Page 2 of Redemption
I don’t believe in love. There is no such thing. I’ve never seen it, never felt it. It’s nothing but chemistry, people’s need to copulate. It’s all ingrained in our DNA.
But love?
I care for my brothers, Nate, Matteo, and Luca, and they care about me. We’d die for each other. I don’t know if that qualifies. Maybe what I feel for my sister is something close to ‘love’. Or maybe it’s nothing but a strong protection instinct because we share a set of genes?
I glance at the clock again. It’s way too early to call her, and she’ll probably be in class in the morning.
Standing, I toss the now empty cup in the nearest bin, and aim for Mr. Olsen’s building. Time to check that everything is in order, that the keycard with my picture and my fake name takes me exactly where I want it to.
I spend an hour playing pretend, coming and going, taking note of emergency exits and alarm systems. When I’m satisfied, it’s still early, but I decide to go for breakfast, check out of the hotel, and then hit up Nate.
It’s a beautiful day. Early autumn. The air is still crisp despite the sun having climbed over the canopy, but it warms the skin a little and I close my eyes, enjoying the feeling. I have my bags by my feet and wait for the car the hotel called. I like the seasons. In San Francisco it varies a little, and is mostly foggy. Nothing like here.
In the cab, southbound, I call our sister.
“Chris!”She almost squeals.
“Angel.” As always, my heart warms at hearing her voice. This kid, my much younger sister, the youngest of all five of us, is a unique flower in this family. Artsy, headstrong, living her own life and refusing to conform.
She giggles.“How are things?”
“Same shit.”
“Are you in town?”She sounds hopeful which makes me smile.
“Yeah, wanna meet up?”
“Whyare you in town?”Her light tone turns wary.
I hesitate, contemplating for a moment if I should make life easy and just lie, but decide against it. “Business.”
She hates it. She hates what the whole rest of her family does for a living, hates our dirty money, and the wealth that comes from hurting other people. I admire her stubborn will to support herself, working two jobs, as she studies photography.
“Are you bringing any shit to my doorstep?”
“Of course not. Never.”
She is silent a few beats.“Aren’t you ever getting out, Chris?”
I sigh. “You know I can’t.”
“You—”
“Look,” I say, interrupting the lecture I know will come, “let’s talk tomorrow. When can you meet up?”
She scoffs.“Fine. I have the morning off, then school, then work until late.”
“Still serving the filthy rich?”
“Still serving the undeserving, yes.”
Angela works part time in a private club, serving drinks, scantily clad, but as far as I know she isn’t offering herself up, and isn’t expected to. For that, I’m eternally happy. I’d break a lot more than a finger on anyone who put their filthy hands on her. As was proven when a neighbor assaulted her. We still lived in the seedier parts of Chicago back then. She was sixteen. Nate and I beat the fucker to a pulp.
“I’ll buy you breakfast,” I say.
“All right, cool. Look, I gotta hop in the shower, or I’ll be late.”
“I’ll call you in the morning. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”