KEANE, page 23
He loved that his wife had started her own girls-based Institute for Better Boys spin-off in the wake of his dick move. But if one more of his business associates called him up whining about how they couldn’t buy their way in, Keane was going to lose it.
“If I’m going to fundraise for anything it will be another therapist with the waiting list we have. And what I’m saying is three is enough.”
“I mean, is it? I was talking to Mount Nik the other day, and he’s still holding out for four with his wife.”
“Well since Pavel’s adopted, she’s technically only given birth twice now. And we should probably have a discussion about you using your hockey hero as a family planning strategy.”
“Yeah, let’s do that right now,” he agreed. “While you’re riding my dick.”
She giggled when he dipped his head and started trailing kisses down her neck.
But then, just as it was about to get good again, there came a knock—on the suite’s outer door this time, along with the sound of their two-year-old, Benni, screaming bloody murder.
“Hello…Lena are you there?” Lena’s father called outside the door. “My granddaughter does not want the hairstyle I have made for her. She would like braids and barrettes instead, which I cannot do. You must help her with this.”
Lena and Keane exchanged an aggrieved look. As strict as Rajiv had reportedly been with Lena, he was a total fucking softie when it came to his granddaughter. It got to the point where they didn’t even bother to let him babysit on date nights anymore, because he constantly interrupted them with, “emergency” calls. Like when Benni wanted something he’d never heard of for dessert, or when he couldn’t figure out how to queue up her favorite program on “The Netflix.”
“Honey, you can either have braids and no barrettes or barrettes and ponytails. You can’t have both,” Lena called over Keane’s shoulder.
“Want bwaids and bawettes! Want bwaids and bawettes!” Benni screamed back like the monster she always turned into as soon as she came within a six-foot radius of her indulgent AF grandpa.
As if to prove Keane’s point, Rajiv called out. “Why can she not have both? This is not so big of an ask. Look at everything you do for Max. Really, it is such a little thing for her to ask.”
“Want bwaids and bawettes! Want bwaids and bawettes!” Benni screamed along with Raj’s call for justice like the world’s most high-pitched hype man.
On one hand, Keane supposed he should be grateful that Benni wasn’t refusing to wear dresses or begging to cut all her hair off like Lena had told him Max had started to do at this age. On the other hand… “You’re right. We should stop at three,” he conceded, laying his forehead on his wife’s shoulder.
“Yes, we should,” she agreed with a laughing smile, before calling out. “Both of you hold on. I need to take a shower. But then I’ll be right out.”
“Who’s idea was it to bring the whole family to Quebec?” she asked, when Benni and her senior citizen enforcer finally moved away from the door. “I could be back in Boston, kissing on our godson, instead of giving in to the demands of terrorists.”
Yeah, the baby Vihaan and Con had just adopted was pretty fucking adorable. But…“It’s the Pee Wee International Cup!” Keane pointed out. Obviously the Keane Academy 12U Hawks getting all the way to finals in the renowned cup tournament, made sharing a three-bedroom hotel suite with Grandpa Spoil-A-Lot and Max, who seemed incapable of doing anything for his little sister without being asked directly, worth it.
“I love you,” Lena said, instead of what she was probably really thinking.
Yeah, it took them a while to admit it to each other and themselves. But three years later, they dropped the L-word as easy as taking another breath.
“Love you, too,” he answered with another kiss. Letting her head for the shower instead of coaxing her back to bed.
But just as she was about to go into the bathroom the sound of a phone vibrating filled the room.
“Where’s that vibrating sound coming from?” Lena asked, throwing a confused look at the suite’s nightstands where both of their phones sat silent and charging on opposites sides of the bed.
At least their legitimate phones were still silent. Keane had a bad feeling about the gray phone sitting in the inside pocket of the peacoat he’d worn to last night’s game.
With a frown, Keane pulled the phone out of his coat and sure enough… “It’s a text. From Stone.”
“Stone?” she repeated. “The guy who came to our wedding, never smiled, and only talked to Rashid all night?”
“You remember,” Keane said, frowning even deeper as he read over the text.
“When I thanked him for coming, he shrugged and said, ‘Weddings and funerals. I always show up for the free alcohol.’ You kind of don’t forget a guy like that. How are he and Rashid friends again?”
“Rashid’s cousin’s best friend is cousins with him.”
“Oh Rashid…” Lena’s voice got quiet at the mention of Rashid, who’d lost his daughter and wife in a tragic accident shortly before their wedding. “Is Stone’s family from the United Arabian Kingdom, too?”
“Nanh, nothing like that,” Keane answered, his voice distant as he read and re-read the text. “You know, Luca Ferraro? Stone’s his enforcer.”
“Luca Ferraro, the mafia don?” Now Lena’s eyes widened. “Why would a mafia enforcer be texting you?”
Keane was confused about that his own self. “He needs me to come to North Carolina. Like, tomorrow.”
“What? Why?” Lena asked, her normally placid voice set to code-red alarm.
“To be his best man,” Keane answered, still frowning down at his phone.
“Oh,” Lena said, letting out a sigh of relief. Then: “Wait…, Stone’s getting married? To who?”
Oh my gosh! Thank you so, so much for reading this epic romance.
I couldn’t believe when Keane and Lena presented their story to me, in one insane blast the very first time I heard “Be Alright” by Dean Lewis on a random Amazon New Music list while cooking dinner. I don’t even remember what I made that night, but let me tell you, this story was the best gift my Echo Show has ever given me.
Max also has a special place in my heart. Parenting has become more and more complicated by the generation, and I’ve learned during my time as mother what a blessing a loving family can be. It was an honor and a privilege to give Max the family he will need to support him in his journey. I’m not much of a hockey fan myself, but I’m still cheering for Team KLM.
If you loved the story, and want others to find it, please do KLM the further boon of leaving a review on Amazon.
So Much Love,
Theodora Taylor
P.S. – Keep on reading for a preview of the next book in the Broken and Ruthless series, STONE: Her Ruthless Enforcer.
STONE: HER RUTHLESS ENFORCER
“Hey, Naima.”
I freeze, inside the empty rectangle of my doorless kitchen, a spike of fear replacing my early morning yawn.
There is a man sitting at my kitchen table. A total stranger I’ve never seen before. And, even scarier than that….
A gun rested on the otherwise empty kitchen table in front of him. Lethal and almost as menacing as the stranger’s non-smiling face.
And to think just a few moments ago, I’d been wondering if even a large cup of coffee would be enough to get me alert and out the door this morning.
I’m wide awake now, no coffee needed.
“Sit down, Naima,” the stranger says. He has a thick Jersey accent, but his voice lacks any emotion whatsoever. Neither do his cold black eyes. The single kitchen light I always leave on reflects off his completely shaven head. But other than that, he’s all shadow. And though he hasn’t touched the gun on the table, it feels like he’s pointing it straight at me.
I can only stand there, my body stuck in a rictus of previously unknown terror. What does he want? Why is he here?
The midnight black suit he’s wearing looks like it was specifically tailored to fit over his huge, hulking body. It has to have cost more than the entire monthly rent on this townhouse, which I used to share with my blind parents before they moved to the Dominican Republic to retire way more cheaply than they would have been able to here in New York. He’s dressed for business, but I’m a social worker, living paycheck to paycheck. I can barely afford rent now that I’m handling it alone, much less a suit anywhere close to the quality of the one he’s wearing. If he came here to rob me, he’s incredibly stupid.
And this stranger doesn’t strike me as stupid.
“Sit down,” he says again. “We can do this the easy way or the dead way.”
Both my body and mind scream in protest as I fight my primal flight instinct to do what he says. But this stranger doesn’t strike me as stupid…or flippant. He said he’d kill me if I don’t sit down, and I believe him. Eyeing him warily, I take a seat in the chair furthest away from him at the table.
The stranger is technically handsome with tanned skin I’m almost sure isn’t due to the summer sun but genetics. He has ebony eyes, and what I’m guessing would be black hair to match, if he hadn’t shaven his head bald. His coloring and Jersey accent put me in mind of my best friend Amber’s ex-husband, Luca.
The ex-husband who now heads the Ferraro Crime Family.
My heart ices over with a new layer of fear. Is this stranger related to my best friend’s crime boss ex-husband? He pronounced my name perfectly, which is unusual for a first meet. Usually people call me Nay-ma, Nay-ima, Nah-ima, Nancy—pretty much anything but the Nigh-eema, my parents intended when they named me after the social worker who helped them when they decided to start a family after losing their eyesight to early onset macular degeneration.
The fact that this guy knows how to say my name further convinces me that though Luca Ferraro isn’t currently in the room, he’s somehow behind this visit.
“What do you want?” I was going for a demanding tone, but the words come out a shaky question. Proving I’m not nearly as brave as Amber would have been if this happened to her. Unlike me, she doesn’t take ish from anybody—or use substitute words for shit. She even fought off a gun man last year when he tried to come after one of her clients.
But I can barely talk to the scary dude on the other side of the table, and I’m not at all confident I won’t pee my pants if he actually picks up that gun. For the first time, I wish I had actually finished those self-defense classes Amber encouraged me to take. At least then, I wouldn’t feel so weak right now, so totally at this stranger’s mercy.
“What do I want?” he repeats with a cold smile. “Just a little bit of conversation.”
His words might have reassured me if his smile got anywhere near his eyes. Or if he didn’t raise one large, beefy hand and place it on the gun, before adding, “About your bestie, Amber.”
“No. No, no way!” I answer immediately. “You might as well kill me, because I’m not telling you anything!”
“Alright then,” he answers, just as immediately. “Have it your way.”
He raises the gun.
“No, don’t—” I say, suddenly not feeling so brave.
But he squeezes the trigger anyway and the gun goes off with a loud BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
I sit up in bed, breathing hard as my alarm clock blares on my nightstand. Oh God…oh God, I’m dead!
It takes several seconds before the truth sinks in…that I’ve just woken up from a dream…a traumatic memory, of something that had happened nearly a year ago. And not at all exact. I hadn’t been brave that day. With a gun in the room, I’d done exactly as Stone said. Answered all of his questions, and even called Amber, so that she could walk straight into Luca Ferrarro’s perfectly laid trap.
I’d been so naïve back then. Kept thinking that the more I co-operated the more chance Amber and I would have of getting out of this alive. But a year later, shame washes over me, remembering how easily I’d rolled over for the granite-face stranger, who turned out to be Stone Ferraro, Luca’s cousin and the Ferraro family’s most ruthless enforcer.
I’m always encouraging self-compassion to my vision-impaired clients. Be gentle with yourself, I tell them. Don’t get too hung up on all your mistakes. Learn from them and let them—blah, blah, blah. As I climb out of bed this morning even more tired than when I went to sleep, I’ve got to admit, it’s hard as heck to practice what I preach.
The spray of water, scrubbing my skin especially hard with Dove Extra Moisturizing body wash isn’t nearly enough to make me feel clean, though. And I feel even more frustrated with myself when I climb out of the shower.
When will I stop having that nightmare? I wonder, as I push aside all my usual business casual to get to a black dress at the far end of the rack. Or get over what’s happened since waking up to find Stone at my kitchen table a year ago?
I blame it on the day as I pull on the black dress I bought when my parents’ original landlord died. That had been just three months, before I inadvertently pushed my then law school student best friend straight into the arms of a boy I thought was a fellow law student, and rich, generous, and outrageously handsome to boot.
“You’re so lucky,” I remember telling Amber, and I’d secretly wished I was beautiful like her. Beautiful enough to land a guy like that. I was a few years older than her. And I’d thought I was the wise one in our friendship back then. Ha. Stupid—that was all I’d been before Stone showed up at my kitchen table. Stupid and naïve.
Amber and I had made plans before that moment. She was pregnant—I’d thought by some anonymous sperm donor. We’d decided to raise her baby together, create a new family in the townhouse I could barely afford on my own. It was the perfect solution for my own boring and stale life…a dream come true.
Until Stone showed up and it all fell apart.
Memories of Amber and Luca’s rekindled romance mix with ones of my unexpected romance with Stone’s identical twin, Rock. He was supposed to make up for losing Amber and the baby to the ex-husband who turned out to be its real father. He almost did.
Until that, too, fell apart.
Stone had hated me, and I guess, what they say about twins are true. Eventually Rock decided to dump me on his brother’s advice. Then he died the very next day, without telling anyone that we were no longer a thing.
I zip up the dress I haven’t worn in several years and look at myself in the mirror on the back of my door. I was born in this house, a house without any full-length mirrors, and I can still remember how guilty I’d felt when I’d gone down to Target when I was fifteen to buy this one with my birthday money. Like it was a betrayal of my parents to add something only a sighted person would need to our domicile. Even now, with both my parents and the prospect of living with Amber long gone, it remains the only item specifically made for sighted people in the house.
However, it doesn’t show me what I want. Thanks to the thirty pounds I put on, as if trying to commemorate my crossover into my thirties, the dress is now way too tight, verging on lewd. I’ll have to grab a cardigan to button over it, so that people don’t think I’m trying to flash them at my dead ex-boyfriend’s funeral. My dark curls also aren’t playing along with my somber look. I was supposed to get a long-needed trim last week after my annual physical.
But the doctor’s news at that appointment had so stunned me that I never made it in. Now, here I am with flyaway curls and a split-ends problem that makes me wish my kinky haired Haitian mother and Dominican father had never met in that support group. My curls are the kind of frizzy, dry mess that would take at least an hour with a flat iron to fix.
But Rock’s funeral is in less than that. Sighing, I return to the town house’s bathroom to consult with the patron saint of bad hair days. St. Scünchi No Slip Grip headband goes over my hair, pulling the huge mess into a puff. I rub in a cheap CC cream that evens out my smoky brown complexion, brush on some mascara, grab the cardigan and try again with the mirror.
A little better, I decide, but not putting in much effort feels strange, considering I used to spend hours getting ready for my daily mandated dates with Rock. He was my first and maybe last chance at real romance, and I wouldn’t have even dreamed of opening the door to him in anything less than full hair and make-up…all the way up until he dumped me.
But Rock’s dead now. My okayest will have to do.
My phone’s ding interrupts my second outfit check.
It’s a text message from Aunt Mari, with a suggestion for a two-bedroom apartment in Charlotte, along with another admonishment about how I know I could just stay with my cousin Yara and her three kids. She could really use the help, since her husband’s been deployed again and that oldest daughter of hers isn’t no kind of help…
But I’m out of the helping too much business for good. I decided that after Rock’s death. So, I ignore that invite to serve as my cousin’s nanny and tap on the apartment link. Holy macaroni, is that really the price of a one-bedroom? I’m paying twice that for our place in Jackson Heights—
No, not our place. My place, I remind myself. Just my place now.
I’ve got to start remembering that.
God, I don’t want to go to this funeral. But after typing a quick note thanks to Aunt Mari, I order a Lyft anyway and even pay the extra so that I don’t have to share it.
The funeral is just as I’d expect it to be. Long and super Catholic. As the priest drones on about tragedy and lives cut short, I remember Rock’s and my first date. He’d told me stories about all the stuff he used to do to keep from falling asleep during Mass. Shouting Amen after every hymn, writing computer code by hand on the back of the offering card, and even shoplifting some smelling salts from the local Walgreens.
I laughed until tears were coming out of my eyes, and thought, so this is what a spectacular first date feels like.
