I rub my forehead and take a deep breath. “He was following me. It took me a while to figure it out. He was always showing up right after I did. I even saw his car at the bus stop. He was watching me, Mom. I know it. Ask Dad if he was having Rocco tail me. I think …” I pause and wonder if my assumption is even worth repeating. I know what happened last night. Rocco wasn’t there with good intentions. I felt it in his force. “I think he was working two sides.”
I’m jittery as I wait for my mother to respond. I can picture her playing with the medallion around her neck. It’s of the Blessed Mother.
“That sounds ludicrous. Rocco was a trusted adviser.”
“And Dad only does sanitation,” I say. I might not know a lot about what my father’s business dealings are, but I’m aware there’s more to the story than I’ve been told all these years.
“Watch your words, Amelia.” Her tone is telling, and I instantly get the feeling that she’s telling me our call is being recorded.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, wondering when my life became a bad movie plot. “I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart. Stay alert.”
“I will.”
We hang up, and I lean back in my seat and close my eyes—the exact opposite of being alert.
This week might be crazy, but I’m glad I’m in this office. The fluorescent lights and gray cubicles make me feel like I’m in the most boring place on earth. A welcome location when everything else is so … exciting—and not in a good way.
My bag is sitting on my desk. I sit up and grab it, opening the zipper to get Jesse’s matchbook out. I need to call him and let him know Rocco is dead. It’s possible Rocco’s death is his doing. If not, then someone else was there last night.
I lift my phone to call him. Something holds me back. Could my phone be tapped too?
Lack of control is not a strong suit of mine.
My computer is sitting idle with the work I need to accomplish for the day. I log back in and get on task. If control is what I need, this is a sure way to seize some of it. This job is something I’ve worked hard for. My financial independence means a lot to me, as does a career I can feel proud of.
I work until it’s time for the staff meeting. The select group of people who are on the Mega State Jackpot team file into DeLuca’s office. I take a spot in the back of the room, near the door, with my pad and pen in hand.
The information given is very basic. The drawing to select the winning numbers will be conducted on Saturday at nine in the evening at the New York State Gaming Commission’s new studio, which was built for live drawings. We’re all expected to make the three-hour drive ourselves, and we will be reimbursed for expenses.
My mother is having a hard enough time with me leaving the borough to go to work. I can’t imagine how she’ll react when she learns I’m going to travel upstate.
This is good though. A distraction from the drama that is my life is needed. I’ll drive up, do my job, and come straight home. It’ll be fun. The police will be on hand for the drawing, so I’ll be safe too. I have to think positive or else I’ll go mad.
I stay at work later than usual. My desk is clear, and I’ve worked myself tired. Not too tired to drive home, but I’ve expelled enough energy that I won’t care to do anything but take a bath and go to bed.
My car is in a lot in the basement of my building. I take the elevator down and give my ticket to the attendant, pay, and then wait for my car to arrive. I find myself checking over my shoulder more times than I care to count.
When my car is brought up, I tip the attendant, slide into my front seat, and put my car in drive, waiting until I’m blocks away and at a red light before adjusting my rearview mirror.
When I check the mirror, I let out a scream.
A man is sitting in the back seat. He has black hair, beady eyes, and a menacing stare. I grab the handle of my car door, but the steel barrel of a gun pressing against my temple makes me halt.
“Calm down, and you won’t get hurt,” his deep, gravelly voice speaks loudly.
I nod slightly. My throat is a shaking, quivering mess of fright. I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. I close my eyes and feel the tears falling down my cheeks.
My phone is in my bag. I swallow hard and move my hand very slowly toward it.
The gun clicks, and I flinch.
“You don’t want to do that, sweetheart,” he says, and I still.
My mouth turns down, and my breaths are shallow and erratic as my jaw trembles with fear. “What … what do you want?”
His expression is blank. It’s jarring that he’s not masked or concealed in any way. If he doesn’t care about me seeing who he is, most likely, it means he doesn’t plan on me living to tell anyone.
“I have a message for you. I’m only going to say it once. Are you ready to listen?”
“Yes,” I stutter.
“Good.” He pushes the gun into my temple, and it hurts, forcing me to scrunch my eyes closed. “Two hours before the lottery drawing, you’re going to ensure you’re one of the four people who are let into the machine room. Make sure they choose the third one from the right. They’re going to bring out two sets of rubber balls. One set is red, the other white. In your glove compartment is a pair of cloth
