I. Life’s a bitch
Bryce had wanted her to use a limo- ostentatious- but in these late night hours, as Sophie maneuvers her small convertible away from the knotted New York City’s intersections, she rather wishes she had a driver. Heaven knows, she could have easily picked up her car the next time she came to the city office or, better, enjoyed another rare weekend like this one- on the town with her girlfriends. Now, exhaustion blurs the roads but emotion keeps her foot low against the floorboard.
Bryce just got in tonight. He’ll be busy, reviewing the work and messages he’s missed while away. He may even be too busy tonight . . . but she’ll slip into his office and stand against the door that separates their residence from his clutter. If he waves her over to his desk, he’ll pull her into his lap and they’ll talk, their faces close and whispers quiet until work intrudes and she’s forced back into the shadows. His business and the Family’s demands outweigh their petty needs.
But if he stands; if he leans on the door jamb above her and tilts her chin up; if he kisses her, then she’ll know: the world isn’t about to end and he can be hers for a little while longer.
Anticipation presses her foot lower against the accelerator. She reviews the way the events will unfold again and again, burying Marie’s accusations until they aren’t relevant.
The long stretch of interstate peters into recognizable neighborhoods and shopping centers. Street lamps make halos of light against the night’s pitch. The familiar brings both relief and another wave of weight sleep to fight off her heavy eyes. Circling behind the house, she finds the garage already open, his car sleeping in its place. Rebuttals whisper from the corners: See? He’s home. She’s wrong. She’s wrong.
Eager for the surprise, she bolts from her car, leaving her bags behind. She can’t believe he actually thought she’d wait until tomorrow.
The entire residence is dark but she doesn’t bother to light it. Sophie knows every turn and obstacle, skipping up the stairs. A stream of light angles from somewhere beyond the loft. Grinning, she pads into the room and drops her purse on the settee in front of the wall-o-TV that Bryce calls his entertainment center. It’s black now. The light spills from his open study- his open, empty study.
Confused, she scans the dark house again. Light illuminates the outline of their bedroom suite door.
Of course, she smiles. Maybe I’ll even catch him in the shower . . .
The door falls open with the faintest touch. It wasn’t even latched. Across the room, naked arms and legs intertwine as they roll slowly on the bed.
Sophie gasps.
“Oh shit,” Bryce moans into his lover’s neck.
A long, slender arm shifts to reveal the willowy intern, her lips curled into a cruel smile.
Marie was right. Struggling to recompose herself, Sophie nods and accepts the sight in front of her. “Well . . . that was . . . faster . . . than I’d anticipated.” The words are weak. He probably didn’t hear them but they weren’t meant for him anyway.
She turns, snags her purse and leaves.
Down the stairs, she moves quickly, automatically. She flees. What was that intern’s name? It doesn’t matter. Her movements are involuntary now. Adrenaline pumps through her system, jarring every sense awake.
“He called you tonight, didn’t he?” Marie had sneered over the phone- hours earlier. “Told you that he didn’t want you to drive the roads so late. At the very least, he’d send a driver.” Marie had listened as Sophie carefully confirmed her theories before pronouncing. “He’s with one of his lovers, darling. Wake up. You’re not the only one.”
But the foreknowledge, like everything else, is irrelevant.
“Sophie!” He calls from the top of the stairs. “Wait!” But when she doesn’t answer, his voice turns angry. “You fat bitch! Where do you think you can go?”
Her only answer is the beat of her retreating feet.
Last night her only thought had been escape. To run away from the humiliation and the horrible pain that wrenched her heart out of her chest. The very thought sends her back to the bathroom to throw up the bile in her stomach. There’s nothing else left.
Patting her face with a cool washcloth, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror; then stops to truly stare. Bryce had called her fat. Staring at her reflection, she bristles at the memory. Just to make him happy, she’s suffered diets, grueling trainers and even his hints at liposuction; but she’s never been more physically fit than she is right now. Sure, she’s got curves- plenty of them. With a sharp tug on the hem of her shirt, she smooths the clingy knit jersey over her generous bosom and jerks her chin higher, defiant; but even Sophie has to admit that the woman in the mirror looks haggard. Her thick, dark hair is frizzed a bit like the end of a Q-tip. Her dark brown eyes are weighed with dark circles and puffy from the tears that come without her permission. Her fair skin looks pasty.
Digging in her bags, she primps until she feels beautiful- her dark hair glistening with soft curls, her eyes bright and her lips pink- only to wander back to the bed and sit, dejected. Her hands shutter the pain on her face.
Denial isn’t enough anymore. She needs a plan.
Money, she decides, then a place to stay. Her own apartment is sublet to someone else, but maybe the Friedman’s. They’ve always been good friends.
With a deep sigh, Sophie pulls the oxygen into her body as if she could replenish everything Bryce had drained away and glumly looks around the extensive New York hotel suite. Strewn over the bedroom is every piece of her matching luggage set. She hadn’t meant for the bellhop to bring up everything. She’d just been on automatic pilot. When he’d grabbed everything from her trunk, she hadn’t said anything. Now she’s got to call him back and drag the whole assortment back downstairs.
The small chore is a disproportionately large burden.
Under a calm façade, Sophie makes her way to the lobby and presents her debit card, strumming her fingers over the countertop as she waits for the attendant to process her charges. Behind her, the bellboy struggles with the rolling cart. She’s thinking that she really ought to learn to travel a little lighter when the clerk, with a tight smile, says, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the card won’t process.”
“What?” Sophie blinks, taken aback. “What do you mean . . .?”
“I mean that your card won’t go through, ma’am. I assume you have another means of payment?”
Choked, Sophie digs in her purse and finds the three hundred plus cash she needs to cover the room. It’s almost all that she has. “Why . . . I’ve got plenty in the account . . . why wouldn’t it . . .”
“I’m sure I don’t know. You will have to contact your bank, ma’am.”
The bank.
Soft, horrified curses numb her mind- Bryce has frozen her accounts. Then the anger punches through her denial. That’s her money. She earned it. She works. Finally, panic: If he’s frozen her accounts, what else has he done? Bryce has feelers everywhere. His finger is in every pot- bank, businesses, even the justice system.
“Uhm, Lady? I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t find your car anywhere.”
Her knees give and she sinks to the marble floor. “He took the car.”
It takes her a moment to realize that her phone is ringing. Her answer is automatic and strangely distant. “Hello?”
“By now I gather you’ve discovered that I’ve taken back what’s mine,” Bryce announces in a cold voice.
“Yours?” Sophie begins to scream. “Everything you’ve taken was mine!”
“Shut up, gold-digger,” he snaps. “You underestimate who you’re dealing with. Come home. Now. And we’ll sort this out. Keep this up . . . and I promise I’ll take away everything.”
“You’re not going to do that to me, Bryce Mancuso,” Sophie tries to argue. “I’m not Marie.”
But there’s only silence. The phone is dead.
A plan. She thinks, her mind turning feverishly in circles. What she needs right now is a plan.
She calls the Friedmans. They don’t answer her call. She calls the Buchanans. They won’t answer either. Sensing a trend, she begins at the top of her contacts list and tries one person after another. No answer.
Until she calls Zoe.
“I can’t talk to you. My father’s busting a vein right now just because I answered, but, oh my god, Soapy! Are you alright??”
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I just need help. I need a place to stay. I gotta find someone who’ll . . .”
“No one’s gonna help you in this town,” Zoe interrupts. “Everyone’s already buzzing about this. Everyone already knows. You gotta get out of here, Soapy. You hear me? Get the hell out. Now.” Then, in a quick hoarse whisper, like Zoe has cupped her hand over the phone, she tells her, “Quick, before he kills you, too.”
And then she’s gone.
Sophia Amando Mancuso is blacklisted. The blushing bride of hardly a year, isolated from everyone she thought she could depend on. Stripped of everything she owed.
Because everyone’s afraid of him.
Cursing, she lays her head on her knees and rocks in the middle of the expensive hotel lobby, her dark locks falling over her arms. Regardless of the pointless, circular path of her thoughts, one fact is startlingly clear: she can’t stay here.
I want to go home, she laments- allowing herself the luxury of grief for a moment. I want the comfort of my mother’s kitchen on a Sunday afternoon, chatting and washing the dishes. I want the sound of my father’s roar and cheer for the team on the television. And despite all her resolve otherwise, the tears begin again. It simply isn’t a possibility anymore. Dead, their graves offer Sophie no comfort. Their house was sold months ago.
Suddenly resolved, Sophie levers her soft curves from the floor. She’s leaving- that much is obvious. The first priority has to be money.
“And the ring?” The pudgy man asks, his thick fingers extended greedily. His eyes gleam at the prospect.
She slips her wedding ring away from its resting place. It hasn’t left her hand since the day Bryce first slipped the band over her finger. The setting of diamonds and aquamarines is spectacular: artistic and nearly priceless.
Her hand trembles as she lays it among the rest of her jewelry.
Sophie’s sold near everything. Her clothes are probably already showcased at the local consignment shop. The brands and recent styles made the owner almost overly eager to purchase them. The jewelry sits on the glass case before her, ready to be pawned. Even her luggage is gone. She got a better price for selling the complete, matched set.
“You can keep this,” he says with a frown, pushing the wedding ring back to her. “It’s a fake.”
“Fake?” Sophie nearly shrieks. “It can’t be! I had it appraised!”
The pudgy man laughs, his jowls jiggling in an unbecoming manner. “Oh, I’m sure the ring he gave you was real. It’s common enough to make a fake of something like this . . . just for everyday wear.” He laughs again. “Or maybe he just returned the real one.”
He wouldn’t. She silently denies, but staring at the beautiful ring she’s force to admit it. He did.
It’s another stab in her chest. Everything she thought was real . . . wasn’t. The ring is just another reminder.
The shopkeeper passes over the agreed upon cash, neatly stowed in a business envelope and lifts the tray that carries all but her phony wedding ring as Sophie fans the money.
With a numb reach, she gathers the plastic shopping bag that holds what’s left of her wardrobe and murmurs, “I need a car,” more to herself than the man turning away from her.
“Got one. Cheap,” he promises. “Ain’t fancy, but it’ll get you there.”
With a schooled eye, Sophie examines the shyster standing before her. He knows the cash that sits in her purse- heavy and vulnerable. He suspects her circumstances to be anything from dire to dangerous. In short, he knows too much. It’s a poor position for negotiations. “Thank you, but no. I’ll find something . . .”
“Ya Bryce Mancuso’s little trophy wife, eh?” He asks, interrupting her dismissal. Kneeling, he reveals his safe and spins the dial as he speaks. “Yeah, I was warned about ya. Thing is, I don’t much care for the man . . . or his business.”
“Good thing for me,” Sophie mutters, clenching the plastic bag against her chest.
“Very good, eh?” He agrees. “I gave you a fair price for everything you offered . . . and that car? It ain’t much to look at but the engine is in good condition. Drove it myself for the past twenty years. I’ll all but give it to ya, if you promise me one thing.”
Stunned, Sophie’s hands tighten their grip on the bag in their grasp. “And what’s that?”
“Prove to that S.O.B. that he don’t got as much control as he likes to think, eh?”
Control: Therein lies Bryce’s vice. Even after Marie managed to leave him- and the spunky ex- made it clear that it was, in fact, she that did the leaving- Bryce coerced her to remain in the city. Sophie shudders, keenly aware of Bryce’s invasive ‘support’ that he called ‘alimony.’
Stiffening with resolve, Sophie promises herself that she’s not going to live like that. If Bryce is going to hold her assets captive, then she’ll have to obtain something of greater value for which to barter her life.
Just a bit of insurance.
The engine of the old red jalopy loudly vibrates its frame, earning stares at red lights, as Sophie maneuvers the crowded roads to the financial district. She parks in a distant garage. Crowds of thugs and tourists clutter the wide sidewalks, but they hold no interest for Sophie. Her eyes are trained on the impressive building ahead.
The doorman greets her with a nod, opening the door to let her pass. The security guard gives her a jaunty salute and a wry smile as she waits for the elevator. She smiles back to them all, but once the door close, Sophie sags against the wall and dares to release the breath she’d held.
Hedging bets that the holiday weekend has kept even the most faithful employees occupied somewhere far from the office, Sophie steps into the darkened reception area. Over the desk, Bryce’s image stares down on his visitors. The portrait is recent. His grey eyes hard and cold; his mouth- though not sculpted into a true frown- holds no semblance of a smile. Trim and stern, he exuded strength- the only feature revealing his age: the salt-and-pepper waves, carefully sculpted into a business man’s coif.
“I loved you, you Jack-hole,” she whispers to his likeness, just to spite the chill that trips up her spine.
Beyond the reception desk, Sophie weaves through the maze of cubicles. As Bryce’s head accountant, she has an office. As his wife, it adjoins his. Slipping into her desk, she reaches beyond the pens and clutter in her drawer to find a flash drive. The computer wakes with a strobe of tiny lights and the wheeze of machinery. Not long after, Sophie is downloading files and when the phone rings, she answers automatically.
“We know where you are.”
Slamming the phone on its cradle, Sophie jerks the flash drive out of her computer and hits the button to turn it off without the benefit of proper procedures. Bypassing conventional routes, Sophie jumps to the nearest exit. Echoes of her footfalls chase her through the cement vault, down the innumerable flights of stairs.
She thinks she’s nearly free when a man in a dark suit steps into the stairwell. Lifting his eyes to find Sophie, he pulls a small, black gun.
Panicked, Sophie crashes into the closest door and stumbles into an unfamiliar office. Her hair flies behind her and her feet stumble over invisible obstacles. At another exit, Sophie turns in time to see men arriving on the elevator. Before they see her, she pulls the fire alarm and bolts out the door.
All-encompassing noise reverberates off the cement walls, but the hard knock of a door hitting a wall punctures even its loud keening. “Ms. Mancuso! Ya come on here with me, ma’am!” The janitor calls from somewhere above her. As she climbs the stairs, he continues his frantic explanations. “They sayin’ there be someone dangerous in the building.”
Rushing up the rise of stairs to the grey hair with the weathered eyes, Sophie follows her guide to a maintenance elevator. At the back door, he looks around the empty alleyway fretfully. “They got all sorts at all the other exits, Ms. Mancuso. Don’t want nobody as sweet as you caught up in the crossfire.”
Sophie takes his calloused hands, knobby with arthritis, and gives it more of a squeeze than any kind of handshake. “You’ve always been good to me, Giles.”
“Naw,” he mutters, but his complexion darkens with the flush. “Now you be careful how you go, ma’am.”
“I will,” Sophie promises before she disappears into the city’s lengthening shadows- her insurance in hand.
Sophie’s heart didn’t settle into normal rhythms until she was past the Holland Tunnel. Even then, she couldn’t stop until she was through Virginia. Her phone rings incessantly. She ignores it. Not even the radio offers her any distraction.
“Leave, before he kills you, too.” Zoe had warned her. Those men had guns. Outside of the law, she’s certain those men had no intention of simply asking polite questions.
Pulled towards the safety of home, Sophie doesn’t want to stop; but exhaustion finally forces her into the ratty bed of a roadside hovel. The next morning, hunger makes even the Waffle House look appetizing.
It is there that she finally understands.
Three men in dark suits enter by the usual means. Among the denim coveralls and flannel, they’re conspicuous. Add their dark sunglasses and guarded hands, clutched in front of them as they speak to the seating hostess, and the men scream menacing. Shown a photograph, the wait staff nervously shakes their heads. No one has seen the woman they seek. But close to the door, Sophie recognizes the picture: it’s her.
Damn him, Bryce isn’t simply going to let this go.
Of course not.
He’ll chase her as far as she’s willing to run and drag her back to the city to enforce his new stipulations for her life.
Watching the men pile into their sedan, Sophie makes the only viable choice she’s given. She dials the number from memory.
“Uncle Buck? Yeah, it’s your Soapy,” And Sophie nearly tears up at the sound of his jovial baritone. “Listen, Uncle Buck, I’m in a bit of trouble. I need you to come to the Waffle House on I-81, north of Knoxville. The table by the door? You’ll find a package taped under it. Take it. Hide it.” She listens to his demands, shaking her head as he speaks. “No, I can’t tell you what it is,” she insists, dropping her voice to a hiss. “No, Uncle Buck, I can’t tell you what’s going on. Just do this for me? Please?”
“Me?” She repeats, as if her own destination was something she hadn’t considered. In truth, she hasn’t stopped thinking about it since she discovered her husband’s infidelity. “I . . . I’ve got to get some help,” she finally admits.
Disconnecting the phone, Sophie covers her mouth with her long, well-manicured hands. Her breath shatters. She really has only one recourse- the only person she knows can stand up to her husband.
His brother.