Promise
My father gives the crowd his usual waxy smile, his eyes twinkling in exactly the right way. They were made to light up in the glare of the spotlight.
One of my father’s greatest skills—he knows how to play a crowd.
Handsome and naturally charming, he’s always found this part of the job easy. Then again, he finds most of politics easy.
The cheating. The lies. The corruption.
The only part that’s difficult for Senator Donald Winthrop is being an actual person. One who can show an ounce of love or a bit of real kindness.
My Aunt Patti, my mom’s sister, is a clinical psychologist. She once told me that my father is a diagnosable narcissist. It’s why we don’t talk to Aunt Patti anymore.
I wish we did. She might have been able to save my mother.
The crowd claps at something my father says, but I can hear the difference. The roar of the crowd isn’t as loud as it should be.
The gymnasium for the rally is packed, which means noise should be echoing from the rafters.
I learned a long time ago to tune into the crowd. It will dictate how nasty my father is later.
A roaring crowd equals a happy father.
A quiet one, and he’ll be looking to draw blood.
I turn my face away, staring at the deep red curtain that hangs next to where I stand in the wings of the stage.
I’m dressed in a light wool gown, three-quarter-length sleeves, a bateau neckline. It fits me perfectly, highlighting the hourglass figure I inherited from my mother.
My mother was beautiful. Soft. Warm.
Aunt Patti told me that my father love bombed her. Made my mother feel like the most special person in the world, promised her the most beautiful life.
It wasn’t until after they married that he showed his real colors.
As the person who watches him turn his charm on and off like he’s flipping a switch, I can’t imagine ever believing it was real. His happiness always looks fake to me.
The speech is over, a polite round of applause follows, and the time for Q&A begins.
There are a few standard questions about healthcare and state budgets. He answers them with the ease of a man who has spent a great deal of time campaigning.
“As your next governor of New York, I will cut this state’s deficit in half in the next four years.”
The crowd ticks up, the cheers loud enough that my shoulders relax.
But the next question has my entire body tensing.
“What about your daughter, Promise? Some are saying that your campaign, which has continued after your wife’s untimely death, is taking a significant toll on her mental health.”
I see my father’s lips thin. My hands lace together as my neck pulls up tall and straight.
I made a choice, one that’s been grinding him for the last year.
When my mother died, I stopped talking.
Not just talking. I don’t make noise. At all…not even sighs. I’ve gone silent.
It’s the only rebellion I’ve ever been able to successfully commit against my father, and that keeps me going, even when he tries his damnedest to get me to make a sound.
He thinks he’ll break me.
Maybe he will. Or maybe I’ll end up exactly like my mother.
Death would be its own form of relief.
But I’ve got unfinished business and I plan to see it through before they lay me in the dirt. You would think that would mean that I’d acquiesce to my father and start talking again.
But I can’t. I won’t.
I’m done telling his lies. So I press my mouth into a firm line.
“My daughter has been clear. While the pain of her mother’s death lingers, she is committed to seeing real change in this state and she wants nothing more than to soldier on and see me in the governor’s seat.”
I’d snort if I allowed myself the luxury. I’d like to see him in hell. That’s where he belongs.
Silence isn’t much of a weapon, but it has been a powerful enough protest, considering how much time we spend campaigning.
At first my mother’s death created a wave of sympathy that translated into tremendous support for his run for governor. It made me sick.
But more and more, the story has been changing. His ambition is causing his already broken daughter mental distress.
Little do they know, I’ve spent my entire life distressed.
This is the one time I’ve taken any control.
He can physically jam me into clothes. He can drag me into the car and onto planes as he campaigns.
But he can’t force me to speak.
The small rebellion is worth whatever pain is coming.
His campaign manager, Dick Strassmore, steps up next to me. He’s perfect for my father, their blind ambition mirroring the other.
I hear them talking, the governor’s mansion is a four to eight year stop on my father’s way to the presidency.
I shiver to think it. My father at the helm of the most powerful country in the world. I can’t let it happen. I won’t.
I have no idea how I’ll stop him, but I know I have to try.
My father finally leaves the stage, stomping toward us. The moment he hits the wing, his face rearranges into a dark scowl, his laser focus on me.
He puts his finger right in my face. “You are going to regret this.”
More than the shock therapy? More than the burns?
“Don.” Dick clears his throat, not caring that I’m being threatened. He just wants my father’s attention. “We found Albert.”
Albert is my father’s choice for lieutenant governor. My father’s focus shifts. “Where is he?”
“Whorehouse on 129th. Coked out of his mind.”
My father snorts, my sins momentarily forgotten. “How does he not understand that this isn’t Jersey? He’s got to win his own primary.”
Dick shrugs. “We’ll get him cleaned up. He’ll be ready for tonight.”
That’s the thing about being silent. People forget about you and they say all sorts of things in front of you they might not otherwise have shared.
The number of secrets I’ve collected in the last year are shocking. I know the dirt on every major politician in the tri-state area and half the criminals they regularly interact with.
One of the side effects of the shock therapy is short-term memory loss, at least for some patients.
My memory is totally fine, but I think the idea that I won’t remember has given Dick and my father even more license to speak freely.
Too bad for them, it’s just armed me with more information. Not that I know how to use it yet. I could go to the press, share what I know. But that kind of article is just as likely to be buried as it is to be published. And then I will have shown my hand.
My father grabs my upper arm, yanking me along with him, as he heads for the back door. Thankfully, my participation is not required for the debate tonight, I only needed to be here for the photo session that happened before the speeches.
I look like my mother. Blonde hair, blue eyes, very all American, I’ve been told. When I was little, everyone said we were the picture-perfect family, and that might be the only thing that is really true about us. We looked good in a photograph.
Normally, my father would stop in his dressing room, have a drink before we left, listen to his campaign staff tell him how amazingly eloquent he’d just been.
But not today.
Today we head straight out the back door and into the waiting black sedan.
I look at my father, my brow knitted with confusion.
He ignores me and opens the door, pushing me inside.
I go, folding myself into the car as I smooth out my dress. If we’re headed to another function, it had best not be wrinkled.
Silence is my one rebellion, in all other ways, I conform. If I don’t, like I said, he’d just force me to comply in the most humiliating way possible.
He moves around the car and gets in the other side, Dick closing the door behind him.
Sometimes I have a notebook or a phone that I ask questions with, but I’ve got neither today, and my father doesn’t volunteer any information.
Not that he reads my notes anyway. Which means I sit myself back, content to find out where we’re going when we get there.
But as we drive, I note the changing streets, a bit of apprehension moving down my spine. We’re headed for East Harlem.
Are we going to fetch Albert?
It’s not an errand my father normally takes me on…
But we drive past 129th, the neighborhood getting increasingly rundown, the buildings old and tired, with chipped paint and dirty stone.
Homeless walk the streets, pushing their carts or carrying their bags.
I shiver, sinking down into the bench seat of the car.
My father gives a derisive snort. “Don’t like what you see? Better get used to it.”
I turn to him, my eyes wide, the question I won’t ask shining in them.
“It’s your rule.” He looks back at me, his eyes hard, his lips pulled in a sneer. “But if you don’t ask, I’m not going to tell.”
My lips press tighter together. This is another punishment. For today? It feels much bigger than that.
I press my hands together, my chin dipping so that all I can see is my lap. Watching the scenery isn’t going to help me.
Instead, I focus on my breathing. In. Out. Nice and slow. I’ve survived a lot of pain this way.
I can do it again…whatever it is.
The car turns into an alley, the place in front a bar or a club with a sign that has dancing girls outlined in neon. Strip club?
What am I doing here?
For a brief second, I wonder if he’s going to make me strip, but I don’t see how that would help his campaign.
And if there is one thing I know, whatever he has in store for me, it will be to his advantage.
The car pulls around into a back parking lot, a single, beat up, windowless door at the back of the club is the only thing besides brick walls.
I’m trapped.
My father gets out and comes around to open my door. I step out, knowing that fighting is useless.
But I stop before my father can even close the car door. To my left is the chalk outline of a body. I gasp, covering my mouth with my hand to hide the sound.
My father gives me a cold smile. “A murder happened in his alley just a few days ago.” He grabs my arm, pulling me out of the way. “Vigo Sinclair. Used to own this place.” He leans right into my face. “You had better behave if you don’t want your outline next to this one.”
Like I said, death isn’t much of a threat. There are times that I wish it would come for me.
He pulls me toward the single door, his grip so tight that I think he’s leaving marks.
I try to keep up, but the three-inch stilettos I’m wearing to make my legs look longer make it difficult to keep pace, and I stumble but catch myself.
My father just yanks harder.
The door swings open, a man appearing in late afternoon light. I halt to a stop when I see him and then start to fall, not able to stop it this time when my father keeps pulling.
He lets me crash to the pavement, the gravel digging into my hands and knees. I’m shaking now, as I tilt my head up to look at the man towering over me.
“Don’t you look like a fucking cupcake?” he says in this cold voice that starts a violent shiver running through me.
He is hands down the most frightening person I’ve ever seen. Well over six feet, he’s all muscle and covered in tattoos, even his face. But it’s his eyes that really get me. They are an unnatural amber color that make him look like the devil incarnate. I dip my head again, letting it sink toward the pavement.
“Get up,” my father spits through gritted teeth. “And for fuck’s sake, wipe yourself off and look presentable.”
I try to push myself up, but my muscles have turned to jelly.
My father grabs me by the hair and pulls, the pain that shoots through my scalp enough to make my eyes water, but I don’t cry out.
He leans down. “Did you think I was going to let you get away with this little stunt you’ve been pulling?”
I reach back, grabbing his hand to try to minimize the pain, but it only makes my knees dig deeper into the gravel.
The other man watches, a cold smile curling his lips. He reaches out, and, though I try to shrink away, he grabs me under the armpits and hauls me to my feet. “Come on, cupcake, it’s time to meet the family.”
Family? What is he talking about? When he gets me to my feet, he wraps an arm around my waist and then lifts me off the ground, carrying me inside the building like I’m some kind of mannequin.
Looking at him is just scaring me more, so I scan the hall in front of us, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.
That’s when another figure enters the hall. A woman, in nothing but a G-string, her breasts on clear display, prances toward us.
I’d say she ought to be embarrassed, but they are completely fake.
My hand comes to the man’s chest, his muscles granite under my hand as I try to push. “Forget it,” he rumbles and squeezes my middle, forcing all the air from my lungs. “You’re not going anywhere or doing anything that my brother doesn’t want.”
I look up at him again, my lips forming an O as I try to piece together what is happening. Behind me my father gives a cackling laugh, before his gaze fixes on the nearly naked woman. “What’s her name?”
“That’s Chastity,” the man answers. “She’s yours for the next hour…after we settle our business.”
My stomach rolls and my head swims. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I know it’s bad. Really bad.
Another open door comes into view, and the man carrying me angles toward it. I feel it deep in my bones; I don’t want to know what’s behind that door. Or who…
But I’m not in any position to protest as he carries me through.
It’s even darker in the room than it was in the hall, and my eyes take a moment to adjust.
When they do, I find four men sitting around a beat-up table that looks like it’s from the fifties. Even sitting, I can see these four men are as scary as the man carrying me, all of them large and tattooed.
And each of them has these eyes that are the color of gold or amber that is…
“Here she is, Angel,” the man holding me grunts, setting me unceremoniously on my feet. My ankles wobble, but I get my legs under me. I have no idea how I look, not that I care. But my hands are bleeding, my knees likely are too, and my father just yanked out a bunch of my hair.
The man at the end of the table stands.
My mouth falls open as I stare. If it’s possible, he’s even larger than the man who carried me in.
His hair isn’t spiked, it waves back from his face, but it’s the only soft thing about him, every line of him is rock-hard.
I take a half step back, but the man who carried me shoots out an arm and pushes me forward.
“You know the terms,” my father says behind me.
Is…is my father selling me? I look back at him, my eyes so wide, and for the first time in a long time, I know they’re filled with my fear. I’d get down on my knees and beg if I thought it would help.
“I do,” Angel answers, moving closer. I can barely catch my breath as he comes to stand in front of me, towering over me even in my heels. “And you know mine.”
“We are agreed then?” My father sounds well and truly pleased. Which is so very bad. I look back at him, my body starting to shake all over again.
“We are agreed.”
My father’s lips curl into a grotesquely satisfied smile. “I hear that despite your many sins, you’re a man of your word. Is that true?”
“It’s true,” the other man answers. “If I make you a promise, I’m keeping it.”
“Don’t look so sad, Promise. This is a happy day. My baby girl is getting married.” And then he lets out the kind of dark laugh that makes the hair on my arms raise.
My head whips around again to stare at the man in front of me. He can’t mean… My eyes travel up the massive width of his chest, to the thick tattooed cords of neck, and over the hard edges of his square jaw. Finally, I stop at the cold unnatural amber eyes that stare back at me.
I shake my head, my hair brushing across my back as I try to dissent. No. I can’t. Not this man.
My father’s hand digs into my hair again, the sharp sting making me reach back again, as I try to manage the pain.
“You told me she doesn’t speak,” Angel rumbles. “But I want to know. Does she make any noise at all? Will she cry?” He leans down peering into my face, his amber eyes holding mine and making me forget all about the pain at the back of my head. “Does she scream?”
