Embers & Ash Read Free

Belonging to the Outfit was as much of a balancing act on the edge of a knife as a self-imposed life sentence in prison. There was no escape. The organization needed a Rispoli as counselor and so it owned them, generation after generation.
    It owned me.
    My belief in a joyful future had disappeared with the old Sara Jane.
    My concern now was who I’d be when this ordeal ended, however it ended.
    I had once resisted going down the road before me—the one leading deeper into the Outfit, toward increased violence as I sought my family—but now I was in its ruts, part of the flow, and turning around was no longer an option.
    What I wanted more than anything was to stop before I went too far.
    When I was younger and broke a rule, or got too angry at my little brother, my dad would warn me that there was always a line that shouldn’t be crossed. I’d never again be who I used to be, but if I could stop before crossing that line, maybe I could save a part of myself. I clung to the thought like a life raft in a raging sea.
    I’d talked to Doug about those feelings, of course.
    I discussed everything with my friend, who had a talent for drawing me back from the edge of emotional cliffs.
    Your life is dangerous and unfair,
he’d said recently,
but you can’t waste one second being a victim.
Stay in the moment, and do what’s necessary to save your family.
    For half a year, I’ve been terrified that the boss of the Outfit, Lucky, would discover my excuse for their absence—that my dad is gravely ill—is a lie.
    I could have admitted they’d been kidnapped, but for so long I didn’t know who’d taken them or why; I had no proof it had even happened other than our ravaged home. It was more than likely the suspicious old man would’ve assumed that my dad had faked his disappearance, gone to the Feds, and was in the process of betraying the Outfit. In that case, my life would have been worth little. The organization would not tolerate a rat, or even the daughter of one, in its midst.
    I glanced at my phone, seeing that half an hour had passed since Doug had sent the text urging me to hurry back to the Bird Cage Club. He’d worry if I didn’t reply soon, so I tapped out a message that I was safe and on my way. And then, phone in hand, I was overcome by an urge to talk to someone else.
    What would I say to him?
    Maybe that my odd behavior had been caused by family issues. Or that the half-truths and outright lies I’d told were due to circumstances beyond my control.
    Those explanations were too weak, far too lame.
    I owed him more.
    I owed him the truth—about my family, and about me, as counselor-at-large.
    Somewhere nearby, a siren screamed and died. The quiet phone glowed in the cloudy darkness. If I paused I wouldn’t call. My fingers moved over the keypad and I waited—one ring, two rings—until Max said, “Hello?”
    The boy I loved, greeting me from sunny California.
    Hearing his voice, I touched a brass key inscribed with
U.N.B. 001
that hung at my neck. Max rode a cool old Triumph motorcycle and had given me a
T
pendant, which I’d once worn in place of the key, sort of like a steady ring. But my existence was one big, dangerous secret—the opposite of steady—so I kept lying to him about why he couldn’t meet my family, why I was so standoffish at times, until it was obvious I was hiding something. Inevitably, my deception broke us apart. He left school (Casimir Fepinsky Preparatory—good old Fep Prep), Chicago, and me, and moved to Los Angeles with his dad. Afterward, I replaced the
T
pendant with the key, a cold, constant reminder of my search for ultimate power.
    â€œHello?” he said again.
    My number was blocked. He didn’t know who was calling him, but like every curious person, he kept listening.
It’s me, Sara Jane!
I screamed in my mind.
Tell me to head west and not stop until I reach L.A.!