Unfinished Heroes: Sebring Part 4

"Of course," she stated.

"Wonderful. Thank you, Pam. Have a good evening."

"You too, Olivia."

I took the phone from my ear and disconnected.

Then I looked around my house.

From my position standing in the acres of extraordinary ivory, russet and bronze-veined marble countertops and custom-made cream cupboards, I could also see the kitchen seating area (which was not a place to eat...it was a place to sit on couches by a fireplace and converse). I could also see the great room, the formal dining room and vast expanses of wood-that-was-imported-from-Europe floors.

It looked fabulous, as it would. I was responsible for every inch of fabric, every stick of furniture, down to the ribbed silver or mirrored Kleenex box holders.

It was like my office. Cla.s.sic elegance, except more refined.

I did not hesitate to congratulate myself on wringing a miracle, because even with its extreme beauty, it was also welcoming and comfortable.

I loved it.

But it had to go.

It had to go because, along with all I'd mentioned, there were also four bedrooms, a casual family room, a game room, a study, a "mom's room" (that looked like a place set up to make crafts or wrap packages, as everyone knew it was mom's job to be craftsy and wrap presents), a laundry room that was as big as a bedroom, a larder that was as big as most full baths and a master suite that the Queen of England would feel comfortable in.

This didn't count the mini-me-mansion guest house with its own sitting room, small kitchen, bedroom and bath at the back of the property.

All of this (save the guest house, of course) was in a u-shape flanking an in-ground, heated swimming pool with a ma.s.sive mosaic-tiled deck. This situated on a huge lot situated in Governor's Park, in other words, smack in the middle of the city proper of Denver.

It cost millions of dollars.

It was too much for me.

When viewing it, as gorgeous as it was, I'd wanted nothing to do with it.

But when I moved out of my father's home, he would not hear of me living in one of the lovely high-rises that straddled the south side of the city that offered two- to three-bedroom condominiums.

A Shade lived like a Shade.

Not a real Shade, those being degenerate criminals, two of whom hid this behind Christian Louboutin shoes and Givenchy blouses.

But the Shades we showed the world. Those of us left who had not escaped my grandfather's need to perpetuate a ma.s.sive, grisly, scheming, brutal f.u.c.k You! to those many who thought (rightly) they were better than him as well as to those who didn't care either way.

Namely my father, because even if Georgia lived in a fabulous penthouse apartment, she thought her place was too much too.

Therefore, since my father wanted me to have that house, I had no choice but to have it.

Now, it wasn't only too big for me-a single woman rambling around what could be described as nothing other than a mini-five-thousand-square-foot-mansion-we couldn't afford it.

Dad's rambling manse would never go. He'd die in there in a shootout rivaling the Alamo before he'd let anyone take it from him.

And Georgia was turning a semi-blind eye to the money situation, aware of it but certain she could do something to turn it around while breaking her neck to do just that.

But I kept the books. I knew.

So my house was on the market and neither of them was stupid enough to say a word, because even if neither of them would admit it out loud, both of them knew why.

I walked the warm-colored wood floors of my hall, past the informal family room, the study, these separated by a powder room, both to my left. To my right was a series of arched windows and French doors that led to the deck and pool.

I arrived at the end of the hall where my bedroom suite was. This included a comfortable sitting room, his- and hers-walk-in closets and a colossal bathroom that had a dressing area at the back with a built-in dressing table that any fabulously wealthy housewife would give her eyeteeth for.

Alas, none of them were in the market for a house. I knew this since mine had been available for four months with only one second viewing that hadn't even happened yet.

I sat on the side of my bed and was toeing off my pumps when my phone in my hand rang again.

I looked at the screen and wished I didn't have to take the call.

But she'd called yesterday and I hadn't called her back. I knew the headache I'd catch when I stopped avoiding her was not worth the peace of mind avoiding her afforded me.

So I took the call.

"h.e.l.lo, Mom," I greeted, leaning back into a hand in the bed.

"I called you yesterday, Olivia."

More of someone telling me something I already knew.

"I'm sorry. Something came up and took my attention," I lied.

She let my lie go and decreed, "We're having dinner. I've had my a.s.sistant make a booking for us at Beatrice and Woodsley next Wednesday evening."

Why my mother needed an a.s.sistant, I had no idea. She didn't work. She'd never worked.

But why she called her a.s.sistant "my a.s.sistant" I did know. Because they were slaves to her.

Since slavery was abolished in the United States some time ago and most people didn't like to be worked like one, they told my mother how they felt about it. Therefore she had on average six "a.s.sistants" each year. In other words, they weren't around long enough so she didn't bother with their names.

I wanted to go to Beatrice and Woodsley. It was a fabulous restaurant.

I did not want to spend two hours with my mother frowning at every morsel I put in my mouth (even though she'd dragged me out to dinner in the first place), nonverbally (and sometimes verbally) sharing she thought I needed to watch what I ate even if I was smack in the middle of the healthy weight range for my height.

I also did not want her (contradictorily) to encourage me to drink my weight in vodka, something she would do while she pushed her food around on her plate.

Nor did I want to listen to her telling me what a reprobate my father was, even though I personally arranged the monthly kickback my father gave to Mom's second husband, the president of a local shipping company. I did this at my father's command in order for my stepfather to offer his services should Georgia's machinations bear fruit and we needed something illegal shipped in or out of Denver and we couldn't use our own legitimate shipping company as that would be stupider than my father's usual stupid.

A kickback my mother was highly likely aware of because my stepfather might run a large, successful shipping company but she had his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es in a vice and he barely took a breath without her permission.

No, I did not want any of this.

"I'll be certain I'm free," I told her.

"Excellent," she replied crisply.

I knew it would be a wasted effort, but I did my next anyway because I was me.

"Would you like me to see if Georgia's free?"

This was a wasted effort because Mom and Georgia had not spoken in three years. This began after Georgia lost her temper at Bistro Vendome and let her mouth loose when Mom had a variety of things to say about Dad, much of this centering on the swelling and cut at my upper lip.

Swelling and a cut my mother knew who delivered on me.

My sister was her father's daughter.

But she was my sister.

She might have always been and continued to be the golden child (when I was never anything close, though it must be said, I never actually wanted to be), but we'd been through a lot together. She was loyal to our father and she was loyal to me. She loved us both. This to the point I honestly didn't know if Dad and I were both drowning, which one of us she'd save.

Anyone who knew us would say Georgia wouldn't hesitate. She'd dive in and drag Vincent Shade to safety.

But I knew there was a fifty percent chance she'd grab hold of me.

And this was why she lost it with Mom, not because she was loyal to Dad and Mom was saying ugly things about him.

Because when Mom got fed up with Father making her life a misery, she took off.

And she left her girls behind.

But she fought tooth and nail for alimony.

Georgia knew I bore the brunt of Mom's leaving. She knew I continued to bear the brunt of our father's disposition.

She knew Mom knew it too and did nothing about it, not then, not ever.

So now they didn't talk. I suggested opportunities to both of them to heal the breach, but three years had pa.s.sed and I suspected thirty more would before Georgia would show at Mom's grave and spit on it.

"No. I. Would. Not," Mom answered my question.

Obviously, she felt the same way.

I sighed.

"Would you like me to have my driver come to get you?" Mom asked frostily.

Her driver was also her "driver" seeing as he or she too would likely be replaced in a few months (or weeks).

"I can get there myself, Mom. Thanks," I replied.

"Good. Then see you at seven o'clock Wednesday at the restaurant. Good-bye, Olivia."

There was no, "In the meantime, how are you?" Or, "What's my girl doing for fun these days?" Or, "Are you, by chance, seeing someone?" Or, "My darling girl, I'm worried about you. You're thirty-one years old and you haven't had a steady boyfriend since your father tortured that handsome blonde man and did what he did to you when you were twenty-five. I'm aware you can be alone, but I don't want my daughter to be lonely."

No, none of that.

Mom just disconnected.

I felt no loss that my mother didn't care even a little bit about me, taking me to dinner because it was her duty, something she'd tell her friends about, woe-is-me'ing about my weight, my hairstyle, my manicure or whatever she found fault in.

I was just grateful the call was over.

I was in the kitchen looking into the refrigerator and considering calling Bistro Vendome to see if they had a table for one open when my phone rang again.

I moved to the counter to look at it.

The screen said Georgie Calling.

Normally, I did not avoid my sister's calls.

That day, however, my father had shot Green. Green had then been transported to Dr. Baldwin who took care of his wound for ten thousand dollars in cash. After that, Green had either disappeared or begun to make overtures to Marcus Sloan or Benito Valenzuela.

None of this would please my sister Georgie.

"Hey," I greeted quietly.

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?" she replied.

I leaned into a hand on the counter. "I walked in, Dad shot him. There was nothing I could do."

Even with my life as it was from the minute I could cogitate, it still was not lost on me how completely insane it was that anyone would utter those two sentences, including me.

"Your boys get an order from Dad, they tell you. They don't just show up at Dad's office and tell him s.h.i.t he already knows, p.i.s.sing him off enough to grab his f.u.c.king gun and take a shot at one of his own men."

"They have that instruction, Georgie, but I talked to Tommy after he got back from dealing with Green and Dr. Baldwin. Tommy told me that Gill picked up Green. He took his phone. Dad still has it. And I've no doubt he did that because he wants money coming in and he knows I've given that instruction to my boys. So he's not getting straight answers because they come to their meets with me in tow and we feed him information everyone knows is bogus so he won't lose his mind and, say, shoot one of his own men."

"f.u.c.k," she hissed.

I said nothing. I wasn't the kind of woman who rubbed it in when I was right.

"Green is gonna bail," she declared.

I said nothing to that either because this time, she was right (except about the "gonna" part) and I wasn't about to confirm that just in case she was in a seriously bad mood and decided to do something about it. If Green intended to disappear, I wanted him to have as big a head start as he could get.

"He sniffs around Sloan or Benito, Liv..." She made the statement and trailed off so she didn't have to make her threat verbal.

"You need to have a word with Gill," I advised. "He can't do that again. He has to work with us to keep Dad from tying our hands."

"I'll talk with him," Georgia muttered.

She would. She'd do this before and/or after she f.u.c.ked him.

Gill would come to heel.