Rachel Dyken - Elect

I watched as men, the ones I had grown up with, the ones I had looked up to, shook their heads, slapped backs with one another and began mumbling prayers under their breath.

Yes. We were the mafia.

But when family died? When lives were uselessly lost in our tight-knit family? That wasn’t business. No, it was tragedy and each and every one of them knew it.

When Luca was finished, Frank stood. “I’d like to say something.” He cleared his throat and looked around the room. “I’d like to thank your family. Not only did you put me into hiding, but you protected my granddaughter at all costs. It’s because of you that I may finally let go of the death of my son and daughter. It is because of you that I am able to hold my head high once again. I owe you my allegiance. This fighting, between us, it ends. It ends now.” He took his seat.

Chase stood. “There is one more thing to discuss.”

I knew how uncomfortable it would make him, so I stood and walked over to his side, giving him silent encouragement with my presence.

“Nixon and I…” He looked to the ceiling. “Well, we discovered some things about our pasts—things that really shouldn’t matter anymore. Regardless of my own parentage, and regardless of his, I motion to reinstate Nixon as the boss.”

“Chase,” I growled. “What the hell are you doing?”

He turned to me and grinned. “My damn job, like you ordered me to.”

It was unanimous. Chase slapped me on the back and left the middle of the room. I wasn’t sure how I felt, but for some reason it was right. Even though I wasn’t blood related to my father, even though normally that was how things worked. I was good at what I did. And I wanted it. Sadly, I couldn’t bask in the glory of it that long, not when I realized that now things were once again backward. If Trace wanted to end up with Chase, he was once again the safer choice. Damn.

“One more thing.” Luca stood. “Since I am here, it is imperative that we notify the De Lange family of the happenings. It is also crucial that the next boss be appointed.”

“Did Phoenix have any brothers?” Sergio asked.

“No.” I chuckled and looked at Chase. “But he has a hell of a stepsister.”

“A woman?” a man asked.

“It has been done before,” another answered. “Is not the most peaceful city in Sicily run by a woman?”

“True.” Luca seemed to think on it. “Shall I bring it up to the family?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Bring it up?” I nodded. “Seems to me your way of bringing things up includes threats with death and Lake Michigan.”

Luca shrugged. “I cannot help that I am one for dramatics.”

Frank rolled his eyes in my direction.

“Fine.” I nodded. “Notify the family and Emiliana. I want it to be done before you leave, Luca, and the funeral, too.”

“Done,” he said. “Now, let us make a toast.”

Each man raised their drinks.

“A toast,” Luca said, “to family.”

“Familia!” Everyone cheered and drank.

Things were set to rights. I knew Nixon was probably thinking in the back of his mind that I’d handed the job back to him so I could have Trace—he couldn’t be more wrong. I gave him the title because I knew I didn’t have what it took to pull it off. Nixon was a badass, he was… ridiculously loyal and selfless. In the end I knew that I would choose me over someone else.

And that’s why I didn’t deserve Trace.

Because in the end, I chose myself—not her. Had I chosen her, I wouldn’t have put her in the position I did.

In the end, I was selfish in my pursuit of her. I loved her… and maybe that was the problem. My love for her overshadowed everything else. I would have run away with her without looking back.

The men dispersed.

I sat at the table twirling a glass between my hands.

All the lights were off.

It was just me and a vintage bottle of whiskey.

Good lord, I was depressing.

I felt a hand touch my shoulder and looked up. Trace was standing over me, her eyes sad. I couldn’t look at her. I had to look away; my breath hitched as her hand slid down my arm and then touched my hand. I gripped it, I held on for dear life.

“Chase I—”

I closed my eyes and just listened to her voice. “Say my name again… please.”

“Chase.” She choked a bit. “Chase, Chase, Chase…” She released my hand and grabbed my face between her palms. “Chase.”

I opened my eyes and looked directly into hers, holding her with my gaze, begging her with my soul… Me, choose me. Because I need you. More than I want to admit.

Her mouth met mine in a gentle kiss. For a brief moment, I was relieved, I thought maybe she was choosing me, maybe it was just going to be us, maybe there was a happy ending and we’d ride out into the sunset. But she pulled back too soon. I leaned forward, our foreheads touched.

She spoke so softly I almost didn’t hear her. “I’m so mad at you.”

“I know.” I sighed.

“You lied to me, Chase. You made me…” Her eyes closed. “You made me choose. I relied on you for everything. You were my survival and you betrayed me, you betrayed what we were, what we had.”

Nodding, I tried to pull away from her but she wouldn’t let me. Her hands were like a vise grip on my head.

“You made me love you—made me rely on you… Because of you, I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole for him. I don’t know if I can be that girl that he first loved. And I want to hate you for it, except you’ve made me love you so damn much that it hurts.”

“Trace I—”

Her lips silenced me, again, a brief kiss, a brief velvet touch of her lower lip and then she pulled back again. “I do love you… but…”

“But?” I knew it was coming. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I broke out into a cold sweat.

“Chase.” She pulled away and wiped a tear from her eye. “You have my heart, but Nixon… he owns my soul.”

I shuddered; it felt as if she had just grabbed a knife and rather than stab me in the back, told me that she was going to cut me deep through the chest. In the end I would have preferred the sneak attack, because maybe then I wouldn’t have to watch those gorgeous brown eyes well up with tears as I nodded and felt my chest constrict until I thought my body was going to explode under the pressure.

The cold knife went straight for my heart—it pierced the muscle, ceasing it from beating, but didn’t end there. Had she been merely rejecting me, the pain would have stopped, but she wasn’t just rejecting me, she was disappointed in me, and still choosing another. So the knife twisted; it twisted until I went numb and then… I closed my eyes as I savored the feeling of everything in my world stopping.

It was me and Trace, stuck in a time warp. I reached for her face and sighed when my hand came into contact with her cheek. A single tear met my fingers. I pulled back and rubbed the tear between my thumb and forefinger and then got up.

“Chase, wait…”

“No.” I grabbed the bottle from the table. “It’s fine.” I managed a tight smile. “This was always how it was supposed to be, Trace. Believe me, we’re better off as friends.”

“Can we still go there? After… everything?” Her eyes were hopeful.

“Sure,” I lied and stumbled away from her, seeking the darkness of my room and the bottom of the bottle in my right hand.

The minute I walked into my room, I slammed the door behind me and locked it. Shit, did everything have to smell like her? Numbly, I walked over to the bed, the same bed we’d shared less than forty-eight hours ago. Her smell was so deeply etched into the fibers of the sheets that I couldn’t bring myself to do anything except take a swig of whiskey and allow her scent to overwhelm the pain.

I don’t know how long I sat there on the bed. Drinking and sniffing like some lunatic.

That’s the thing about love—you’d do anything to secure it—except when you finally have it, you’re so damn worried about losing it that your choices are no longer selfless but selfish. That’s what happened to things with Trace and in the end that was how I lost her.

I refused to pack away the memories of her kiss.

The way we fit together perfectly.

I held on to those memories because in that moment I was pretty damn sure that no girl would ever be able to fully wipe them from my consciousness, and hell if I’d let them to begin with.

I drank half the bottle.

Not a proud moment for someone who doesn’t normally drink. Shit, she’d turned me into an alcoholic over the course of two weeks! What the hell did that say about my self-control?

The room spun. I put the bottle down and rubbed my eyes.

It was late.

You’d think I’d be too drunk to even think.

Clearly, I had a way higher alcohol tolerance than I would have preferred for the current situation.

Someone knocked softly on my door.

I refused to answer.

The knock came again.

With a curse I stumbled to my feet and opened the door. Mil stood on the other side. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun and she was wearing really short black workout shorts and a tank top.

“Shit, Mil, I’m not in the mood.” I moved to close the door but her hand stopped me. She pushed against my chest.

“Chill. I’m not here to take advantage of your drunken state.” Rolling her eyes she stepped past me into my room.

“What part of I’m not in the mood don’t you get?” I slurred and stumbled over to my bed.

Mil held up her hands. “Again, not here to steal your virtue and I’m pretty sure if the opportunity did present itself you’d be asleep in a pile of your own puke within thirty seconds. So, thanks but no thanks.”