was always well put together, never a single hair out of place. Dad, on the other hand, wore his once-black hair gone gray slicked back. The harsh lines on his weathered face were born from years of too much drinking, and his beer gut was showcased by the wife-beater stretched over it, tucked into trousers.
Their differences didn’t only extend to their looks. They were polar opposites when it came to temperament too.
Uncle Dom had been harsh but fair, earning the respect of not only his men but his sons. My father was often cruel, especially to the defiant daughter he’d always wished had been born a son.
I would give anything to have been born Dominic’s daughter instead of Dario’s. It might’ve spit me out into the same world, but my life would have been markedly different.
When I stood there mute—out of fear more than anything else—my father decided to speak first.
“Who knew opening your legs like a common street whore would be the thing that made you useful after all.”
His words were like a slap to the face, and I gasped, my hand rising to cup my cheek where I felt the phantom sting.
Stuffing both hands into his pockets, my father rocked back on his heels, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. “Daddy’s been looking for you for such a long time, Gemma. I’ve been so worried.” I fought the urge to vomit at his mocking tone. “So, imagine my surprise when I turn on my television at the end of the night to check on the final scores for the day, only to discover my sweet girl isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere or chained in a basement, cold and afraid, being held hostage by one of our enemies. No, she’s on national fucking television kissing goalies through plexiglass!”
His voice rose in volume, spitting those final words at me with so much venom that I flinched.
How could I have been so stupid? It was naïve to think that declining to wear Sasha’s jersey to the game would be enough to have me blending into the crowd.
Then there was the small part at the back of my brain trying to rationalize that there had been factors out of my control. If Sasha hadn’t scored that goal, the game wouldn’t have made national highlight reels, and I might’ve continued to fly under the radar, escaping detection.
None of that mattered now.
I’d gotten a year. A year in which I’d learned some hard lessons about the pitfalls of trust but also the beauty that could be found in it. A year in which I’d found a man who loved me and put my well-being above all others.
I couldn’t find it within me to be sorry. Not when I knew how incredible it felt to bask in the sun that was Sasha’s love.
The warmth from that light would have to sustain me as I descended back into darkness.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” my father began. “You’re going to convince lover boy to take a few games off.”
“Wh-why would I do that?” I cursed my voice for breaking.
“Because you owe me for not killing you the minute you came out of your mother’s cunt without a penis,” he spat.
A sick smile stretched his lips when I grasped the doorframe to remain upright.
Honestly, it was no small miracle he hadn’t attempted to end my life over the past thirty-seven years. And I was ashamed to admit that there had been days—days when the suffering became simply too much to bear—when I wished he’d had the balls to do it.
