Guilty Stars

2

I had recognized Michael the moment he walked through my door, despite the harder edges he’d developed in the years since I’d seen him. He’d always been a rebel—uniform necktie loosely knotted and shirt perpetually untucked—but he had a protective side that spoke more about his inner person than any tattoo or shaggy hair ever could. Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head a fraction. “Evie?” My name rumbling from his lips launched an avalanche of tingles down my spine. I hadn’t been sure he’d remember me. I was on student council and cheer while he spent his extracurricular time in detention. Our paths rarely crossed, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of him. Our school was small, and I couldn’t help but notice the edgy kid who transferred to our school during my sophomore year. “That’s me.” “Just how long did you plan to pretend to be a stranger?” He was unbothered by my manipulation. If anything, I got the sense he was rather amused. “I don’t know. I hadn’t expected to know you, so I tried to continue as I do with any client. I suppose I was playing it by ear.” “Well then, I’m glad I lied and drew out the truth. You go by Evelyn now instead of Evie?” “My dad always called me Evie, so after he died and I started school, I insisted everyone call me Evie. Now that I’m an adult, I figured it was more professional to go by my full name.” I tried not to discuss my dad at length and was always surprised at the stab of pain that lanced through my chest when I thought about him. The complexity of grief was one reason I’d decided to go into counseling and mental health. People were fascinating. I loved learning how they functioned and helping those who were ready to tackle traumatic issues. My hesitancy to talk about my dad wasn’t in line with the philosophies I preached, but we all had our weaknesses. Mine was my father. Or rather, the mess my family life had become in his absence. “What about you?” I redirected our conversation back to him. “Why did you change your last name?” Michael stared at me, his hand coming up to lightly trace his fingers across his bottom lip as he weighed his choice of words. “My father is in the Bratva. Do you know what that is?” I stilled, my ears filling with the sound of my pounding heart. “The Russian mob,” I breathed. Michael was telling me the truth; no more lies. This was his reality. “My father wanted to introduce me to the life, but my mother was adamantly against it. They were never married, and he only came by on occasion to check on us. When he wanted to take a more active role, she had fake documents drawn up for new names and moved us to Staten Island. It didn’t take long for my father to find us. Fortunately, he wasn’t too angry, but he did insist that I spent time with him. During those last two years of high school, I got to know him and learned about his businesses.” “And is that how you ended up in this program?” His jaw flexed. “Not exactly. I was in the hospital recovering from surgery when two cops planted dope on me.” “Two police officers just happened by your hospital room and planted drugs on you?” My eyebrows arched to my hairline. Michael rolled his eyes. “Well, my surgery was necessary because I’d been shot. The officers were there to question me about what had happened. They saw my stars, realized that I was Bratva, and got angry when I wouldn’t tell them the truth about what had happened.” “You were shot?” The words were only a breath, my lungs freezing at the thought of him being attacked. How could I feel so terrified for a man I hadn’t seen in years? A criminal. I heard tragic stories every day, but the thought of someone trying to kill Michael deeply unsettled me. “Just a bullet to the thigh. Nothing serious.” “Serious enough to require surgery,” I jabbed back. “How did you end up getting shot?” Would he tell me? He hadn’t told the police—would he see me as just part of the system? “You remember Sofia Genovese? I hung around her a lot back in school.” How could I forget? The two were inseparable after her prior boyfriend broke her heart and dropped out of school. Everyone had whispered about the ugly breakup. Michael became Sofia’s guardian angel. I had always assumed they were a couple, so it didn’t surprise me that she was still in his life. “I do. I remember you two being close.” A twinge of jealousy clamped down on my heart when I said the words. “We were—and still are—although, not to the same degree.” What did that mean? I glanced down nonchalantly and noted the absence of a wedding band. Were they still a couple? Why did it matter to me? “Sofia ended up in danger,” he continued. “I helped her family save her and got shot in the process. It was worth it to get her back, but now I have to deal with this drug charge. My attorney said I could enroll in this program and keep myself out of jail. It was easier than going up against the NYPD for planting evidence.” “I would imagine that would be an uphill battle, especially if they knew you were in the Russian mob. I take it that’s what the stars mean? That you followed in your father’s footsteps?” I didn’t want to think of Michael as dangerous, no matter what his appearance warned, but any involvement in organized crime couldn’t be shrugged off. Mobsters were often certifiable sociopaths and always dangerous, if only because of their associations. Then again, I knew upstanding citizens whose souls were as black as night. Evil lurked behind even the most benign of disguises. Michael answered my question without hesitation. “Yes, I became a part of the Bratva.” The words hung in the air between us. A challenge. A test. Would his admission change my reaction to him? Make me fear him or push him away? When I peered into those black eyes across from me, I still saw the boy who stood up to bullies and lived life on his own terms. I saw independence and conviction. Pride and Respect. I didn’t see anything that made me want to flee. “That sounds like an interesting story. I look forward to hearing about it.” Michael smiled, his eyes creasing in the corners in approval. I could tell he was relieved. He wanted me to see him in a positive light and cared what I thought. The realization stirred a swarm of butterflies deep in my belly, causing heat to bloom in my cheeks. I squashed it as best I could and pushed forward. Michael was a client, and I would do best to remember that. “Alright, then. Why don’t you tell me about the time you spent with your father?” “I’m heading out.” El