Novelist and Poet

Posts tagged ‘coming-of-age’

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 20

Chapter Twenty 

here were the hands again…groping, touching. With every moment, my fear intensified. The attempt at seduction seemed clear—until those hands tightened around my neck. I thought about turning and looking for a crack of light through the doorway, but I couldn’t move. My body shivered and shook, although perhaps only in the dream realm. There was no way to tell, no way to awaken, and the best logic I could employ was a nonsensical dream rationale. If I can grab those menacing hands, and I can feel them like any other tangible thing, I am not dreaming. 

With fierce determination, I reached around and clutched the hand, feeling the flesh of a human hand urgently struggling to free itself. It succeeded. I heard the bedsprings and then footsteps—someone or something hurrying to get out the door. 

Licorice was there, under the covers, his soft fur against my ankle. Instead of scrambling for the overhead light, I rolled over and switched on the lamp. It was 3:00 a.m., and the house was perverse in its silence. 

Lying down again, I tried thinking of Johnny Depp and the singer, Chris Cornell, with the hope I’d dream of one of them instead of this horrible thing. Soon, I was dreaming but not of either of them. 

Passing through the courtyard entrance of some medieval fortress—thick walls, marble columns, numerous domelike towers— I peeked into a grand ballroom of gilded walls where rock crystal chandeliers hung from the highest carved ceilings. There was a pendulum Westminster clock on the wall. The ballroom was crowded, but I could see him. His back was to me, but there was no mistaking it was Valentin. Though he wore the ingratiating tuxedo, I sensed that affluent society did not impress him. 

He looked up at the clock as it chimed and then strolled to the vineyard terrace, the rhythmic movements in his stride seeming all too suggestive. The moonlight appeared to shine upon him, as his dark, silky hair tossed in the wind. As always, I felt the pull toward him, and I followed. 

If he was surprised when he turned, I couldn’t tell. His eyes fell upon me, and I felt shackled by the chains of their mysterious light, wickedly enticed by them and at his full mercy. I moved closer to him, perhaps too close. His jeweled fingers stroked my cascading tresses. I ached for him, knowing he could see that aching. My hands trembled along with my lip sand my heart. 

He moved the wayward strands of hair away from my cheek and caressed my cheek with his hand. He kissed me, merely another caress to my lips, but my lips parted. I could feel the warmth of his fire as his body grazed mine, and he kissed me again—really kissed me. It came from deep in the soul, as savage and untamed as I’d imagined, causing me to realize that the aching, the craving for him, had begun long ago. 

Our tongues mingled and danced like kindred souls of a past era rejoined, and he approached every embrace with a sense of wonder, seeming to drink in every nuance of my beauty. He lingered lovingly, relishing the sensations, and then pressed passionately. My fingers grazed his hair. My body succumbed to him, and the notion that he felt my surrender titillated me to no end. In my willingness to learn, I mirrored his sensual finesse, understanding it had come with experience. I might have begged that he teach me everything, all that my indoctrinated psyche thought forbidden, because with every deep breath, every sigh, every moan from him, I wanted more. 

“I understand your hunger,” I said. 

“Do you?” He held me tighter. 

The passion resumed and intensified, confirming what I knew. There was no partial surrender with him. My body was his, as his was mine. He hugged me to him as though overcome by salacious, forbidden urges. 

I told him I could not have resisted him if I’d wanted to. “Am I right?” I asked. 

“You could have resisted, love,” he said. “You didn’t want to.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Mm, you gave me a treasure hunt map with clues I could decipher with a fair amount of effort.” He laughed. “In short, you left bread crumbs to your door.” 

My lips tickled his, teasing. “Was that unwise?” 

“I think so.” 

He secured a fistful of my hair and drew me close to him again. He pressed his hardness against me, kissing me furiously, moaning as if he were pained now. My small cries to him were of agony, and he soothed me. He lifted me into his arms and carried me off in the darkness, then laid me on the grass, somewhere in the forest. I shivered in response to his deep breaths as he nibbled on my neck and shoulders. The notion of bending to his will aroused me like never before, and I allowed it, unconcerned about the consequences. I didn’t have to think about consequences. Having orchestrated this fantasy, I braced myself to feel the stinging pain; I ached for it and for the rush of euphoric intoxication that would follow. 

He said, “Now may not be the time, but no matter what happens in this life, I will see you in the next. If we lose each other, find me when you awaken, and I will look for you, too. I will take care of you. I’ll defend and protect you.” 

“I love you, Valentin,” I whimpered. 

“I love you, too, Danielle,” he said. “I will cherish you, always.” 

I awoke then. 

Approaching the window, my fear had subsided. A half-illuminated moon loomed high in the darkened sky while drops of glistening rain pelted the window. Those drops, clear as crystal, blurred any vision beyond the glass, like the thickening fog. It was enough to obscure our glorious view of the mountains, and the dreary gloom seemed acknowledged by the crow caws and birdsong. I could hear, too, Mother Nature’s cleansing teardrops, and a bit of her roar. It soothed my ears and my soul, as though we were one. Her rebellious pummeling spoke volumes to me, as she was this omnipotent force, unwavering in her power and duty. She washed over me—her fickle, tainted child, a child depleted by the blistering trek through the maze. How fractured was my mind that everything in the blackness of night seemed distorted—so much so, that I could almost hear the anguished wails of spirits in the old cemetery. This was crazy, I thought. 

It didn’t help that my period had lasted ten days, with more blood than usual. After two weeks of PMS, there was one week left of feeling normal. 

Something inspired me to write a poem, and it came to me quickly as if I’d been writing words I could hear. 

Thunder and lightning make this night 

Seem a battle of foes; 

He responds with lightning blows. 

I believe it is the rage of my father, 

The thunder is his voice. 

There is a crackling and blinding light 

That holds some burdensome truths. 

The day will come 

When those startling truths 

Will break you, 

Like you’ve never been broken before. 

Listen to the thunder, Father; 

Listen to your children. 

If you listen to the thunder, 

You will hear this child. 

The thunder is my voice. 

It was typical of what I’d been writing at the time. If I’d have gone through every recent poem and counted each time the word darkness appeared, it could have been a drinking game. In retrospect, I had it all etched in my brain—good and evil, dark and light, one extreme or the other, never a balance, never a middle ground. To some, you had to be the good girl or the bad girl, the serpent or the Madonna. It was absurd. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 19

Chapter Nineteen 

he holiday season after I turned seven, Zuza and her coworkers had strung clear-colored mini-lights around the dress shop windows, as they did every holiday season. A decorated tree blinked with miniature lights from its pedestal in the reception area. The back table had an abundant variety of cookies and cakes. Zuza and my grandmother had shared their homemade cookies. Customers brought more sweets. Fellow storeowners from the neighborhood brought bottles of wine, whiskey, and scotch. Zuza invited customers to have a cup of coffee or a glass of wine and help themselves to the treats. It was a happy time. All of us kids dashed over to the table as many times as we could, especially since Zuza had decorated it with a candy cane holiday cloth and pine garland mixed with pinecones. 

Zuza had been talking in Italian with my grandmother as they stood near the little desk in the back of the shop. The tone of their conversation was hectic and tense. 

When my mother arrived, Zuza greeted her politely and yielded to appropriate discourse about the weather. Then, with a subtle shift, Zuza changed gears. 

“Grace, you don’t have to pick up the kids or watch them if it’s trouble for you,” she said. “I’ll take care of them. You do whatever you have to do.” 

I saw the rise of my mother’s brows as her smile faded. “Maybe you are the one having trouble,” she replied. 

“It’s no trouble for me,” Zuza said. “I love them as if they were my own.” 

“I don’t?” My mother was incensed, I could tell. “I drop everything to pick up the kids whenever you ask me to.” 

“And I did the same.” 

“Well, I’ll keep my boys and my little girl, and you just worry about selling your dresses.” She grabbed hold of my arm and shot a glance at Robbie who was several feet away, looking on. “Robbie, get your brother. Let’s go.” 

“I love you, Grace,” my godmother said. In her voice, stern resolution mingled torturously with a sympathetic softness. “I love Luca, my brother. I love all the kids.” 

My mother pushed all three of us in the direction of the door. We looked back several times, bewildered by our mother’s anger and Zuza’s sorrowful countenance. 

Grandma brought up Zuza at dinner that night. “God bless her,” she lamented. “They worka very hard all day, and with two kids. Then she takes care of Joey, Robbie, Danielle, everybody.” She was shaking her head. “Too much.” 

“We took turns,” my mother shot back. “We helped each other.” 

“Maybe it is a lot for her,” my father said. “She does work hard.” 

“So do I. If you wanna know, I am the one who picks them up more—more than her, because I know she’s working and needs help.” 

“It’s not the same,” my grandmother said. “They work, no just disappear.” 

“And I just disappear?” Those dark eyes widened to unprecedented enormity. “I don’t work? I have three kids here, and you think I don’t work? I disappear? Can you believe this?” 

“Hold it, hold it,” my father interjected. “Mama, did Zuza say something to you?” 

Grandma shrugged. “It’s not my business.” 

He clenched his teeth. “You brought it up, and now you say it’s not your business. Mama, did she tell you it’s too much for her?” 

All of our curious eyes fell upon her. 

“I no wanna get in trouble. They no say anything. I shut up.” 

My parents looked at each other. 

“Why didn’t she come and tell me?” my mother asked. “I don’t like that. If it’s too much for you, then say it’s too much for you. Don’t say it’s too much for me. Don’t go behind my back.” 

My grandmother defended her daughter. “They wanna do! She can’t, Grace! The shop is too busy. They feed everybody.” 

“You gotta be kidding!” my father shouted. “When they are here, we feed everybody, too. We give them everything, whatever they want, and it’s no problem. All right!” he bellowed. “Grace, from now on, you pick up the kids yourself. I don’t want Zuza picking up any of the kids from school. However we have to do it, we’ll do it.” 

“Daddy!” Robbie yelled. “Grandma said Zuza didn’t say nothing!” 

“Anything,” my mother corrected. “She didn’t say anything. You live in America. Speak proper English.” 

“That’s right,” my father snapped. “Besides, don’t you have homework?” 

“A little.” 

“Then go do it. Take your sister with you.” 

“How am I supposed to do homework if I take her with me?” 

“Then go play.” 

My mother glared at my grandmother. “I don’t disappear! What proof do you have to make an accusation like that—that I just disappear?” 

Joey hustled us out of the room, but their discussion raged on with added intensity. 

“And where do you go all the time?” my grandmother pressed. 

“It’s none of your business where I go!” 

“Grace, you don’t bring the kids there no more!” my father shrieked. “You hear me? And you stay here, where you belong. From now on, I don’t want any of the kids to go over there to their house, or to the dress shop, for anything.” He waved his hand in disgust. “They are all dead to me.” 

Sfatcheem!” my grandmother yelled. “Stubborn like the mule.” She reminded him that Zuza was his sister, that it was between her and Grace, and that Dominic and the kids had nothing to do with it. 

“I never saw that side of Zuza,” I heard my mother say. “This really hurts me.” 

I didn’t know what side she meant. Zuza was nice to me all the time. I never got the impression she thought taking care of us was too much, not even for a minute. 

It was awkward running into her now with Angie and Dom Jr. My mother would look away from them. Angie sat farther away from me in school, but Dom Jr. would wave to me in secret with his hand down low. Zuza tried talking to my mom. The sadness in her eyes matched the sadness in my heart. I could feel her love, as it continued to envelop me like the fluffiest blanket. My father said Uncle Dom had tried talking to him a couple of times, but he waved him off and kept walking. We would hear their cherished, familiar voices in the yard when they visited my grandmother. We had to go on eating Sunday dinner as if they weren’t there. My grandmother would come in several times and plead with my father to join them or invite them inside. I could hear all the weariness and frustration in her squally voice, but he wouldn’t budge. 

My brothers and I would walk over to the Vaccaros’ house. We stood directly across from it, on the other side of the street, and watched the multicolored lights blinking festively on the windows. They had the same gleaming white Venetian blinds as we had, and had strung lights all around the house. I figured they had placed their usual “Happy Holidays” welcome mat at the front door, but, I thought sadly, it wouldn’t welcome us that Christmas. 

I missed them terribly and clung to the monkey Uncle Dom had given me once.  

“Throw that thing away,” my mother demanded when I brought it to the kitchen. “It’s filthy, and it’s all ripped.” 

“No! No, please!” I cried. “If I let you give him a bath, can I keep him? Please don’t take him. Please, please, you could wash him and sew him. Mommy, please?” I cried so hard. 

“It’s not worth it, Danielle. It’s falling apart.” She looked sorry for me, as she tried to pry the monkey from my grip, but I clung to it. 

Exasperated, she promised to buy me something at the store. That didn’t soothe me, but I handed him over, tears streaming. 

I saw Zuza after the holidays. She headed toward the school as I waited there for my mother. My heart pounded, for I could see my mother as well, at a greater distance. 

Zuza came close to greet me. “Hello, Danielle.” 

With a yearning in my heart, I lowered my eyes. 

She lifted my chin with her delicate touch. “I want you to know I love you with all of my heart. I don’t want you to ever forget.” 

“I love you, too,” I whimpered. 

“I was very happy to take care of you and your brothers,” she said. “I love you all, your mother, and your father, too, and I’m not gonna give up. I promise.” 

My eyes shifted, as my mother was no more than two yards away. 

Zuza didn’t scurry off or quicken her pace. She simply moved along. 

My mother glanced in her direction before fixing her gaze upon me. “What did she say?” 

“She said she loves me, Mommy, and she loves all of us. She loves you, too.” 

“What did you tell her?” 

“That I love her back. I miss Zuza, Mommy.” 

“I know,” she replied. “There’s nothing I can do about that.” 

I saw Zuza outside the school again on a blustery February afternoon. The ties of my pom-pom hat were dangling. 

She stopped in an instant and stood before me. “You have to cover your ears,” she said, tying my hat. “I don’t want you to get sick.” 

She was gone before my mother arrived, and my mother assumed I had tied it myself. The next time she saw me waiting outside with the ties dangling, she asked why I hadn’t tied them. 

“I didn’t tie it ever, Mommy,” I confessed. “I don’t know how.” 

“I told your teacher not to tie it for you. You have to learn.” 

“She didn’t, Ma. Zuza did.” 

“I told you to stay away from her, Danielle, and I told you to practice tying your hat. Either you tell Zuza not to do that, or I’m going to tell her.” 

“Please don’t,” I begged. “Don’t be mean to her. I promise I will tell her.” 

I did. 

“Your mother is right,” Zuza said. “I shouldn’t interfere. She’s trying to help you, believe me. I have the easy job with you, just to love you. I know you don’t understand. It takes a lot of love to be tough. There is nothing like a mother’s love, Danielle.” 

I felt determined and tied the hat in her presence, then witnessed her glowing pride before she departed. 

I hung onto hope throughout the winter months. It was like a solitary candle that burned boldly with its singular fury. On Easter Sunday, however, I watched that flame extinguish with the gust of a raging typhoon. 

The bell rang. I peeked out the upstairs window and was happy to see Zuza at the front door. She was carrying something in her arms. 

My happy delight would soon become agony, as my mother held the door open below. “What do you want?” I heard her say. 

“Hello, Grace,” Zuza greeted her. “I brought an Easter bunny for Danielle—chocolate—and a little something for Robbie and Joe. May I come in?” 

“Get out of here,” my mother snarled. “Take your bunny and whatever else you brought, and get the hell out of here.” 

“Danielle is my godchild,” she protested. “We all miss each other. Grace, please, let me give this to the children—at least, to my godchild. Or you give it to them, if you want.” 

“My kids don’t need anything from you. Whatever they do need, they’ll get it from me and their father.” She closed the door. 

I had but a second to glimpse the pain on my godmother’s face, then cried on and off for hours, knowing how much courage it must have taken for Zuza to do that, and how my mother had turned her away like a piece of dirt. Dear Zuza! It was more difficult to accept the pain inflicted on her than the pain I was feeling. I would never forget her face, nor her amazing humility, dignity, and grace under the circumstances. It truly broke my heart. More disturbingly, I barely recognized the woman who had sent her away, though I’d seen glimpses of her before. 

After dinner that night, my mother presented us with chocolate Easter bunnies, saving one for herself and one for my father. She nibbled at her bunny as we nibbled at ours, giggling with us. She put out the jellybeans we loved, remembering how much I loved the black and red ones. Before I went to bed that night, I saw she was alone in the dining room, doing her manicure and pedicure as if all was right with the world. 

Come fall, there were no Vaccaros at my birthday party. The holiday season was upon us once more. We were having dessert in the dining room—the whole family enjoying lemon meringue pie—and my grandmother had a meltdown. 

“Oh, Dio, oh, Dio,” she began, shaking her head. Tears were streaming down her face. 

“What’s happened?” my father asked. 

She shook her head and then began what seemed an exhaustive, emotional discourse in Italian. “I make a mistake.” She kept shaking her head. 

My mother shot a glance at my father. 

“It’sa no true,” my grandmother said. 

My mother’s eyes fell upon her. “What’s not true?” 

“Zuza no say anything. I say. I feela sorry. She worka hard.” My grandmother was bawling like a small child, and she continued to apologize. 

My father clenched his teeth. “Then you thought it was too much for Zuza, and you put words in her mouth. But, Mama, why don’t you mind your own goddamn business? Do you see the trouble you caused? Unbelievable! And you probably said the same thing to Zuza, I bet—that it was too much—and she thought it was Grace complaining. Why do you do that? Goddamn it!” 

My mother pressed for clarification. “You’re saying Zuza never said anything about it being too much for her to take care of the kids and about me disappearing?” 

Grandma was shaking her head. It was then she told us that there was something wrong with Dominic Jr., that he had a heart condition. 

My dad turned to my mother. “Grace, call her, please. Call Zuza.” He went on chastising my grandmother, and she continued to cry. 

Zuza would confirm that my grandmother was the one who insisted it was too much for her daughter. She’d also given Zuza the impression that Grace had complained. 

“Can we go see them?” I begged. 

“We’ll stop by the dress shop tomorrow,” my mother said. 

Zuza was dressing a mannequin in the window when we arrived. I ran to hug her, and she laughed merrily, her arms full of me. She kissed my head and cheek several times, then hugged Joey and Robbie. 

“I’m sorry,” my mother conceded, her arms outstretched. 

Zuza reached back, smiling. “I’m sorry, too, Grace.” 

They laughed, cried, and hugged for nearly five minutes. 

“I couldn’t believe it when she told me this,” my mother said. “I was shocked.” 

Zuza’s eyes matched her beaming smile. All I could see was admiration. “That’s Mama,” she said. “Mama is Mama, and she’s always gonna be. She wants everybody to be happy, but she doesn’t know when to keep quiet. God bless her.” 

They talked about Dom Jr., and Zuza seemed optimistic, unless she was putting on a brave face. I couldn’t tell. The next thing I knew, that sweet boy was hooked up to monitors at Hartford Hospital and turned mostly on his side, in too precarious a state for frequent visits or visits by anyone other than his parents. 

We had all believed that, somehow, he’d pull through. My mother began working at the dress shop and taking care of Angie, so that Zuza could visit him often. When my father said Dom Jr. had passed away, I couldn’t sleep nights trying to comprehend that. It had me obsessing about whether there was an endless nothing or this fabled “Heaven” where God waited to welcome us. I tried to imagine myself being no more, and the fear overwhelmed me. 

The first time I saw Zuza after that, she was folding clothes in her bedroom, and I told her I was sorry that she had lost her baby. 

She set the clothes down and turned to me. Scooting down to meet my gaze, she placed her hands on my shoulders. “Yes, I lost my son, one of my babies,” she said, “but God will take care of him. I know your father gets mad and says a lot of things, but never stop believing, Danielle. You have to believe in and trust God.” 

I wondered how it was fair that Dom Jr.’s precious face would be no more, and yet there would be the fierce eyes of Tommy Catalano, still watching, lurking, and waiting in the wings. 

“Will the angels fly with him to heaven?” I asked. 

“They better!” She smiled. “I don’t think he knows how to get there by himself.” 

“Will he get wings?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Will he still look like him?” 

“I imagine so!” 

“What’s it like up there?” 

“Beautiful,” she said. “He will be very happy.” 

“Could we ever visit him, and stay with him for a little while?” 

“One day, honey. One day, we will all be together again.” 

“But would he remember me?” I began to cry so hard that she scrambled to grab me. 

“How could he ever forget you?” She hugged me tight and rocked me gently back and forth. “You are such a beautiful, wonderful girl. I will always miss him, too, but I’m gonna take care of the rest of my babies, my children, including you. I am very lucky to have you, Danielle. Thank you.” 

God, I loved her! In that moment, she was the most wonderful woman in the world to me. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 18

Chapter Eighteen 

It was about four when I arrived at the dress shop. The Versailles curtains in the display windows changed with the seasons. In winter, they were heavyweight opaque in a platinum shade. Zuza would herald the arrival of spring with bead-trimmed, crushed fabric in sage, which remained throughout the summer. Chenille in taupe was the fall look. By Thanksgiving, she had replaced it with plush velvet draping in gold. 

The familiar bells jingled as I passed through the door. Zuza was at the register, chatting on the phone. I hung my coat on the rack. My mind conjured memories from a decade ago—all of us children prancing around the reception room. Since our early kindergarten days, Zuza and my mom had taken turns transporting us to and from school. When Zuza picked us up, we waited here for my mother.

I’d be thrilled to arrive and see the latest dresses displayed on the mannequins, one in each window, and two in the reception area against a backdrop of pale blue walls. We often slumped on the floral sofa beside the floor lamp that had a fringe shade of broadcloth. The center table surrounding the sofa offered past and present editions of Harper’s Bazaar, until Angie and I convinced Zuza to add Cosmo and Seventeen

Display counters that once exhibited handcrafted fabric dolls and plush, hand-stitched bears made by employees, including my grandmother, now displayed brooches, pendants, chains, and hand-dyed silk scarves. None of the women had time to make dolls anymore. I missed the dolls. I thought immediately of Sweet Cookie, a store-bought doll Zuza had given to me on my fifth birthday. 

How I missed that innocent time! All of us kids would stampede to the workroom in back like a herd of cattle. Depending on when you visited, it could be a quiet place with people working or abuzz with the chatter of visitors. Zuza kept coffee brewing on a table against the wall. People brought cookies she would set out there. Beyond the table, as far in the back as you could go, there was a tiny desk where Uncle Dom would sit to do the books. I always looked to see if he was there, though he usually wasn’t on a weekday. He owned a popular barbershop back then where my dad liked to go. It was a hangout for some of the locals. 

Zuza hung up the phone now and smiled. “Here’s my beautiful godchild!” Her eyes radiated warmth, caring, kindness, and much love. 

We went to the back, where my mother sat cutting and trimming at the long table—the same table where we’d sat coloring during childhood, with the cushioned armchairs and chintz-covered stools and many braided baskets filled with patterns and supplies. My grandmother was at one of the sewing machines, doing alterations, while another worker stood a few feet away, hand-pressing a gown. 

Oh, the wonderful memories I had of this place! 

Uncle Dom had been so kind when we’d visited on the Saturday after my eye surgery all those years ago. 

“I only have to keep the patch for a little while,” I recall telling him. 

“Don’t worry,” he had said, “when they take it off, you’re gonna find a princess under that patch.” 

“Me?” 

“That’s right. And, one day, I’m gonna take you to Pozzilli with me. They have beautiful castles there. You’re gonna see.” 

“Real castles?” 

“Oh, yeah, they are huge! I’m telling you, the way they are now is the way they were hundreds of years ago. You’re gonna be the Princess of Pozzilli there, and you’re not gonna believe it.” 

I couldn’t help giggling. 

“It’s funny?” he asked. “Why do you find it funny?” 

“Princess of Pozzilli is a funny name.” 

“What, you would rather be Queen of Pozzilli?” 

I nodded and then tugged on his sleeve. “Did you bring the dummy?” 

I was referring to a wooden doll he sometimes brought with him for his ventriloquist routine. He made everyone laugh, though no one laughed harder than Grandma. 

“Next time,” he promised with a wink. 

No matter where Uncle Dom was, he appeared more than willing to deliver the impromptu magic tricks, particularly with bills, coins, and cigarettes he would pull from his pockets. Seeing him laugh after he made us laugh was part of the treat. I felt blessed that my parents had chosen him and Zuza for my godparents. 

Zuza took my measurements that day, just as she had years ago before creating the costume for my first grade play. For that—my acting debut—she transformed brown moiré fabric into a tunic, seaming the sides, traced a white clock face, cut it out, and drew Roman numerals with a black marker. She glued toy mice to the tunic and headpiece, and, in the final phases, added gold cords and cut out the hands. I had no more to do than tilt my head from left to right, chiming, “Tick-tock. Tick-tock,” but everyone marveled. 

I had looked forward to that, but this modeling gig, not so much. 

“When you come Saturday to model, bring two pairs of shoes,” she said, “one with maybe a three-inch heel, another with four. I know you must have them, and if you have a strapless bra, bring it. It’s better if it’s beige, that way you can’t see through—and if you have the seamless panties, that would be perfect.” 

When Saturday arrived, I gathered all of those things and stuffed them in a backpack. Then I put the backpack aside and took some time to study my books on writing. I looked over Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style—my bible long before The Chicago Manual of Style. Then, hoping it would seal the information in my brain and make a quick, easy guide, I typed a booklet of notes, including notes from the literary agent’s critique. 

As I slipped the booklet into a binder I had pulled from my bookcase, a somewhat tattered page fell out. It was an article I had cut out of a magazine: “What to Do With Your First Million.” It might have been from Writer’s Digest or Money Magazine. I subscribed to both. Now, in my mind, seeing this article at precisely that moment seemed like a sign from God. Still, it amused me. Yes, Danielle, God wants you on the French Riviera, wearing a string bikini, shades, and a floppy hat, sipping margaritas and snapping your fingers at cabana boys. Nonetheless, it reinforced my determination. 

Along with the college courses I would take to further my literary pursuits, I vowed to sign up for acting classes and voice lessons. Perhaps a desire to prove my worth was one motivating factor, but my interests were genuine. 

By one o’clock, I was at the dress shop. 

“You’re just going to put on a sample and see how it looks and feels when you move around, when you go to sit down, and when you walk,” Zuza explained. “That way, we can take a look and see how better to fix it. After that, it can be made any size.” 

I followed her to the back where Angie was walking around filling a scrap bag with discarded materials. My mother and grandmother usually took Saturdays off, but they were there now working. After the usual greetings and casual conversation, I passed through the louver doors of the fitting room with Zuza’s dress in hand. There was no escaping my reflection in the well-lit room. There were large mirrors with unique etching and pink swags at the top. I didn’t like what I saw in those mirrors. Zuza poked her head in to ask whether I was having a hard time getting the dress on and if the zipper was okay. I said it was all good. I used the bench to put the first pair of heels on and walked out to model

My grandmother and another worker showered me with praise in Italian. 

“Yes, she’s like her mother,” Zuza acknowledged. “Grace always looks beautiful.” 

My mother smiled, thanking her. She told me I looked great. 

My grandmother remained silent about Zuza’s compliment to my mother, as she always did. 

Angie’s grin was one of approval, but something was off with her, I could tell. Even before her dog got sick, she would sometimes be like her old self, and then, other times, she seemed almost too guarded or lost. 

In our junior year of high school, we had laughed so much in class that a teacher had asked us if we were on some type of drug. We weren’t, so that made us laugh more. Angie seemed to love how funny I was at school. She was coming out of her shell, like I had, but I could see only a fragment of that girl now. Ordinarily, I could comfort her about her dog, a fight with her parents or anything. All she did now was pull away. 

These were my thoughts as Zuza pinned my dress, did her marking, and scribbled notes in a small pad. The prodding felt a bit intrusive, but I knew she was accustomed to working with a dress form. Countless times, I had watched her bone a bodice on that form. She was the ultimate pro. 

“How does it feel?” she asked. “If it’s uncomfortable anywhere, let me know.” 

She had me walk around the shop and then pretend to be dancing. 

We all had a good laugh over that—including Angie. 

An hour into this, Angie demanded to leave, lamenting that she’d been at the shop all day, and her dog was alone. The other worker had finished for the day. She offered Angie a ride, and they left. 

I was there a couple more hours, trying on other garments and combinations. 

Zuza offered to pay me, but I refused. I felt guilty enough having to tell her I could do it only a few more times, or every now and then. The truth was, I didn’t mind taking off here and there on a beautiful day, going for a walk or a trip to the mall, but I reserved much of the weekend for writing. 

She seemed to understand, and she shared something with me. “Did you know I almost named this place Vaccaro’s?” 

I didn’t. 

“Yes, I figured I was Mrs. Dominic Vaccaro. It made sense. But it didn’t really make sense. You know why?” 

I shook my head. 

“Because that was my dream for so long—to have a dress shop. It was not Dominic’s dream. We decided to use my name, and since Zuza wouldn’t have sounded so good, we used my given name—Lucrezia. That’s how we came up with Romance Designs by Lucrezia. You love to write, Danielle. That’s your dream, and I don’t blame you. You keep writing.” 

As tightly as I hugged her, it was not sufficient in expressing how dear she was to me. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 17

Chapter Seventeen 

t had to be a dream, but I could have sworn I wasn’t alone. Something or someone was behind me. Not a mortal being, I decided. It was clear he had not entered and would not exit through that bedroom door. 

How did I know it was a he? Yet, I did. No other possibilities seemed worth considering—not even the equivocal it

Swarms of glittering lights flashed on and off inside of me whenever he departed or returned as if warning me of his presence. From head to toe, I could feel the fire, as if my insides were ablaze. 

Lying on my stomach, my cheek against the pillow, I felt his hard, scaly skin caressing my neck and shoulders. He entered me, and all I could do was shudder—my chest tingling, my heart racing. 

At one point, there was the sound of footsteps outside the door—my mother passing. I didn’t dare turn around, but he seemed to know who was there and what would ensue. 

“She will see me,” he said. 

“Can she?” I seemed to think he could dematerialize. 

“She can see me,” he stated with certainty. 

Either I managed to hide him, or he hid himself. I tried calling to my mother for help, but I merely struggled, gasping for breath. No words came until she was gone. 

“How can she see you?” I asked in a haze. 

“She can see me,” he said. 

I supposed that, like me, she would see no more than a shadow in the darkness. 

“Who are you?” I asked. 

He didn’t reply. 

Once I was surely awake, I sprang from the bed. Struggling to steady my quivering limbs, I scrambled for the light. 

I sat on the edge of the bed, my head bowed and resting in my trembling hands. The alarm clock buzzed, startling me. Angrily, I slammed it quiet and glanced at the towering mirror atop my chest of drawers. Sweat trickled from my brow. It had seemed so real, and, for the moment, silence prevailed. No one was in the room except me. Nothing had changed. There remained only the conception of innocence with my frilly pink bedding, my Victorian rose table lamp, the sweet teddy bears, and my cherished doll. The old nativity plaque of the Blessed Virgin with Joseph and baby Jesus seemed frozen in time. 

Proceeding to the bathroom, and, subsequently, downstairs to the kitchen, I switched on any light switch I passed. In a weird hypnotic state, I grabbed what I needed from the refrigerator and prepared a breakfast of coffee and toast. Before returning to the upstairs bathroom, I checked the locks on the front doors. I checked the stove. It occurred to me, I had developed some odd new habits to ensure my safety, and the safety of those around me. I knew no one had come in or gone out the door in the middle of the night, just as I knew I hadn’t used the stove, that no one else had overnight, and that my mother had made sure all was well, tidy, and clean before she went to bed. 

Undressing now, I stepped from the brown and gold floor tiles to the Moroccan brown scatter rug and into the bath. Every now and then, I interrupted my shower to slide open the glass doors just enough to peek out, and my heart pounded.  

Hours later, I took my road test. 

The license examiner must have felt sorry for me, since I’d been too nervous to make a proper U-turn. He passed me anyway. I had taken the day off from school and work—to get plates and take care of other car business—all before a visit to Zuza’s dress shop, so that she could take my measurements. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 16

Chapter Sixteen

Loud music reverberated from the stereo: sentimental Fifties crooners, Italian favorites. My parents never seemed to tire of “Che La Luna Mezzo Mare.” The “legal” adults were at various stages of drunk by now. The scene amusingly reminded me of The Godfather movie, prompting me to recall that disturbing conversation between Phil and Sergio. 

Before I knew it, I had blurted out a question. “Daddy, if somebody says he has connections and is planning a hit on someone, would you think he’s lying? Because I don’t think somebody in the mob would want you to know that, right?” 

“Who’s that?” Joey asked. 

Uncle Dom raised an eyebrow. “He was telling this to who? You? He said he’s in the mob?” He looked at my father. “Cafone!” 

My father laughed. 

Uncle Dom waved his hand in disgust. “If he was in the mob, he wouldn’t be telling you that. Stay away from him. He’s trouble.” 

“It was a conversation I heard between two guys I barely know,” I explained. “One guy was saying he was going to take somebody out—that he was going to ice someone.” 

My father said, “If he was in the mob, he would never discuss that in front of someone who’s not involved.” 

“Even with the people involved, they are very careful about what they say,” Uncle Dom pointed out. “Believe me, if this guy’s in the mob, he’s not gonna be for long. If he’s talking like that, they will kill him.” 

We all laughed heartily at that. 

“Don’t get involved,” Uncle Dom said. “Tell him to take a hike. Believe me, there’s something wrong with a guy talking like that in front of a girl. Tell him, adiosarrivederci, so long. Better yet, when you see him coming, go the other way.” 

Everyone continued to laugh, but I couldn’t help thinking, I wish I had. By the time Phil and Sergio had revealed their true natures, it was too late. For the most part, I believed they were no longer a danger to me, and now I could rest assured that they weren’t likely to be mobsters who’d send someone gunning for me, ludicrous as it seemed. 

I could tell that everyone remained oblivious to my true concerns. They drank their demitasse with lemon, sugar, anisette, and amaretto. We ate dessert. They sang “Happy Birthday” to me. 

My grandmother was staring at Angie with a nostalgic look in her eyes. She remarked that Angie and Dom Jr. had looked so much alike. Angie never talked about Dom Jr., her identical twin, but she often visited his grave with her parents. Zuza got misty-eyed when talking about him, and Uncle Dom got quiet. He’d look down only slightly, but I could see the forlorn gaze. 

Angie smiled now in response to the noted resemblance. It was hard to read what she thought about it, or about anything. I wished she would talk to me, and I vowed that I would continue trying to reach her. 

The party moved to the family room. Everyone had expressed an interest in seeing old family movies. My father had every tape labeled—his and my mother’s vacation to Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire, another tape of when my mom took us to Bear Mountain, and childhood birthdays or holidays. 

There was a scene in the home movies where my Uncle Dom stood behind my chair as I tackled a strawberry tart. I climbed on the chair in an effort to reach him. Then, turning to face him, I gave him the tightest hug I could give. He instantly reciprocated the hug with a kindly smile. Watching it moved me to tears. 

Once past the age of three, my mother had instructed me not to allow any man to pick me up off the ground. If someone tried, I was to demand that he put me down and to tell him I could walk. I didn’t have to worry about Uncle Dom. He didn’t do that, and yet he responded genuinely and appropriately to a hug from me. It worked out with my father, too, since I was probably two the last time he carried me. When I was a little girl, I would jump on him as he lay on the couch watching television, and I would tickle him, laughing. I wanted to shower him with kisses. 

“Get off of him,” my mother would say. “Cut that out.” 

At the time, I took it to mean he needed the time to relax, and I was pestering him. As I grew older, it felt more and more that he was off-limits to me in that way. Even now, if I hugged him, it was customary to let go of him sooner than I wanted to, wishing I could stay in his arms. 

I thought of Uncle Dom as someone who could observe boundaries and still make a girl feel loved and adored. 

The movies revealed, too, that from the moment I could walk, I followed Robbie everywhere he went. I sucked my thumb, and he kept slapping my hand. When I stopped, he would get up and walk away. 

We played children’s games at the birthday parties. Everyone, young and old, clapped heartily, smiles radiant. If it was my birthday, my mother dressed me like a princess. When it was time to blow out the candles, the birthday boy or girl stood up on a chair, wearing a crown or tiara, towering above all the seated guests. It was our moment. 

My father held shot glasses out to the children. Each of us reacted the same way after taking a sip—disgusted scowls. The adults seemed to find this response hilarious. 

It was apparent I had become the paradigmatic little girl—a girly girl, all ribbons and lace. I wore everything from sash-belted sailor dresses to peter pan-collared designer tunics with white anklet socks and my favorite red leather shoes. I had a purple suede coat I loved with furry cuffs and a furry hood. I endured the daily hair-brushing torture that resulted in meticulous hairstyles. The painstaking effort seemed to take centuries. My mom ripped out every minuscule knot like a mad hair-follicle scientist. 

They had movies of my brothers and me standing side by side, posture perfect, holding hands and singing Christmas carols for the relatives. My mom had taught us a couple of the carols in Spanish. 

That was the highlight reel. 

I happened upon an unlabeled tape while fumbling through the box and handed it to my father. He played it. The first scene was a typical party. My father, presumably, took the camera from the dining room to the living room, filming. The last scene showed a baby lying on its back in a playpen they had kept in the family room. 

“That’s you,” my mother said to me. 

“How come we never saw this one?” Joey asked. 

She shrugged. 

A boy of about two neared the playpen. 

“That’s Robbie!” my father shouted. 

In the clip, Robbie began yanking at my arms. 

“Oh, Dio!” my grandmother cried. Her hand went to her chin. 

My mother appeared on film, grabbing hold of Robbie. She slapped his face and led him away. “You were told to leave her alone!” she shrieked at him. 

Robbie was wailing, and the film fizzled out. 

“You said that never happened,” I blurted out. 

Joey was blunt. “Were you hiding this one?” 

“I was not hiding it!” My mother appeared defensive. “You found it in the box, didn’t you?” She scowled at him, clenching her teeth. 

My father laughed, along with Dom, Zuza, and Angie. My grandmother was still shaking her head. 

“Oh, my goodness!” Angie exclaimed. “You were right about that, too!” 

“Don’t worry. Robbie loves you,” Zuza said. “Kids do stupid things. What are you gonna do?” 

“Ah, kids, adults—we all do stupid things,” Uncle Dom concluded with a shrug. 

I knew that much was true. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 15

Chapter Fifteen 

The Meadowside Inn was close to the beach and had a back entrance. Walking in, the first thing I saw was Valentin behind the bar. One patron sat on a stool a few feet away from him. 

Valentin’s magnificent head of rock-god tresses looked divine against the red button-down shirt he had tucked into belted pants. Despite having pleasurable shivers, a sudden warmth coursed through me, and I couldn’t contain the beating of my heart. 

He and Joey exchanged the customary fist bump. 

I avoided his eyes. “So you’re a bartender?” 

“Today I am,” he replied. “A friend of mine had an emergency. What can I get for you?” 

“How about a margarita?” I said. 

“Yeah, how about a soda? Your brother just turned twenty-one, but you haven’t.” 

“Fine, fine … Pepsi, then.” 

Joey seated himself on a stool and asked for a beer. 

I removed my coat and laid it on an unoccupied stool then hoisted myself onto the stool beside Joey. I placed my handbag on the bar and glanced around. The jukebox was a few feet from the door, between the door and the window. There were four wooden booths with a partition behind the fourth booth. I could see a pool table in the back, with more tables and chairs. 

Valentin placed the soda before me, asking, “So what happened with this car you went to see?” 

“The mechanic says it has oil seepage from the engine bay to the cabin,” I explained. “He said it wouldn’t be a big problem, but …” 

Valentin was shaking his head. “It’ll be a problem. Did you sign a bill of sale yet?” 

“No, but the mechanic got me a thousand dollars off the price.” 

“He should have told you not to buy it. A friend of mine has a 300ZX for sale—nice paint and interior, leather seats, no rips, no tears. He had it completely redone. It’s in excellent condition, runs exceptionally well—chrome spoke wheels, new radial tires, good working AC, everything. It’s red, though, not blue, but that can be painted.” He moved down the bar to tend to the other patron. “The guy who’s selling it will be here within the hour,” he continued, his voice trailing. “I’ll make sure you get a good price.” 

“I appreciate your help,” I said when he returned. 

“Not a problem. We don’t want to see you driving some heap of junk choking as it throttles up the road. Ever read the story Tootle when you were a kid?” 

I laughed. “No …” 

“I read it to my daughter—the train that wanted to drive off the track. That would have been your car, deciding it wants to try driving on the sidewalk or bumbling through houses.” 

I laughed again. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

“Well, surely you’ve read The Three Little Pigs. One built a house of straw. The other built a house of sticks. The patient one built his house very carefully out of bricks—” 

“Stop!” I kept laughing. 

The phone behind the bar rang. He excused himself then turned and walked a few paces to grab the phone, where he held a brief conversation. Returning to us, he told Joey, “That was a guy from the club. He was broken down and stranded at 3:00 a.m. last night.” 

“Is everything all right?” Joey asked. 

“Yes. I had Tommy with me, so we went down there with his truck. This is a guy who always gets me in these conversations about regrinding valves and torquing head bolts. It’s all he wants to talk about. I had to cut him off.” 

Joey said, “I may have to take you with me to help someone pick out his first ride.” 

“I could get him a good chopper bike or sell him the Norton I’ve been working on. It’s a good bike, just harder to work on, hard to get parts. I did the murals on this myself.” Valentin looked at me and smiled. “I’m sorry. How are you?” 

“I’m good,” I told him. “How are you?” 

“Not bad,” he replied. “Your brother mentioned that you wrote a book.” 

“Oh, yeah!” I perked up in an instant and babbled on about the agent, my revisions, and my plans. 

“That’s very ambitious,” he said. “What’s it about?” 

“Kind of a bizarre love story with a few twists … turns into a mystery.” 

He raised his eyebrows as though it impressed him. “I want an autographed copy,” he said. “I’d be happy to buy it.” 

His vote of confidence and his kindness managed to pique my curiosity. “It must have been an incredible experience going to school in Spain,” I gushed. “What were your favorite places there?” 

He appeared to give it some thought. “I loved Barcelona, loved Santiago de Compostela. Seville, too. I liked Segovia and Formentera. Spain is beautiful. You have to go see it.” 

“I hope to one day.” I smiled. “So, have you been to Transylvania?” 

He laughed. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“Such a common question, and, yes, once when I was fourteen. We went to Russia, then Craiova, then the relatives took us to Brasov.” 

“Is it nice?” 

“It’s unbelievable.” 

That weird déjà vu thing happened. I said, “I have to tell you—I don’t know if it’s because your voice is familiar, or your presence is familiar, but the feeling gets stronger every time I talk to you. I feel like I know you, or I knew you before.” 

He seemed intrigued by that. “You believe in past lives?” 

“I don’t know. Part of me thinks we may get to come back again and again until we get it right. I would like to think that.” 

“Oh, doll, I would sure like to get it right.” I seemed to have touched a tender place inside of him. I could tell by the sudden glint of light in his dark eyes. “If only that were true. I need to do some soul searching, seek deliverance.” 

Joey laughed.  

I had to wonder if Valentin was joking, but there was something about his eyes and expression. “You’re serious.” 

“He is serious,” Joey assured me. 

“Yes!” Valentin said. “I want to do the right thing for my daughter. I just don’t know where to begin.” 

Despite the absurdity of it all, he was precious in his vulnerability. 

“Fine. Shall I call for a priest to hear your confession or go for broke and host a full-scale exorcism?” 

He laughed to no end about that—merry, hearty laughter—and his playfulness kindled a new fire in me. 

I shook my head. “You’re messing with me.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Then why do you say that?” 

“I’m not sure I will ever be forgiven for the things I’ve done.” 

“Well, you don’t believe in God, right?” 

“A ruling God who condemns people to hell? No, I don’t.” 

“Then who are you looking to for forgiveness?” 

“Not believing in the Abrahamic concept of God isn’t a license to do unforgivable things, and not believing doesn’t make it any easier to live with what I’ve done.” 

“Because you can’t forgive yourself.” 

“Maybe.” 

“Okay, so what have you done?” 

“I’ve hurt people, caused irreparable damage in some instances. Isn’t that enough?” 

“But we’ve all done that.” 

“Ah, she is precious,” he said to Joey. He leaned in on the counter and clasped my hand. “You truly are an angel.” 

“I do feel as if there was never a time we didn’t know each other.” 

“That’s a good feeling.” He let go of my hand and stood. 

That was when Katharine walked in. 

She approached and stood there in silence for a moment or two. “I need to talk to you,” she finally said to Valentin. She threw her purse down on the bar. 

“I can’t leave, love,” he told her. “I’m working.” 

“You can’t leave the bar for two seconds to talk to me? Or is it her you can’t leave for two seconds?” 

My eyes widened. “What, me? Oh great, now she’s blaming me. I’m here to check out a car he said was for sale.” 

She kept her eyes focused on Valentin. “I don’t see how it would take that long for you to respond.” 

“To your ultimatum?” 

“What difference does it make? It’s a yes or a no.” 

“You don’t want to do this here.” 

Joey sighed. “Time to check out that pool table.” He got up with his beer and went to the back. 

Katharine flashed those baby blues on me. “How would you feel if the man you loved wanted to move out and still have a relationship with your child, but not you?” 

“I’m not getting in the middle of this,” I said. “Why would you put me in the middle of this? I barely know either of you.” 

“I have talked to you,” Valentin said to her. “I told you I’ll take care of you, and I’ll always take care of my children, no matter what.” He looked at me like a helpless little boy. “Talk to her.” 

“Are you serious?” The predicament had me flustered.“Why would she listen to me? Honestly, if I wanted to talk to my husband, and he asked some other woman in a bar to talk to me, I would be even madder.” 

“I’m sorry,” Katharine said, appearing to calm down. “It’s not that I’d really want to deny him custody.” 

“Well, if he’s a good father—” 

“He’s a good father.” 

“Settled!” I yelled. “My work is done here.” 

Valentin laughed again, and I wished he hadn’t. It made me want to hug him. He said, “You see? You’re a good person and a kind person, and that’s why I knew she’d listen.” 

“Please think about it,” Katharine said to him. “I have to go.” She turned to me. “Good luck with the car.” 

Valentin walked her to the door, and then stopped at the jukebox. He played “Always” by Atlantic Starr—such a tenderhearted song. When he turned around, the other patron, who was now leaving, stopped before him. They spoke, and in the brief moment before they parted, he caught me staring at him. It was obvious that he did, and I feared his discerning gaze. I thought he was undressing me with his eyes. He was first to look away. 

When he got back to the bar, slipping artfully behind it, we talked about music—as if that little scene had been purely my fantasy. I learned that he shared my eclectic tastes and appreciation for many styles of music. Like me, he was a big Motown fan. He seemed to know anyone I mentioned. I couldn’t deny that his energy was captivating. I loved how animated he was, the passion in his voice, and his warmth. His smile was as infectious as his enthusiasm, and, yes, he was beautiful in a way that was difficult to ignore. 

He said, “There are things I’d love to share with you one day.” 

I laughed. “Oh, go on, I can’t wait … tell me your secrets.” 

He seemed surprised by this request but quickly regained his composure. “You will hate me.” 

“Uh, I think it’s safe to say, based on whatever the hell just happened here tonight, we are friends. I would never hate you. There is nothing you can say to me that would make me hate you. And nothing shocks me, by the way.” 

“Nothing? How sad for you at such a tender age!” 

“I would try to be helpful and not judge.” 

“You will turn away.” 

“Oh, man, you are so dramatic. What could be so terrible? I’d never turn away from you.” 

“You say that now.” 

“Does this have something to do with me?” 

“No, my dear.” 

“Then what?” 

“I am struggling with my dark side.” 

“What dark side? Are you a vampire or something?” 

He laughed. “Metaphorically speaking, I am, indeed.” 

“Seriously,” I teased. “It’s okay if you are a vampire … really. I’d still be your friend.” 

He laughed more. 

“No shock if that’s the secret.” 

“But you’ve seen me in daytime!” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’ve seen me laugh and smile … no fangs.” 

“That’s true.” 

As maddening and exasperating as he was, I had to wonder if this drama was part of his repertoire—another stunning performance pulled from his bag of tricks. Perhaps I was dealing with the “Lord Hades” that Billy despised, and, of course, I would resist him at any cost. It was a promise I made to myself. 

As far as reinforcing the strength of my mind’s resolve, my body was a useless entity. In his presence, it betrayed me like dangerous waters beckoning to me in their mystifying beauty, the thrill of their tantalizing fluidity caressing my body as I resisted taking the plunge. Yes, my body betrayed me. It ignored me like a preoccupied stranger. With a will of its own, it intoxicated me. As I had cruelly learned, I could control what happened to it only if people were merciful. Watching Valentin, and listening to him, was not merciful. It was a torturous joy. 

“I want you to know something,” he said. 

“Although you’re not going to tell me—” 

“I’m talking about something else.” His tormented eyes focused on me, seeming to yield no mercy. 

“You do know you have Scorpio eyes, right?” I said it, not knowing why, or how I dared. 

He responded to my question with a beguiling smile that made me want to surrender to him in all ways. “Yes, the Scorpio eyes,” he said. “I’ve heard that. I suppose it would be true of you, as well, but it’s possible we both coincidentally match that description.” His voice was more tantalizing than I wanted it to be. 

I remembered he had commented on my eyes before. Now I had begun to use eye shadow and mascara, which enhanced the effect. 

“What do you think?” I asked him. 

“I really don’t know. I have no way of knowing.” 

“But you think I match the description.” 

He leaned over the bar now, resting his arms on the edge. “I want you to know that my respect for you knows no bounds, that you never have to fear me, because I’d never betray your trust. As for your eyes, I’ll put it this way. I’m looking into these almond-shaped gems, big and booming, a brilliant witch hazel with specks of amber, gold, brown, and green, different colors in different lights. Even at a distance, they are full of mysterious lights. They have the hypnotic intensity to entrance. Up close, they shine with a never-ending curiosity, all the while guarded. Above all, you have the eyes of an angel, a bit mischievous, perhaps, but always sparkling with your love, caring, and concern.” 

My skin tingled, and I doubt my expression concealed my surprise. “Wow, you’re good,” I said. “Are you a poet, too?” 

“Oh, hell no.” He stood and backed away a few paces. “But I am an artist. I notice details.” 

Joey returned then, and the car owner arrived with a friend. It was too soon—way too soon. Valentin introduced everyone, and, after the exchange of pleasantries, I headed out with Joey and the others. 

“Goodbye, Danielle,” Valentin said before we left. “Good luck.” 

I smiled, thanking him. 

As a favor to Valentin, I got a sweet deal on the car and agreed to buy it. 

On the way to the parking lot, I teased Joey. “Thanks for leaving me alone with them.” 

He laughed. “Were you scared?” 

“Billy said Valentin and Gianni are Hells Angels.” 

“No,” he said, “one of the clubs Gianni belongs to is affiliated with the Hells Angels. That’s the only link between us and them.” 

“He also said Valentin was a member of the Pagans.” 

“That would make no sense if he thought V was HA. HA and the Pagans are rival gangs. Valentin doesn’t belong to either one.” 

“The Warlocks, maybe?” 

“No, he belongs to a local club. Tommy and Gianni belong to veterans’ clubs. Nico and I have no affiliations. We ride independent, but there’s nothing wrong with the clubs. They do charity toy runs for donations to children. The Lynx are good people, and we’re not derelicts, like Billy might have people believe. We all have jobs.” 

We reached his bike and stopped. 

I said, “What’s interesting is, I have no idea what any of them do. I know Valentin is some kind of artist.” 

“Yeah, a graphic artist. He works for an ad agency in Manhattan. They just promoted him to assistant art director. Nico wants to do the same thing.” 

I was delightfully surprised again. “Well, you still left me alone with him. I know Katharine was there but not for long.” 

“I trust Valentin.” 

“What, that he wouldn’t hit on me? That he would jump to my defense if some other guy came in and started harassing me?” 

“Yes and yes.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“I know him.” 

“For how long? Because up until a couple of months ago, I’d never heard of him.” 

“Over a year.” 

“So, after knowing him a year, you’re sure he would never do that, never be tempted.” 

“I can’t say whether or not he’d be tempted. You’re a beautiful girl.” 

“Aw, well, thanks. Anyway, Katharine was doing a number on him.” 

“Yeah, she always gets him to give in. That’s the whole problem. He has a soft spot when it comes to her. That’s what’s really going on, not that he wants to use or hurt her. He married her because he wanted to step up, be the gentleman, but he’s not ready for that.” 

“Yet they have two children.” 

“They have one.” 

“Billy said two.” 

“They’re from different mothers.” 

“Oh, God … so he doesn’t learn his lessons, does he? Who’s the other one?” 

“The mother of his son lives in New York. I never see her. But I do think he learned his lesson. I’m pretty sure about that.” 

“Would you vouch for Nico, too, that he wouldn’t pursue me?” 

“Maybe to a lesser extent, but yeah.” 

“Gianni?” 

“Not Gianni.” 

I had to laugh. “You do know he has a thing for me.” 

“Yes.” 

“Really?” 

“Nico told me. More people are watching out for you than you think. Don’t get me wrong, I trust Gianni, but I’m glad you turned him down.” 

“You know I turned him down, too?” 

“He told Valentin. Hey, don’t worry about it. Just put that freaking helmet on, so we can get out of here. Doesn’t sound to me like you were too scared about Valentin.” He helped me strap the helmet on before getting on the bike sans his own helmet. I got behind him and braced myself for the chilly ride home. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

SHE SAID NO, BUT YOU DIDN’T CARE

SHE SAID NO

Dying embers set alight—

What had those vile creatures unleashed in me?

What beast had they awakened? 

I think I vowed to kill the beast

With a single flame’s fury and resilience,

Bury it so deep in the abyss

That it would never again rear its ugly head.

Part of me did make this promise.

The other part embraced

An unfolding of life’s inextinguishable flames

And the mind’s unspoken bondage.

Because the crushing of one’s will

Didn’t cease with the conquest.

Poison oozed from the wound

Like some fairy tale curse

That corrupted your spirit,

Making it so vile,

You couldn’t know or understand your desires. 

Kyrian Lyndon – Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths

Image by Eleatell from Pixabay 

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 14

Chapter Fourteen 

At this hopeful hour, the cawing of crows seemed ordinary. All of nature’s creatures sounded calm and eager for the new day. Licorice, our black, green-eyed Manx, had decided to curl up near my pillow. He purred now as I began petting him, and I smiled. There wouldn’t be much time to write this day, but if all went well, I’d be getting a new car. 

I sprang out of bed and showered then went to the kitchen. My dad was there in his robe and slippers, making coffee. 

“Good morning, Daddy!” I said. 

“Good morning!” He smiled before taking notice of my bare feet on the linoleum floor. “It’s cold,” he said. “Put something on your feet. You want coffee?”He was taking cups and plates out of the cabinets, setting them down on the countertops. 

“I’m going to look at a car with Joey today,” I said. 

He opened the refrigerator and grabbed milk, butter, jelly, and a couple of grapefruits. “Zuza’s coming to eat with us today. What’s the rush?” 

“We’ll be back by then,” I assured him. 

He went about making toast and setting the table. My mother joined us, and we had breakfast. Moments later, I did my routine check from the dining room window. Phil and Sergio seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. They had conquered as much as they would conquer of me, and it was on to the next mark, the next will to disregard, the next spirit to break. 

Farran called. She wanted to know what Gianni said to me the night before, when he walked me to my door. I filled her in. 

“I think he’s trying to tell you this is something very different with you and him,” she said. “It’s like a fairy tale prince finding his princess. You’re helping him realize he’s with the wrong girl, but I think he already suspected that. I think he doesn’t want to talk bad about Liz, but from what he said, he’s not sure about her.” 

“Nice of you to write this script for him,” I replied, “but he never once said, ‘I will leave Liz.’ Not that it matters. I wouldn’t want him to, but he never said that. I wouldn’t hurt Liz, friend or not, but you keep ignoring the fact that these guys have been around the block a bunch of times, and we haven’t turned a corner. He’s almost seven years older than me!” 

“Listen to you!” I could hear her teeth clenching. “You know, you’re good with all the prissy, proper talk, but if you’d stop revolting against everything and everyone for one minute, you’d see a break in the clouds. The heart does not care about numbers! He’s attracted to you in spite of your age not because of it. He’s taking his cues from you, Dani. Give him a break. He has unexpectedly fallen in love with you, and you didn’t give him a shred of hope or encouragement. You could’ve had him. You could’ve had Gianni Bonafacio! Liz would have been history. I guarantee it. I don’t see him flirting and falling for others. He’s serious about you, and I believe he’d take good care of you and protect you with all of his heart. He loves you!” 

“He doesn’t know me well enough to love me.” 

“You’re crazy, man! You should go for it.” 

“Well, I guess I could say the same about you and Tommy.” 

“Tommy is a friend.” 

“Couldn’t tell by the way you were kissing him.” 

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to do that. We were talking about you and Gianni.” She laughed. 

I told her I had to go and went back downstairs. 

My mother called from the dining room. “I have something for you,” she said as I entered. She was in a sleeveless top and shorts, holding a dust cloth. She told me to wait. Then she put the rag down and vanished. She returned with one of those Captain Zoom records that would say your name about eight times in a personalized happy birthday song. She played it for me, smiling. Seeing me laugh, she laughed, too, and her little shoulders shook. There were many different sides to this woman, and this side was the one I loved best—the child within who loved silly things. She could laugh to the point of tears at something like this. 

“I was going to give it to you Tuesday,” she said, “but since we’re celebrating your birthday today, I couldn’t wait.” 

We hugged. 

Before long, she was in the kitchen making lasagna, stirring her simmering sauce, and shifting meats that were stewing in the saucepot. 

Joey arrived at noon, and we took off on his bike. 

The car owner lived on Shady Hill Lane, right off Manchester—a little over a mile from me, except we had gone the wrong way. By the time we arrived, the guy was sitting on his porch with the mechanic I had hired to meet us there. They were having beers. 

“Oh, great,” Joey said. “They’re best buds now.” 

We both laughed. 

“I wish you would have told me about the mechanic,” he said. “I could have had Valentin meet us.” 

“Valentin!” My heart raced. “Why? Is he a mechanic?” 

“No, but he’s good with cars and bikes. I was at his house yesterday with Nico. I watched Village of the Damned with him. If I knew, I could have asked.” 

The car we saw looked great—a light blue ‘83 Nissan Sentra—but I was disappointed with the mechanic’s assessment. Joey told the owner we’d get back to him. The moment we got home, he called Valentin. 

“There’s a 300ZX you can look at,” he said after hanging up. “His friend’s selling it, but we have to leave after we eat. The guy’s gonna meet us at the Meadowside Inn in Milford. I got the address.” 

My mother had changed into a pretty dress by now. Everyone arrived before two. Zuza brought a batch of Italian cookies wrapped in cellophane, sealed with a red ribbon and bow. Angie gave me a sweetly wrapped gift of purple legwarmers. She blushed and smiled when I gave her an extra tight squeeze. My grandmother fretted that Angie’s hands were cold and said she looked thinner. 

Buon compleanno!” Uncle Dom shouted. He turned to my father. “Ay, goomba!” He held a brown paper bag, which he handed to him—fresh Italian bread he had picked up at the deli. Most Sunday mornings, they went to the Italian deli together to shop for homemade pasta and sliced Italian meats, or they went to the bakery and brought back cannoli with other Italian pastries. Uncle Dom was my father’s paesano. They went fishing, especially during Lent, along the Quinnipiac or Farmington River, or to Crescent Lake in Southington. They also hunted in Enders State Forest with a group of guys they played cards with. 

I asked Angie if she’d gotten any sleep, and she shrugged. 

“This one doesn’t sleep and eat enough, and my husband doesn’t stop smoking,” Zuza complained. “He had bronchitis again.” 

As children, my brothers and I used to say Zuza was beautiful—the pronounced Italian accent, her dark eyes, and the dark hair she wore in a loose wave of curls caressing her shoulders. She was not as tiny as my mother was, but she was small. She was not as stylish or as glamorous, but she was praiseworthy in every regard. These days, she was a rounder version of her younger self with a short, stylish haircut but still lovely. I was beginning to see a resemblance between her and Angie, though Angie looked more like her dad. 

I asked Uncle Dom how he was feeling. 

“Better than ever,” he assured me with a broad smile. “Thank you for asking.” 

My father tried to give him money for the bread, but Uncle Dom cursed him in Italian. My father cursed back. My grandmother said they had fought all the time, even as kids. 

When it was time to settle at the table, my father poured the wine and toasted me. Once he said, “Salute,” we all banged glasses, no matter what we were drinking, no matter how awkward our positions were. Everyone wished me a happy birthday again. There was chatter throughout the meal. I encouraged my father to tell us about him and Uncle Dom fighting back in Italy. 

“Oh, yeah, he was a big troublemaker,” my father said. “My mother didn’t want him talking to Zuza. He would do magic tricks, and some of the old people in the town believed magic comes from the devil, you know. My mother, she didn’t trust him. As time went on, she was seeing, more and more, he was good. Then, one day, he asked Papa if he could marry Zuza, and both Mama and Papa agreed. They got to love him like a son.” 

I’m certain my eyes were as wide as my smile. “What was it like to live in Pozzilli?” I asked. 

“It’s beautiful there,” Uncle Dom mused. “On the hills, you see vineyards, olive trees, lakes, the river in the valley, Triverno Stream. You go through the woods, and it’s like a fairy tale. And the mountains after it snowed? You wouldn’t believe it.” 

“Mama and Zuza would bake bread all the time,” my father said, “and the whole house filled with the aroma. I tell ya, it was heaven.” 

Uncle Dom shifted the focus to me. “How’s the writing?” 

This topic appeared to capture Zuza’s interest as well, and both of them seemed pleased to hear I was still hard at work on the novel. Then Zuza asked if I wanted to be a petite model for her dresses. She designed and created formal wear for the dress shop she owned. 

My first thought was that it would likely be Saturdays, and my Saturdays were devoted to writing. It would be a disruption not only to my routine but also to the pursuit of my passion. 

“Ay, you’re not going to be rich,” she said, “but you’re not going to do it for free, either. I’ll pay you by the hour.” 

I knew Angie had modeled for her mother in the past, and it wasn’t a big deal. Still, I hesitated. 

“Listen, you can try,” Zuza told me. “If you don’t like to do it, then you tell me.” 

I agreed, because it was Zuza. 

“Good,” she said. “Stop by after school tomorrow if you can, and I’ll take your measurements.” 

Robbie interrupted that conversation when he called to wish me a happy birthday and to say hello to the rest of the family. 

My dad protested about Joey and me leaving to go see the car, but Uncle Dom and Aunt Zuza assured us that we could all have dessert later. Angie said she was going home to check on her dog anyway and would be back in time for dessert. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 13

Chapter Thirteen 

The first week in November, I had an interview with an advertising agency in Glastonbury. My school uniform—white-collared blouse, gray skirt, and navy-blue vest under a blazer, seemed perfect for a good first impression. 

Angie had an interview that same day with a management consultant firm. We were together at school during lunch when she tried to reschedule the appointment. She told them her dog was sick, and she had to take him to the vet. 

She looked pale when she hung up. “They said someone else could take him.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I said no. My dog needs me.” 

She was on my mind during the ten-minute bus ride from school to the interview. I hoped for a good outcome—for Angie, for the dog, and for me. 

The personnel director at the ad agency seemed genuinely impressed that, in my junior year, I’d worked part-time as a secretary to four vice presidents at a lighting fixture distributor company. She gave me the grand tour. Everyone seemed friendly. 

When I got home, I called Angie for an update. 

“He’s better,” she said, “but I’m gonna stay with him tonight. I know it’s the weekend, but I have to study anyway. My parents are upset that I’m falling behind in everything.” 

That surprised me. “I didn’t realize you were falling behind.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been having a hard time falling asleep at night and a hard time waking up in the morning. It’s okay. I’ll be fine. How’d the interview go? Did you get the job?” 

“Yes,” I said. “They’re going to start me as a floating temp, so they can see where I fit best. Are you okay?” 

“I’m okay,” she replied. “I just need to get off the phone. I’m happy you got the job, though. Congrats.” 

I called Farran next. She congratulated me before asking about Angie’s interview. 

“Bless her heart,” she said after I’d explained. “She rescued that sweet puppy! I can understand her wanting to be home with him. It looks like we’ll all be staying home tonight anyway. I can’t get my mother’s car anymore.” 

I was sure it had to do with the price of gas—that she couldn’t afford it after quitting her part-time job at a gift shop. Her father left when she was a child, and I supposed he had continued to provide minimal support, but her white-haired mother, one of the sweetest women I’d ever met, suffered from various illnesses and physical limitations. Farran’s only sibling, a biologist, had headed off to the Peruvian jungles with his wife. While Farran and her mom appeared to have the essentials, their home remained mostly lamplit. It was hard not to notice the considerable difference between her house and mine. 

I offered to pay for the gas. 

“I’ll try to find something on campus at Manchester Community,” she said, as though I hadn’t said a word. “Logistically, that’ll be easier to pull off. With the respiratory care program, I could be working at a hospital in two years. I know that won’t help us now, but …” 

“Let me give you the money,” I insisted. “We’ve been going to the Cove for months, and I never had to pay for gas. I have a job now, and I don’t have expenses.” 

“Oh, wait, you know what?” There was a lilt in her voice. “We can actually get a ride from my neighbor. She hangs out at a bar in New Haven—near East Rock or something. She’s meeting her boyfriend, and she won’t be going back to East Hartford ‘til Sunday, but one of the guys could give us a ride back.” 

Evidently, I was not adept at social cues, so I tried again. “What’s wrong with me giving you the money?” 

“There’s no reason to. Look, when you get your car, you’ll always be the one getting gas. That’ll be, what, in a week or two?” 

“So?” 

“I’m not allowed to take the car, Dani. Can we leave it at that?” 

“Fine,” I said, “but I’m bringing cab money to get back. I’m not going around asking for rides.” 

“I’m sure someone will offer.” 

It was as if she’d accept anyone’s help before mine. 

At the Cove that night, she talked nonstop about Valentin while sipping one Gin Rickey after another. “I heard he has a gorgeous 1978 King Cobra Mustang, blue with black interior,” she raved. “A ‘Stang and a Harley Electra Glide Ultra Classic, wow. I just hope he doesn’t take a better look at that body of yours and decide he wants you.” 

I was quick to respond. “You have a nice body, too, Farran.” 

She shifted gears. “I miss my Angie girl. Poor thing really wanted that job—easy bus ride to and from school, good pay. I feel terrible for her.” 

“Me, too. In fact, I’m worried.” 

“Worried, why?” 

I guzzled what remained of my Tequila Sunrise, savoring the taste along with every glorious sensation. “I really want to tell you what happened that day, because I don’t think you understand.” 

She stared blankly at me. “Understand what?” 

“When we went with those guys to Pleasure Beach, they drugged Angie and me.” 

Her eyes widened. “Angie didn’t say she was drugged.” 

“She was, and it didn’t affect us the same way. I could tell from the beginning. I may not remember everything, but she doesn’t remember anything.” 

“I’m confused, Dani. You imply that you were raped, and then you say you’re a virgin.” 

“Just because that final thing didn’t happen …” I shifted nervously in my chair. “I mean, oral sex is rape, too, but everything that did happen—it was a crime, Farran.” 

“Okay, how exactly did they force you? I didn’t see any bruises, not even a scratch.” 

At the time, I didn’t know how to answer that question. Of course, the point of drugging us was so they didn’t have to be brutal. They weren’t screaming at me or making derogatory remarks. Rather, they were enamored of my body and me. 

“And why didn’t you call the cops when it happened?” she went on. “You can still call the cops if you feel they’re harassing you. That’s what I don’t understand.” 

I clenched my teeth. “What I don’t understand is how you can sit there and challenge anything I say about what happened. You weren’t there. As for your suggestions, if I can’t convince you that this happened, and the person who was there doesn’t remember, how am I supposed to convince someone else?” 

She shrugged. “Well, that’s just it. Angie doesn’t remember anything like that, and, damn, I hate to think anyone would put you two through what sounds like a terrifying experience. I mean, we’re so young. We’re innocent, really. Is the world that cruel? Could these two guys have been that cruel?” 

“Are you kidding me?” I took a deep breath then exhaled. “Do we live in the same world? Yes and yes again.” 

“Dani, I know your father has a temper. I think he made you fearful and distrusting of all men. Look, my heart goes out to you, but that could be the reason you reacted so strongly to Tommy’s nonsense, too, as a kid.” 

“Ha! I’m afraid of men. You know what you just reminded me of? When Angie and me were hanging out at Addison Park, boys said that because we weren’t ready for sex, we had to be stuck-up, lesbian, or afraid of boys. Of course, it couldn’t have been that we were thirteen years old at the time. That would have been when the little bell or buzzer should have gone off … like, right answer. No, something had to be wrong with us, not them for pushing the issue. Bullshit. I was with Mike a long time, and when we broke up, the other boys were still saying that crap about me.” 

She raised a brow. “Yeah, but, Dani, I remember you were always uptight even with Mike. You haven’t changed. You never felt normal, and you wanted to do drugs back then. You told me about things that happened in your childhood, like Robbie saying you lived in your own little world, and the strange things you did, and those incidents you thought you remembered as an infant—” 

“None of that changes anything.” 

She was shaking her head. “You know, this is a difficult subject to talk about, but I’ve been trying to help you sort this out. I feel bad. All I’m saying is, maybe you need to take some action—you know, like talk with someone who’s in a position to help. Girl, I’m your friend. I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere.”She flashed a smile, and I melted. I think her empathy was a thing I craved, along with any reassurance that she was, indeed, my friend. 

We opted for another round of drinks, which helped me shift everything to the depths of my subconscious. 

She changed the subject. “Gianni’s been staring at you again.” 

I knew that but said nothing in response. 

“Did you know he has a boat? Tommy told me. It’s pretty big, sleeps six.” 

“Is that supposed to make me want to bust up his relationship with Liz?” 

She twirled her hair. “I just thought it would be a lot of fun. Gianni is Valentin’s best friend, you know. If I snag Valentin, Angie gets Nico, and you grab Gianni, we’d be the new Lynx women. We’d get to go everywhere with them. They all go out on that boat when the weather is nice, and we’d be right there with them.” 

“You conveniently forget—they’re all with someone. Why would you deliberately sabotage someone’s relationship or ruin a friendship by going after the guy someone loves?” 

She appeared astounded by this question. “He’s not married, Danielle! Plenty of women would step right over Liz to get him. She knows that, and until she has that ring on her finger, he has a right to explore other options. I say, show me the ring. You owe her nada. Besides, if two people really are friends, and the man doesn’t love her, but loves her friend, the friend he’s not in love with should be happy for the one he loves. Why shouldn’t they be happy together? And if they’re not friends, who cares? All’s fair in love and war.” 

Yeah, except when it came to Valentin. 

She went on. “I think there’s another reason you hold back. I’m not saying those other reasons are bull, but I also think, deep down, you don’t think we’re good enough for those guys.” 

I shook my head. 

“At least consider that. You think the world of them—maybe not Tommy, but the others. Do you think Shannon, Katharine, and Liz are better than we are? They’re not. We deserve those guys as much as anybody, if not more.” 

The idea wasn’t worth entertaining for me. I was still trying to get over something horrific, something no one had validated. 

“I’d never want to hurt Liz—or anyone,” I said. 

She averted her eyes. “I told you— he doesn’t look at her the way he looks at you.” 

“If he doesn’t, he should.” 

Her gaze shifted to me again, and she flashed that irresistible grin. “This thing with Gianni is classic love at first sight. You’re a writer, one who loves fairy tales, and you don’t believe in love at first sight?” 

She had no idea, but I had long since stopped believing in fairy tales, and that’s only if I ever had. 

I called us a cab before nine and began putting on my coat as we walked toward the front. 

Gianni was inches from the door, leaning against the window. Tommy faced him. Nico sat on a barstool nearby. 

Gianni gave me the once-over. “Where ya going?” 

“Home,” I answered. 

“You’re gonna walk out that door and break my heart?” He’d been drinking beer and placed the bottle on the window ledge. 

Tommy turned around. 

I buttoned my coat, smiling. “I’m sorry.” 

He asked questions about my ethnicity—specifically, where my dad was born. 

I stopped before him. “A town called Pozzilli in Isernia.” 

“I’m a half-breed, too,” he said. “My mom’s Irish-American, father was born in Trevignano, province of Treviso, Veneto.” 

“Cool. Can I ask you something?” 

His eyes were dreamy and soulful. “How can I say no to someone as lovely as you?” He gave Tommy a wink. “Especially when you ask me with that husky little voice.” 

Nico laughed, shaking his head. 

“You were a Marine, right?” 

“Yes. Why are you leaving so early?” 

I knew Farran would not want me to give him the long version of that, so I provided a brief explanation. 

“A cab from here is gonna be expensive,” Tommy said. 

Gianni told me he would rather walk me all the way. 

“Walk! Hah!” Tommy looked amused. “You’re gonna walk to Glastonbury! Okay, she’s a very pretty girl, but that’s insane.” 

“I’d walk to the ends of the earth, if she asked.” 

Nico turned, smiling. “Bah! Geez, Giancarlo!” He turned around again and guzzled from a bar glass. I wanted to drown him in love. 

“Besides, it’s a nice night,” Gianni said. “Gives me a longer time to talk with this fascinating young lady.” 

Nico hopped off the stool and stretched, dazzling us with another smile. I wondered if he had any idea how sexy he was, stretching like that. His eyes shifted from Gianni to Tommy, and then me. 

“Don’t worry, Ginzo’s in good shape,” he said. “A forty-mile walk for him is no problem. I don’t know about Tommy, though. He’s lazy. You may end up having to carry him.” 

I laughed. “Farran’s going to carry Tommy.” 

“Seriously, I could take you home,” Gianni said again. “You can ride with me. She can ride with Tommy.” 

There was no reason to be afraid of him or any of them. They were my brother’s friends. 

“You’re giving me a ride, then?” Farran’s eyes were on Tommy. 

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Why not …?” 

“Aw, that’s so sweet.” I surprised myself, feeling anything other than repugnance where he was concerned. 

“Yeah, he’s a benevolent soul,” Gianni quipped. “Shall we go?” He grabbed his jacket, a plaid flannel one that gave him a rugged appeal. 

I cancelled the cab. 

Farran kissed Nico goodnight, a peck on the cheek. 

“Good night, Nico,” I said. He put his cheek forth for a kiss from me, and I obliged. 

“Goodnight, doll.” He endowed me with a wink, and my heart raced. “Take care of this beautiful lady,” he told Gianni. 

“Thank you,” I muttered. 

“Oh, you’re welcome,” he returned. 

The butterflies swarmed. 

“Where is Valentin, by the way?” Farran asked. “I haven’t seen him in a while.” 

“Valentin is very busy right now,” Nico replied. He walked toward the back of the bar. 

Farran and I proceeded to the parking lot with Gianni and Tommy. With their tight jeans and motorcycle buckle boots, they did have that bad boy appeal. Gianni lit a cigarette. 

“So you guys met Valentin and Nico through the McGraths?” Farran asked. 

“No, ma’am,” Gianni replied. “I met Valentin at Notre Dame High, when his family moved to Connecticut from the Bronx.” 

Tommy made his tsk sound at Farran, something he would come to do often with her. “Why are you always asking about Valentin?” 

She laid into him. “Are you going to do the Billy thing, tell me I don’t want to be a Valentin conquest or another notch on his belt?” 

“I never said anything bad about Valentin,” he shot back. “Nor would I ever.” He stopped in front of a red Harley that had an American flag on the tank. 

Gianni also did an about-face and squatted, half sitting sideways on the seat of his bike—a Harley, too, in a gorgeous shade of midnight blue. “So, tell me something about you.” He tilted his head to one side, his eyes twinkling. 

I told him about my writing. Of course, it was the first thing that popped into my head, and I’m sure it was not what he expected from a sixteen-year-old. 

He seemed mesmerized and too content to move a muscle. At one point, he kept shaking his head, smiling as if he were in awe. I could see a genuine interest, but, every so often, I did catch him checking out my body. 

“You’re smart,” he said. “Really, that’s very good. I’m sure your parents are very proud of you and supportive.” 

“My brother Robbie doesn’t think they’re supportive.” 

“He’s got a beef with your parents?” 

“Yeah, he thinks they’re the worst. Everything about them bothers him. He even got mad about some silly story my mother told us once about this man who was struck by lightning.” 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s dumb. She told us this story when we were kids. She said her brother told her. It happened in Brazil. There was an electrical storm. This brother of hers, my uncle, was walking behind some man. The man was struck by lightning, and he disappeared. She said there was nothing left on the ground but his hat.” 

Tommy looked over at us, his curiosity apparently piqued. 

“She swore it was true,” I continued. “She got upset when we questioned it, so we actually believed it, and we told everyone this story. They thought we were nuts. Years later, when I asked her about it, she denied ever having said it! But that’s not even the end of it. A few months ago, Robbie asked her about it. Now she says it did happen, but the reason the guy disappeared was because they had to take him to the hospital, and they forgot the hat!” 

Gianni and Tommy laughed so hard that even Farran had to smile. She appeared to have been listening intently, possibly wondering if I had inherited the tendency to fabricate. 

“This is a story Valentin would love,” Tommy said to Gianni. He turned to me. “Ay, ask her what hospital. Go see if it’s on file there. Ask her if he ever got the hat back or if it still fits without the head.” 

We all laughed hysterically. I needed that. 

“It never happened!” I shouted. 

How strange it seemed, to laugh with Tommy, as opposed to being the joke. I found him to be funny, and it was hard not to like him in that moment. He wasn’t off the hook, though. The disturbing comments he’d made all those years ago remained etched in my brain. 

“So Robbie is pissed off about this?” Gianni seemed surprised. 

“It’s one of the petty little things, but, yeah. It pisses him off if you remind him. He says she and my father have to lie about everything, that they don’t even need a reason.” 

Farran diverted their attention, telling Tommy she had noticed his tattoos and thought they were awesome. 

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Tommy said. “Gianni has way more than I do.” 

Gianni merely smiled, handed me a helmet, and strapped it on my head. Tommy gave one to Farran. They put on their own helmets, and we mounted the bikes. 

The ride stimulated me in ways I never could have fathomed, as did feeling Gianni’s body while I held him tight. His mastery titillated me, and the experience was exhilarating. 

Tommy stopped along with him when we arrived at my house. He waited for Gianni, who walked me to my stairway. 

Gianni kissed me good night, a peck near my lips, and his hand traveled down the length of my hair. His eyes became glazed and torturously tempting, as though I were the star of his most erotic fantasies. “You have beautiful lips,” he said. “Then again, everything about you is beautiful.” 

Again, with that word beautiful. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to it, but it felt good. At the same time, it made me nervous. 

“I’m serious,” he told me. “You’re the girl of my dreams.” 

“You’re in love with Liz,” I replied. 

“Am I?” 

“You are with her.” 

He was quiet, still looking at me. 

“You have too many eggs in your basket.” 

“Beg your pardon?” 

“You never heard that saying?” 

He laughed. “I think you mean: ‘Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.’” 

“Oh …” I laughed, too. “My mom tells me these things that get lost in translation. She messed it up.” 

He looked amused, and those twinkling eyes were killing me. He said, “I’ve never been so completely enchanted by anyone.” 

I noticed that Farran and Tommy were standing right across the road, making out. I looked at Gianni. I was infatuated with him and wanted to kiss him, but I wouldn’t dare. It did surprise me that, despite associating him and other men with danger, he was almost as easy to talk to as Valentin—well, after a few drinks, he was. In addition to making me feel charming, funny, and interesting, he made me feel sexy. I hadn’t really felt that before. 

“You know …” He hesitated. “Nah, I shouldn’t say it.” 

“Say what?” 

“You got me falling in love with you.” 

I was flattered yet dumbfounded. “How can you say that?” 

He stared a moment, then said, “You’re right. I shouldn’t have said it. Please forgive me.” 

It was both a disappointment and a relief that he would give up the idea rather than persist. He was being the man I’d wished others could have been. Then again, he had no right to come onto me, and that did warrant an apology. I was confused, so pathetically confused. In spite of everything, I would have loved a boyfriend who could see me the way I thought Gianni saw me, and respect my wishes to boot. 

We said good night, and I thanked him as he walked away. 

He waved without turning. 

It was hard not to be excited—but not only because of the incredibly sexy guys I kept running into at the Cove. There was my promising future to think about, my job, the car I would soon have, and all the wonderful things said to me of late. It was a different kind of high, for sure. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 12

Chapter Twelve 

As the weeks passed in that glorious October of ‘87, it seemed inevitable that Farran, Angie, and I would be at the Cove most Friday and Saturday nights. Admittedly, I craved the ambiance and excitement. 

I was there this Saturday night with my arm in a sling—the result of having tripped on the way to the parking lot the night before. 

It seemed to embarrass Farran. “You’ll be cut off by Steve, if he knew. You were drunk.” 

“I wasn’t drunk,” I said. 

It was true. The two or three drinks I’d usually have never caused me to stagger around, pouring my heart out, or to act impulsively. I was never loud or the life of the party. I consumed just enough to keep me on guard while making my fears and insecurities somewhat bearable. 

We were at the table farthest back from the bar. Steve was leaving. Billy had taken over bartending duties, and I was glad I had my drinks already. Billy would not serve me liquor. I was certain if Tully knew Steve did it, he would have fired him. Evidently, Billy didn’t want the guy fired, nor did he want to tell him how to do his job. 

“Don’t you quit, man,” I heard him telling Steve once. “Tully’s picky, and if you leave, I’ll get stuck behind that bar 24/7.” 

Farran interrupted my thoughts. “You’ll get plenty of attention with that sling.” 

Angie smiled, and, almost as if to the sound of trumpets, the Lynx members filed in. No one could miss the grand entrance. The Castel brothers were dapper and dashing in their long coats—Valentin flanked by Nico on the right, Tommy Catalano on the left, and Joey behind him. A brawny male of about six-foot-three walked alongside Joey. His medium brown hair was almost shoulder-length. 

Billy seemed well aware of the disturbance. It was like an atmospheric wave. 

I could see them all stopping in certain circles, giving out fisted handshakes along with the occasional kiss. It might have been a campaign trail. 

“Who’s that really tall guy?” Angie asked.“He’s good looking, too.” 

“I haven’t formally met him yet,” Farran replied, “but his name’s Giancarlo.” 

“Gianni Bonafacio,” I said. “He’s Tommy’s cousin.” 

Farran turned to me. “How do you know that?” 

“I was at his house in Bridgeport three years ago. He lives in the South End, around Black Rock—a few blocks from where Tommy lives.” 

I had liked that quaint seaside community. Joey mentioned while we were there that Pleasure Beach wasn’t far. A fanciful picture of it came to mind at the time—a lovely place I’d heard about with decades-old buildings and a dance pavilion with glass sides and bell towers, supposedly the largest ballroom in New England. People spent days at the beach and amusement park and nights dancing in the pavilion. That was back in the fifties. 

In my mind now was a chillingly different picture, one I didn’t want to think about.  

Farran was still talking to me. “You were at his house?” 

“He just came home from Beirut and was having a bachelor party for some Marine buddy,” I said. “Joey just went there to bring him a camcorder, and I tagged along.” 

“So he’s a Marine. Wow.” Moments later, she was off on a tangent with, “Valentin hates the nickname Val, you know. That’s why some people call him V. Oh, and I heard he lives in Stamford with Katharine. Nico’s living with his parents, but he’s looking for a place.” She was like this small fountain of tidbits. 

“Uh, Nico and Joey are on their way over here,” Angie warned. 

When the two reached our table, Joey explained about my arm before I could open my mouth. 

“Sorry to hear,” Nico said. His smile astounded me. 

“How long have you known Joe?” Angie asked him. 

“Hush,” Joey said with a finger to his lips. “I think there’s been a comment from Angela.” He always teased her that she was quiet. 

Nico glanced at her. “What’s that, doll?” The music was loud. 

She raised her voice. “How long have you two known each other?” 

“Not that long, but he’s become a very good friend and part of the family. You come from good stock.” He shifted his gaze to me, winked, and smiled. Someone called him then, and he excused himself.  

Joey followed. 

Farran was red-faced and smiling. “Oh, fess up, Dani. If Nico wanted to, wouldn’t you? Or are you too much of a little girl for him?” She laughed. “Hey, if you don’t wanna give it to ‘im, someone else will.” 

It took me a few minutes to recover from these declarations, which I found disturbing on many levels. 

Farran didn’t let up. “You’d do it, wouldn’t you, Angie?” 

“I have to admit, it would be really hard to resist that guy,” Angie said. “I can respect he’s with Shannon, but something happens to me whenever I see him. I don’t know, I’m getting this huge crush on him.” She giggled. 

“See, Angie’s normal,” Farran teased, grinning. “We’re young. We’re not saints. It’s only natural to feel this way.” 

“Thank you for defining normal.” I rolled my eyes. “These are experienced men. You have to be careful what you’re asking for.” 

She held my gaze with a look of bold defiance. “Maybe I want what I am asking for.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “By the way, Giancarlo is checking you out.” 

I shrugged. “Maybe he recognizes me and can’t remember why.” 

“He watches you a lot, though. He was in a trance the moment he saw you.” 

The arrival of Valentin at our table interrupted this uncomfortable exchange. He asked about my arm, and I downplayed it, not wanting to incur Farran’s wrath. 

His eyes scanned our little trio. “How’s school?” 

Perhaps Farran took offense to this question, a reminder that we were young, or that it was a polite way of conversing with minors. She appeared stumped. 

The liquid courage helped, but I didn’t mind the subject of school. My English teacher had an enthusiasm for literature that matched my own. My classmates seemed to appreciate my talents and often asked me to share my poetry. 

“Good,” I replied. “This year’s been great. I really love my English teacher. He rents movies for us to watch in class so we can talk about them, like Wuthering Heights, which is my favorite, and then Nicholas and Alexandra.” 

He looked at me. “You like Wuthering Heights?” 

I told him I loved the bizarre romance on the Yorkshire Moors, and he said it was a favorite of his. He asked what authors I liked. I rattled off quite a few, and it became apparent we liked many of the same writers. The opportunity to talk with anyone about books delighted me. Most of the people in my everyday world had little, if any, interest in reading. In grade school, my favorite thing had been ordering books. After picking out so many that I liked, it took forever to narrow it down. When the books arrived, the sight of those fresh paperbacks thrilled me. In high school, I couldn’t wait to read the classics that made the other kids groan. 

Before I knew it, Valentin’s coat was over his arm, and he was standing there chatting with me about poets—Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley among them. He recommended John Keats. 

There was little time to savor that and no time to continue. A song came on: “Dancing on the Ceiling” by Lionel Richie. Shannon entered from the back—perhaps the kitchen or some other part of the building, since she wasn’t wearing a coat. She began dancing and then grabbed Valentin. He had to toss someone his coat. Onlookers backed away to give them room, obviously enthralled by the performance that followed. Shannon and Valentin were good dancers and so good at being sexy with their undulating hips and perfect spins—him, especially. 

To say I couldn’t take my eyes off him—well, that was the least of it. I felt this burgeoning desire from the depths of me, like dying embers set alight with a single flame’s fury and resilience. It was mindboggling to me that he triggered this response after those two men and Pleasure Beach. What had those vile creatures unleashed in me? What beast had they awakened? I think I vowed to kill the beast and bury it so deep in the abyss that it would never again rear its ugly head. Part of me did make this promise. The other part embraced an unfolding of life’s inextinguishable flames and the mind’s unspoken bondage. 

Angie smiled now, shaking her head. “I wonder what Nico’s thinking.” 

Valentin was closer to Shannon when the music began, but Nico was nearby, and he stood alone. 

Angie called out to him. “Nico, why aren’t you dancing?” 

He looked at her, his eyes glazed, and smiled warmly. “I’m beat, doll … long day.” He glanced at me, treating me to a wink and a smile. After the dance, Shannon went to him and kissed him quite passionately before they went up to the bar. 

Farran turned to me. “Uh, thanks a lot for carrying on with Valentin about Wuthering Heights and every other thing.” 

I tried to laugh it off. “Should I not talk to him?” 

“Dani, when you get on those subjects, you come alive. You get very excited. I can understand that, but it’s like you don’t even know Angie and I are still sitting here. You’re oblivious to anything else going on around you. I mean, I’d like to talk to him, too.” 

Valentin didn’t stay long after that. He never did. 

We went up to the bar. Farran went to grab a hold of Tommy for some reason, and Angie trailed after her, so I stood alone in front of Billy, feeling nervous. Gianni headed toward Billy with a slow, lazy swagger, moving a step closer to me with every click of his boots. 

He asked Billy for a Black Sunday then turned to me, touching my sling. “What happened?” His voice was gentle and soothing. His dimpled chin was sexy. 

“It’s a ridiculous story.” I said. “You don’t want to know.” 

“I love ridiculous stories.” He was soft-spoken with a velvety voice. “Tell me.” 

“I tripped over a broken stop sign.” 

He met my gaze fearlessly, and I noticed the color of his eyes—hazel like mine.“You tripped over a broken stop sign. Where do you find broken stop signs you could trip over?” 

“Yeah, well, it was only about yea big.” I demonstrated with my hand. “Maybe a foot. And it was dark. I missed it.” 

“I see.” 

Though he wore a denim jacket adorned with patches, emblems, and embroidery, it was open to reveal a tight black shirt, one that couldn’t hide a well-defined masculine chest and broad shoulders. I imagined anyone would feel safe in his big, strong arms.  

I smiled. “You don’t remember me. Or do you?” 

“Should I?” 

“I came to your house in Bridgeport with my brother Joey.” 

“Now that you mention it, I do. You were a kid then and now…” He paused briefly, as if studying me a moment. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” 

“Thanks. Well, do you still live in Bridgeport?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I remember there was a lady with you.” I recalled she was Asian and pretty. After introductions, Gianni had invited us to sit and offered sodas, but I have no memory of what we discussed. 

“The young lady and I parted ways some time ago.” 

Billy handed him the drink. 

Gianni put money down on the counter and clasped the glass. He looked at me. “Are you even eighteen yet? Where’s your boyfriend? You must have a boyfriend.” 

Billy clenched his teeth. 

“I’ll be seventeen soon, and I don’t … have a boyfriend. I’m keeping out of trouble.”  

Gianni shook his head and then lifted the glass to salute me. 

He had a two-way radio with him, which now transmitted interference. He took it out of his jacket. “Yeah, what is it?” 

A loud, muddled voice came through. “We could use you, G, but it’s an NE—your call.” 

“Be right there. I do owe you one.” 

“Thanks.” 

Gianni put the radio back in his pocket. 

“Are you a cop?” I was curious. 

“He’s not a cop,” Billy answered for him. 

With a nod in my direction, Gianni departed. 

“He’s a bodyguard,” Billy said. “I think he wants to be a cop. Just be careful around them. I have my suspicions that Gianni and Valentin are connected to the Hells Angels, and Valentin’s been linked to the Pagans and Warlocks.” 

I had to ask. “What are the Pagans and Warlocks?” 

“Other motorcycle gangs,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Gianni wears a bulletproof vest at times and carries a gun.” 

I don’t know why, but the idea of Gianni in a bulletproof vest, carrying a gun, was exciting to me. I did wonder how good it would feel, him holding me safe in his arms, comforting me, caressing my hair as I buried my head in his chest, holding me closer as I cried on his shoulders, and then cuddling with me in his bed. 

All of them were gone within the hour, and I’m sure Billy was glad. 

With and without his help, however, I learned a lot about the Lynx. 

I could tell much about what was going on in the various romantic situations by the songs people played on the jukebox. Nico would play “In Too Deep” by Genesis more than any other song. 

Katharine and Shannon liked to play Whitney Houston’s “You Give Good Love,” because, according to Farran, Valentin and Nico had to be the ultimate lovers. The three of us had fun speculating. 

I noticed every little thing about the Lynx—like the way they all used “doll” when addressing females. And they focused on you when you spoke to them. They paid attention, and I liked that.  

Tommy was an integral part of the gang—nicknamed Tommy Cat. We learned he was an Air Force paratrooper, honorably discharged. Someone said he had participated in the bombing strikes on Libya. He worked as a delivery driver for an auto parts store and now lived alone in the Bridgeport house. I had never again seen him as drunk as he’d been that first night we reconnected. In fact, he often seemed more sober and grounded than anyone else. 

Valentin came across as the most genuine and approachable of the bunch. He was not around as much as the others. All the more reason for Farran to appear spellbound when he was there, and he would remain the god of gods, something of a legend, all-powerful, and then he’d just laugh like crazy because I’m sure even he knew how silly it was. Women fell in love with everything there was to love about him, including his laughter. 

Gianni and Nico, on the other hand, had the air of icons who, every so often, consented to grace you with their presence. Nico, however, seemed guarded and a bit less secure than the others, but he had an endearing innocence about him. 

Gianni would be in the bar only a few minutes before Farran would say, “Look, he’s staring at you.” 

“Just be careful,” she told me another time. “Liz is his girlfriend.” 

She pointed her out to me: a pretty, doe-eyed brunette, maybe five-foot-seven, with hair styled in a meticulous bob. I thought she could be a model, considering her boyish, athletic frame and petite bone structure. Her makeup was perfect, her style of dress modest and tasteful, with a designer bag always strapped over her shoulder. She plopped herself into Gianni’s lap whenever I came into view, some kind of animalistic marking of her territory, and she made it a point to be all over him. Farran found this behavior hilarious. Gianni would gently caress Liz as he might do with a pet that belonged to him. 

“He is stunned by you,” Farran insisted. “He doesn’t look at anyone else like that, not even Liz. Damn, even when Liz is with him, he can’t take his eyes off you. She is so jealous of you. Not kidding, man, she hates you.” 

I didn’t hate Liz, or even dislike her, but I couldn’t understand her perception of me as a rival. I was unable to relate to her jealousy. She was the star of this show, along with the entire Lynx gang. I was an audience member riveted by their adventures, using booze now and then as my popcorn. Getting up on that stage with them wasn’t part of my plan. 

Flattered as I was, I would not pursue Gianni while he had a girlfriend, particularly one I had seen in his arms. I would not pursue him at all. 

Not that I didn’t want a boyfriend. The thought of having a guy who respected my wishes seemed tangled up with fantasies about these take-charge older men who could easily overpower me. Before Phil and Sergio, I’d known what I wanted, but I now found myself in a position of needing to sort out my confusion. The crushing of one’s will didn’t cease with the conquest. Poison oozed from the wound like some fairy tale curse that corrupted your spirit, making it so vile that you couldn’t know or understand your desires. 

I tried not to look at Gianni. It irked me that he had the balls to undress me with his eyes. I could only blush and look away. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 11

Chapter Eleven 

Paul Catalano was shorter and pudgier than his brother, Tommy, was. He had a broad face, similar light brown eyes, lighter hair, and a prepossessing smile. He’d kissed me in a garage during a game of hide-and-seek when I was nine. It was a forceful peck on the side of my mouth. After a brief delay, I opened my mouth once or twice to say something and then dashed right out of there. In my daunted state, it was like fleeing the accursed grip of a murky tomb into the glare of the blinding sun. 

In September of fifth grade, he walked up to me in school and hugged me. I didn’t know what to do with my arms. Another morning, I felt something at my back when I exited the coatroom, a mere graze, but it tickled me and caused me to jerk and jiggle, twisting as I turned. It was Paul trying to feel for my bra strap from the outside of my blouse. He smiled, and I noticed then that other boys had been watching. I hastened to my seat, humiliated, but the expressions on their faces surprised me. They were somewhat in awe. 

Not a week later, at the end of class, I was about to slip my arms through my coat sleeves when Paul came to me. He grinned before hugging me, burying his head in my chest, and rolling it from side to side as though savoring the moment. Other boys watched, wide-eyed. I saw their smiles and heard their laughter as I pushed Paul back with all the strength I could muster. In a trancelike state, I slipped my arms through my coat sleeves and maneuvered the buttons. Paul and his friends were still watching, smiling, and laughing, their eyes sparkling with admiration. 

It confused me. I neither wanted to be a victim of ridicule nor a target of desire. If I could have chosen the middle ground of being invisible, I would have. 

Years later, Robbie seemed horrified when his friends liked me, leered at me, or told him I was cute. He hung around at Addison Park, as Joey sometimes did. Tommy Catalano made the occasional appearance as well—until his mother died, and he moved with Paul and his father to Bridgeport. Angie and I rode up on our bikes, like many of the other kids. Some lived outside of Glastonbury, including Farran. She walked to Addison Park from her little house on Timber Trail in East Hartford. 

Upon introduction, the first thing Farran said to me was, “I love your brothers, man. They are awesome.” Of course, I agreed. By then, I thought everybody was awesome but me. My brothers were outgoing charmers who made people laugh. Boys liked them. Girls adored them. Joey had achieved something of a teen idol status. 

I was another story, in Jordache or Bonjour jeans, with long, oversized tops and my Keds, my hair in either a loose bun or ponytail, always neatly fastened with a barrette. Angie and I sat by the courts, on the bleachers, or on the grass. We watched people play baseball or basketball. When the ice-cream truck came, we rushed over to buy cones and then sat on a bench to relish every gluttonous lick. 

Robbie never wanted me there. He would tell me to go home. Joey would tell Robbie to keep an eye on me. 

Addison Park was where I saw Mike McGrath for the first time, and where I’d dreamily noticed his blond hair and cornflower blue eyes. He was walking with his jacket over his arm, and something fell out of the pocket. He kept walking. I went to pick it up—this tiny prayer book. On my way to returning it to him, Farran raced over. She introduced us, and, after he’d left, I realized I hadn’t given him the prayer book. Angie and I were talking about it later. I showed it to her and then accidentally dropped it into a nearby trash receptacle. Shannon came along while I was trying to retrieve it. 

I approached her, book in hand. 

“You’re Mike’s sister, right?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“Um, this is his.” I tried wiping off the book with my hand, embarrassed. “I dropped it. I mean, he dropped it first, and then I … I didn’t mean to drop it, but …” 

She laughed and took the book for him. 

When Mike came to the park, he liked to sit on a table or perched on top of a bench. He and his friends would drink beer they concealed in a brown paper bag. Every sighting of him had me in a hopeless state of thrill and panic. Angie seemed to think I had caught his attention—that he was checking me out whenever he passed with his friends. 

He did ask me out. He invited me to his house. I rode my bike there, feeling great until something splashed on my head—something cold and squishy. Shannon was headed my way, and the moment she reached me, I told her, in a panicked state, what I’d suspected had happened. 

She leaned forward to examine my head. “Yep,” she said. “You have pigeon shit in your hair.” With an effervescent chuckle, she tapped my arm. “Come with me. We’ll wash it out, and he’ll never know what happened. We just have to work fast.” 

She took me to a small bathroom at her neighbor’s house, where I sat on the toilet while she washed out the green goo. She styled my hair into a side ponytail. I must have thanked her a hundred times, and the smile rarely disappeared from her face. Before going her merry way, she told me a pigeon crapping on my head was good luck. Feeling nervous, I went to the house, climbed the steps, and rang the doorbell. Billy came to the door. He seemed big, with a strong build, and handsome. 

His wide grin put me at ease. 

“Is Mike here?” It was all I could think of to say. 

“Aw.” He said that loudly, as if tickled and amused him. “Ay, Mike!” he yelled. “Your little girlfriend is here.” He shook his head and stepped to his left, smiling. “Come on in and sit down. He’ll be down any minute.” As I entered, he motioned for me to have a seat and then chuckled before barreling up the stairway. 

When Mike came down, he was sweet and shy and such a gentleman. I met Tully that day, too. Mike introduced him. 

The first time Mike and I kissed, he had to suggest, politely, that I open my mouth. A year later, we hadn’t gone beyond holding hands, hugging, and tongue kissing. 

Farran said, “You know, I hate to break it to ya, but guys get tired of kissing. Sooner or later, he’s gonna want more. He’s fifteen, for goodness’ sake! I’m surprised he’s waited this long. He must really care for you.” 

“What would he expect me to do?” I asked. 

Farran laughed. “Well, he’ll wanna at least touch the merchandise.” 

“Eww.” I winced. 

“Are you normal?” 

“I’m not even in high school yet!” 

“You will be in September.” 

“Well, if that’s what he wants, he’ll have to get it somewhere else, because I’m not doing it.” 

“Why?” she asked. “You have a nice body. If I had your body, I’d have done it with him already. You’ve got the chest they all lust after.” 

I didn’t get that—why the size of my breasts seemed inordinately important, not only to the male species but to females as well. At times, I’d have gladly given back my embarrassment of riches. 

Images of touching and nakedness did disgust me then. Everything to do with sex evoked shame. The subject was taboo in our home. My parents were modest and never talked about it. No one did, except priests behind the podium who said sex outside of marriage was wrong, and that the thought of it alone was a sin. One of them had repeatedly emphasized that we were already tarnished with sin and unworthy. Like we had inherited shame. Anything to do with premarital sex could only bring more shame—unbearable shame, along with the shame of every other incident where one came across as pathetic and unworthy. 

Of course, I had developed a curiosity about sex. Still, I voiced my concerns to Mike. 

“It’s only natural I would want more,” he said, “but I’d wait until you are ready.” 

That was nice, but it also meant he expected me to be ready at some point. “What if I’m never ready?” I asked. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. 

I didn’t believe him. 

Then there was Paul. He had kept a respectable distance for years, and now, in eighth grade, he cornered me on the stairway as we exited the school building. 

“I bet you think you’re a whore now, hanging around Addison Park with McGrath,” he said. 

I was sure I’d misheard. “What?” 

“You think I buy your nice little girl act?” 

I walked away, trying to make sense of something that unequivocally made no sense. It was then I became familiar with the ingrained concept—you had to be a good girl or a bad girl. Your outward appearance could determine which one. If people who believed in this concept wanted you to be a bad girl, they were hell-bent on transporting you to the dark side. I was upset and more resolved than ever that I would not yield. It was the reason I chose to go to Catholic high school instead of Glastonbury High, where my brothers had gone. 

I wrote Mike’s name surrounded by hearts all over my notebook and wore his high school ring on a chain. We were together every day after school and on weekends. Soon enough, I wore an anklet he had given me for my birthday, and then a nameplate he bought me for Christmas. I kissed him with rosy cheeks in my soft, fluffy angora sweaters, but I had yet to give him anything more in exchange for his generosity. 

He began to try when I was babysitting—while we were alone in some stranger’s house with their child fast asleep. There was a point when I didn’t want to stop him, but I did. 

We fought, too. My mother once showed me a song I had written about him at the time. I couldn’t believe she had kept it tucked away. 

This part made me wince in later years: 

I may be nasty, I may be mean, but you gotta remember, I’m only thirteen. 

When my mother read it to me, she couldn’t seem to stop laughing. She said she intended to keep it forever. I don’t know if I ever gave that to him. Poor guy—he gave me the loveliest things, and all I could come up with was that. 

He wanted to be with me always, and sometimes I needed to be without him. I felt restless, curious. I had big plans. Publishing a book would be the stepping-stone for other career paths like singing and acting. I planned to work toward and achieve every goal without depending on anyone but myself. 

While many of my classmates had already had sex by sophomore year, I focused on those goals. The girls discussed doing things sexually that I’d never heard of or thought about doing, things they had to explain to me. I was fifteen and could never have fathomed how much all of this would change in the following year thanks to Sergio and Phil. It seemed a cruel joke—one I didn’t wish on anyone and felt no one deserved, sexually experienced or not. 

In my room now, thinking about all of this, the scenes began to play out in my head. 

Sergio had taken me to the kitchen for a drink of water because I felt sick. It was right after the forced oral sex, and I wanted to hurl. Phil walked in naked, and it made me sicker. He was boasting to Sergio, “If he does that, I’ll just make one phone call. I know people, and they got my back anytime. Getting him iced would be a gift to this town.” 

“Iced? You’re getting him iced?” Sergio asked. “And who do you know that’s gonna burn him?” 

“I know plenty of people,” Phil said. “I can have it done within twenty-four hours.” 

“Oh, well, if you have connections, yeah.” 

“You know I have connections.” 

They didn’t seem to care that I was listening. 

“I want to go home,” I told Sergio. 

He held out his hand. “Come back inside.” 

I wanted to trust him. I had to. 

He took me to the bathroom because I said I had to throw up, and he waited outside the door. I tried vomiting over the toilet but couldn’t.  

Next, I was in a different bedroom, a smaller one. At some point, Phil was there. He sauntered into the room, closed the door, and fiddled with the lock. I shut my eyes tightly now, remembering I’d been trapped in there with both of them for what seemed like hours, and much of it was a haze. 

“Where is Angie?” I had asked, trying to get up. 

Phil pushed me back down. “She’s fine,” he said.“She’s in the other room, waiting for me.” 

“Angie!” I screamed her name at the top of my lungs, but it faded like in a dream. “Where is she?” I asked, sounding exhausted. 

Phil was lying on one side of me, Sergio on the other. 

I tried to get up a couple of times, wanting to look for her, but they threw me back down. I feared she was dead, and that I could be next. 

Phil brushed my cheek with his hand. “If you’d relax, you’d enjoy it.” 

“No, no, please.” I was crying. 

“You have a pinup’s body with an angel’s face,” he said. 

I thought I heard her moaning. She sounded so far away. I wondered if she was dying, but I was too weak to get up. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 10

Chapter Ten 

Tully was bartending. I’d met him one time and so spotted him easily, a mostly bald man with bits of white hair at the sides of his head. We presented our IDs, and he shook his head, offering sodas in an endearing Irish brogue. He did look sympathetic with his softhearted smile. He had a dear face—a lovable face. His weary eyes had a mystical charm. 

We went along with the sodas, as would be the case whenever Tully was there, and I lectured Farran about Valentin. “Look, if he shows up, just try to keep in mind that he’s older, and he’s experienced. Don’t give him any ideas. You’ll be sorry.” 

“Uh, no. If that guy gets ideas about me, I will not be sorry,” she said. “I need to hit the gym first and work off some of the junk I’ve been scarfing down, but I’ll turn that head of his.” 

Angie laughed. 

“You’re not fat,” I told her. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” 

Despite my concern for her, I loved the self-deprecating humor she shared with Angie. However, when she pointed out these flaws she believed she had, it triggered my feelings of inadequacy. It was as if I didn’t want to alert anyone to the fact that the world had stopped laughing at me. Well, it had seemed like the world, when, primarily, the culprit was Tommy Catalano. He had been my adversary for nearly a decade, doling out misery without mercy in those awkward childhood years, and now there seemed to be no end to the world’s cruelty, for there he was. He breezed in as if on cue, like he owned the place—or like a bad dream. 

My heart sank, as I felt the heat from the blazing torch of shame I had carried since childhood. It permeated my body. I felt as if a dam had burst and flooded my brain with an unyielding gush of emotion. The world was too small, I told myself. Entirely too small. 

His face hadn’t changed much, but how strange: He looked small now. He was maybe five-foot-eight with a medium build, but he’d been a giant to me for so long. 

Farran was agape. “Last I saw of him, he enlisted in the military after high school.” 

I noted that he had kept the short hair. 

“He lost his mom too young,” she went on. “That was only three years ago. Then, last year, his brother shot himself in the head. A couple of months ago, his father got killed. My heart goes out to him.” 

“How awful,” Angie lamented. 

He staggered in our direction, and the feeling of dread overwhelmed me. After leaning this way and that, he zeroed in on me. “Hey, beautiful …” 

Beautiful … did he have any idea? Well, I could see he was drunk. 

“Long time no see,” I replied, catching him with my arm as he tipped forward. Many tattoos were visible with the tight, short-sleeved T-shirt he wore. 

“You know me?” 

“Um, yeah, Tommy, you know me, too. I’m Danielle DeCorso.” 

“Little Danielle DeCorso? I don’t believe it!” 

“You know my cousin, Angie.” 

She was biting her thumbnail when he looked at her. 

“I remember her. Seen Joe last night. I heard Robbie’s down in Florida.” 

“Yeah, he’s going to college there.” 

He eyed me suspiciously. “If you’re Danielle DeCorso, you’re probably still in high school. Do your parents know you’re in a bar?” 

“Do they know? You’re kidding me, right?” 

“I’m serious. Do your brothers know you’re in a bar?” 

“Shush!” That was Farran. “Come on, Tommy, you can’t be more than twenty-one yourself. Give me a break.” 

He shifted his eyes to her. “You look familiar.” 

“I’m Farran Chapin. You probably saw me at Addison Park many moons ago. You hang out here?” 

“Here and sometimes Déjà Vu in Manhattan—on the Upper West Side. What are you all doing here at the Cove?” He looked at me. “Do your brothers know you’re going to bars and drinking alcohol?” 

“This is the first bar I’ve been to,” I said. 

He didn’t let up. “So, right now, your parents have no idea where you are or what you’re doing.” He was staring me down. I thought those golden eyes of his eyes conveyed deep pain and sadness, with a touch of bitterness that seemed to attest to too much wisdom. “If you were my daughter, I’d want to know where you were. I’d want to know who you were with and what you were doing. I’d still be taking you out for ice cream. I wouldn’t want you hanging out in a bar with a motorcycle gang. Not that we are a bad motorcycle gang …” He smiled then, a rascally smile. He still had that fierce tiger face. 

Farran asked the predictable question. “Are you one of the Lynx?” 

“Yeah. You didn’t know that?” He walked off before she could reply. 

“He’s cute,” Farran said. “He’s looking good.” 

“Well, he was a bully to Danielle,” Angie reminded her. 

“And I won’t forget his prejudice toward my family,” I said. “There’s so much hate in this world.” 

“It’s not necessarily hate,” Farran argued. “People like to stick with their own. It’s what they know. Boys can be jerks. Everybody knows that. Tommy has grown up. He was nice to you, and he did make friends with your brothers eventually, so he’s obviously gotten over it.” 

I rolled my eyes. “Well I’m glad he’s gotten over it.” 

I admit I had become as intolerant of him as he’d been of me all those years ago. Though a pattern had begun, I no longer wanted to be a victim—his or anyone else’s. 

“He sacrificed to enlist in the military,” Farran said. “He deserves our respect.” 

The conversation ended there, because Valentin showed up, and whenever he did, it was like a torrent of wind. He walked briskly, whole-souled and energized, providing kisses, handshakes, and chatter. He had a way of flitting around like lightning with a fast-paced whirl here and there. He shined, appearing comfortable and confident. 

This night, he had someone with him—someone with the same chiseled cheekbones, albeit two inches shorter and with a weighty batch of very dark, curly hair to his shoulders. They were stopping at tables and talking with various people, including Shannon. 

Shannon called me over. “This is my boyfriend, Nico Castel,” she gushed about the one who’d arrived with Valentin. “Nico, this is Joey’s sister, Danielle.” 

I could swear Nico’s eyes were coal black. He had a chiseled jawline, sensuous lips, and the nose of a Greek God. When he nodded and smiled, the gleam was white radiance and dimpled perfection. He was ruggedly robust, dressed casually in a sweater with jeans and boots. 

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. 

“Pleased to meet you as well,” I replied. 

Shannon drew Valentin into the circle, saying, “Valentin, you remember Joey’s sister, Danielle.” 

I tried not to stare at people or watch them too intently when they spoke to me, but it was hard—especially with this bunch. At the same time, I easily avoided the many admiring eyes upon me—patrons throughout the bar. I wasn’t comfortable being the focus. 

Valentin leaned forward and clasped my hand. “Joey tells me your father is Italian, and your mom is from Brazil.” 

“Yes,” I said. “Actually, my maternal grandfather purchased farmland in Paraíba and moved the family there when my mom was only three, but they are originally from Spain.” 

He perked up. “Where in Spain?” 

“The Extremadura region of Cáceres.” 

He smiled. “An incredible place.” 

“You’ve been there?” 

“Yes, I went to school in Spain for four years.” 

“I’ve never been there.” 

“Never?” It seemed to surprise him. “You have to go. It’s a very medieval old town with a lot of Gothic and Italian Renaissance architecture. It’s amazing.” 

In that moment, he was familiar to me. I didn’t want him to be, yet I had this feeling I already knew him, that we had met in another life, and I had always known him, in every life that I’d lived. The feeling was corny and bizarre but strong. 

“The weird thing is, my mother speaks a lot more Spanish than Portuguese,” I told him. “Even when we went to Brazil, they were all talking Spanish. And she makes only one Portuguese dish—arroz de pato. It’s like rice with duck.” 

Farran came over, and, I must admit, I had almost forgotten about her and Angie, whom she was pulling along. 

Shannon introduced them to Nico, and Farran asked which brother was older. 

Nico pointed a thumb toward Valentin. “He’s going to be twenty-three soon. I’ll be twenty-two in December.” His accent was not much different from my own, though I heard a faint inner city blend. I figured that was the reason Farran had to inquire about their ethnicity. 

“Spanish, French, Russian, and even some Romanian blood,” Valentin told her. “Our maternal grandmother was from Craiova.” 

“Is that near Transylvania?” I had to ask. 

Valentin laughed and then turned to Nico. “Ah, she likes vampires.” 

Nico responded with a smile. 

“Well, they fascinate me,” I said. “I mean, the subject fascinates me.” 

“Me as well,” Valentin replied.“But to answer your question, Craiova is in the southern part of the country. It’s the Wallachia region, where Vlad the Impaler ruled as a Wallachian prince. Transylvania is in the central part of the country. It’s a four or five-hour drive.” 

Farran clamored for center stage again. “Do any of you, by chance, have a cigarette?” 

Shannon pulled a pack of cigarettes from her jacket and gave one to Farran, who lit the cigarette, took a long puff, and seemed to exaggerate the exhale. 

Katharine Jaeger arrived then and sauntered in our direction. She slipped her arm through Valentin’s while Shannon made the introductions. 

“I vaguely remember seeing you somewhere,” she said to me. “Farran I remember.” 

She was, perhaps, five-foot-six, with a lovely figure and a nice chest, dressed casually in knee-high boots. Her light, natural blonde hair, straight and fine, fell a few inches past her shoulders. If she wore any makeup, I couldn’t tell, but her baby blue eyes were incredible. They held an ingenuous gaze—a blend of naïveté and raw honesty. To look at her, I never would have thought of her as a married woman, let alone a mother. I did see her as an older woman, which is quite funny, as she was barely twenty at the time. 

She kissed Valentin before gracing us with a childlike grin of appreciable size, aseptic, stainless teeth beaming. He held her close. 

“We have to go, or we’ll miss part of the movie,” Shannon said, adjusting the bag over her shoulder. “Oh, Danielle, it was so nice to see you again.” She gave me another hug. “I hope to see you soon.” She hugged Farran and Angie. 

Valentin wished us all a good night. “Ten cuidado,” he said, looking directly at me. 

“Always,” I assured him with a good-natured grin. 

He put his arm around Katharine and gently led her forward. 

“Good night, girls,” Nico said. 

I saw Tommy intercept them at the doorway. He was horsing around with Valentin and then followed them out the door. 

Farran began her inquisition immediately. “What was all that with you and Valentin? Shannon took you over there and ignored Angie and me.” 

I tensed. “I don’t think she meant to exclude you. She was excited for me to meet Nico.” 

“I am more concerned with your bonding with Valentin over Spain and all this other crap. Are you trying to make it harder for Angie and me?” Before I could get angry with her, she flashed a smile. “Damn, you got enough guys here drooling over you. Leave some for us.” 

Her concern that Valentin would become interested in me romantically—or any of us, for that matter—surprised me. 

“So what’d he say to you in Spanish?” she asked. 

“He told me to be careful. He was being polite. It’s normal for people to find common ground. I mean, he was with his wife!” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Valentin can do better. So can Nico.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” I argued. “Valentin is with Katharine. Nico’s with Shannon. And I doubt they want to play tea party with a bunch of teenagers.” 

Farran was defiant. “I’ll play tea party with Valentin anytime he wants, or whatever the hell else he wants to play.” 

I wondered if she had any grasp on the reality of what she was saying. At the time, every male signaled danger to me. I knew what could happen if I let my guard down, even for a moment, and I wasn’t going to do that. I didn’t want Farran or Angie to do it either. I felt like their mother (not to mention, a broken record) saying things like, “You can get pregnant. You can get a bad reputation.” What I didn’t say was, “You can get into a situation where you are forced to do something you really don’t want to do.” And that’s what I wanted to say most of all. 

Running into Tommy had worried me, too. I brought it up at the dinner table on Saturday night when it was just my parents and me. I didn’t mention that I saw him, but I asked if they remembered his dad and the accident that had killed him over the summer in Bridgeport. 

“That was no accident,” my father divulged. 

My mother seemed taken aback. “Why would you say that? He was crossing the street outside a bar and got hit by a car.” 

“Eh, why do I say that …? He was run over twice, Grace. The car ran him over, backed up, and ran over him again. That’s why I say that.” 

She shook her head. “I don’t know what that means.” 

“Heh! Means they wanted to make sure he didn’t survive.” 

My eyes widened. “You think that was a mob hit? Like an execution-style murder?” 

My mother clenched her teeth. “Like he was there.” 

“I wasn’t there, but I heard about it,” he said. 

I was intrigued. “So Tommy’s father was in the mob?” 

“Of course. That bar is a bookie joint run by the mob. Just like when they lived here, the guy was hanging around in a mafia-run bookie joint.” 

“What’s a bookie joint?” I asked. 

“They play the numbers,” he said. “They’re involved with all kinds of gambling and who knows what else.” 

My mother seemed confused. “Why would they kill him?” 

“Why? We have a saying for it in Italy, but they say the same thing here. Loose lips sink ships. He drank too much, and he had a big mouth. For sure, somebody didn’t like it. Somebody did away with him. Just like Kennedy. Who do you think killed Kennedy? That was the mob, too.” 

“Stop,” my mother said. 

“You say nothing to nobody,” he told us. “You know nothing. I know nothing. That’s all. The guy was no goddamn good anyway. The wife wanted to leave him for years, but the church wouldn’t allow it. What kind of bullshit is that? She had to put up with his shit ‘til she dropped dead.” 

“They had problems,” my mother said. “That doesn’t mean he was bad.” 

He waved, dismissing her. “You didn’t sleep with him. She did. Who knew better than her? Same bullshit with my mother and father—they were young, their parents arranged everything. My father was never happy. My mother was never happy.” 

“That was the way they did things then.” 

“I understand that, Grace,” he said. “What, because people do it, that means it’s a good idea? People jump off the bridge, and that makes it a good idea? What gets me is, you got all kinds of guys of all kinds of nationalities in the mob, but it’s always Italian, Italian. In the movies, they’re Italian. If you’re Italian, they want to know if you’re in the mob.” 

I laughed. My mother did, too. 

“Well, this guy was Italian,” she quipped. 

The look on his face was priceless. It had my mother and me laughing again. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

THE TRUTH CAN BE DEVASTATING, FRIGHTENING, AND DEADLY!

Some truths can be deadly.

Danielle isn’t mopey or filled with teenage angst. Danielle and her cousin were abducted, drugged, and raped. But her cousin doesn’t remember, and her best friend won’t believe her. Now, her predators have returned, stalking her, harassing her at every turn. Nightmares plague her sleep, pushing her to the brink of exhaustion. Isolated, terrified, and grief-stricken, Danielle is paralyzed, unable to face the unmerciful world around her. Can she awaken her spirit and blossom into a woman of defiance and courage before the darkness eclipses her sanity?

Shattering Truths, the first volume in the Deadly Veils series, is a haunting and heartbreaking coming of age story. In the tradition of Judy Blume, and following in the footsteps of Thirteen Reasons Why, author Kyrian Lyndon doesn’t shy away from exploring the darker side of life that every teenage girl fears. Filled with suspense, a heart wrenching emotional journey, and twists that will leave you breathless, Shattering Truths will take hold of you on page one and never let go.

YOU CAN DOWNLOAD THIS KINDLE BOOK FOR FREE ON AMAZON.COM BETWEEN MARCH 15 AND MARCH 19!! SEE LINK BELOW. READ SAMPLE CHAPTER, REVIEWS, AND MORE!!!

Chapter One:

Glastonbury, Connecticut, 1987

There was no blood. I was dead inside, but not bleeding. Zipping my shorts in a daze, I focused on the brown and gold hues of the wall tiles. I washed my hands over the sink, avoiding my reflection. The hexagon-shaped mirror was antique and gilded. I now felt debased in its presence as well as in these familiar surroundings. After turning off the faucet, I stood there for a moment, and then hastened to my room.

The brass bed, dressed in white eyelet sheets and frilly pink bedding, was an update of my choosing. The nativity scene plaque on the wall above it had been there throughout my childhood—Mother Mary in a protective stance over Baby Jesus. I suppose the intention was to comfort and protect me. Still, I lined the bed with stuffed teddy bears and kept a sixteen-inch porcelain doll with golden hair and dark blue eyes on my white dresser. She wore a pink Victorian dress with lace trim and glimmering beads and a hat to match. I picked her up now and held her tightly to my chest. A tear fell as I snuggled her to me for as long as I could. After setting her down, I approached the window.

I could see far from these foothills. A woodlot of mixed forest surrounded our home. In one direction, I saw the Hartford skyline—in another, steep, rolling hills in their divine and blissful glory. My room faced the direction of Old Buckingham, not half a mile away. The ancient cemetery was set back from the road, just beyond a fortress of trees. We heard stories of weeping spirits, distant cries of agony, and diaphanous circles of white light floating above and between the tombstones. I never knew whether people convinced themselves of these things or merely embellished the truth. One thing I knew did happen: Fierce hurricane winds had nearly destroyed the little church on its grounds.

Much as I loved this house, it was an eerie place to grow up. That had little to do with ghost stories. I would lie awake in my bed at night, listening to the sounds of darkness—imagining that the hoarse caw of the crows warned of impending doom. I got this sense of urgency from yapping dogs, yelping coyotes, and the ear-piercing whistles of the woodchucks. Some nights, even the benign chirping of crickets grew louder and more intense with each moment.

I prayed, always.

Watching from the window now, I felt like some reclusive old person who got all the neighbors whispering. I watched for a dusty black Cutlass Supreme, needing to make certain it was nowhere in sight.

The phone rang, and I panicked. My father had mounted it to the wall between my room and the master bedroom, so I had to leave the room to answer it.

“Hello, Danielle,” the voice cooed.

Sickened to my core, I hung up.

It rang again, the innocuous ivory phone that seemed suddenly possessed. I wanted to rip it off the wall.

I lifted the receiver.

“Don’t hang up.” It was the other guy.

“Stop calling here!” I ended the call with a slam.

They had the gall to utter my name! They sounded so casual, so elated—as if the atrocity I had endured earlier that day had been mutually rewarding. Granted, it could have been worse, and yet a part of me had died. More unsettling still, they knew where to find me.

Available now on:

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REVIEWS

“I find it difficult to express the depth to which she pierces emotional barriers in order to share the struggles the characters in the book were required to face. I was literally brought to tears on a couple of occasions. Her profound understanding of human emotion and spirituality are evident in her poetry as well. Basically, a brilliantly written novel by a brilliant writer. I can’t wait to read more from her.” – Reservoirguy

“Deeply nostalgic and full of the dark, seething pressures of youth, combined with the colorful background of the late 1980s, Kyrian Lyndon’s first book in her Dead Veils series will transport you to another place where secrets can kill…or set a lost soul free. An amazing literary journey!” –K. H. Koehler

“A gripping and emotional story about trauma and abuse…” – Elizabeth Greschner

“A dark, alluring and fascinating book about a girl trying to crawl out of the darkness and despair and grow in strength and spirit.” –Books Are Love

“While this is a young adult, I know both teens and adults will enjoy this book. Fans of 13 Reasons Why will devour this book!” –N.N. Light

“An emotional roller coaster…” –Love Books

“A startlingly intense look into the lives of the young teens in present-day America!” –Deepak Menon

“It was truly a novel I will always cherish and always remember.” –Chelsea Girard

*Shattering Truths was originally published in January of 2016 under the title Provenance of Bondage. The re-release has a lot of new material but is a bit shorter than the original.

Author’s Note: Deadly Veils Book Two is well underway! It tells the story of Valentin, a character that  intrigued many readers in the first book. Danielle will appear again, but readers will see her only through Valentin’s eyes.

I can tell you, too; this second installment will include plenty of romance and excitement.

Related links:

My review of Thirteen Reasons Why and thoughts about the issue.

Listen to the Shattering Truths’ story playlist on YouTube.

Connect with Kyrian Lyndon:

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Amazon.com

© Copyright January 30, 2017 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.

Cover Design (feature photo) by KH Koehler Design

SO EXCITED ABOUT REVEALING THIS SPECTACULAR NEW COVER!

This beautiful cover is by KH Koehler Design. I highly recommend both her editing and book design services. KH is uniquely talented, honest, knowledgeable, and reliable. Her rates are affordable. Her work is excellent. She is considerate, professional, supportive, and kind. I can’t say enough in singing her praises, and I could not have been more pleased.

This book, Shattering Truths, was originally published in January of 2016 under the title Provenance of Bondage. The re-release has a lot of new material but is a bit shorter than the original, since I decided to cut some of it as well. I’m very happy with the new version, and I think readers will be, too!

So why the title change you ask? The original title alluded to emotional or psychological bondage, but many, despite the book’s description, took it to suggest BDSM like Fifty Shades of Grey.

Here is the book’s updated description:

She was left fighting her demons alone . . .

For sixteen-year-old Danielle DeCorso, the old house in Glastonbury was an eerie place to grow up. Coping with mental health challenges exacerbated by a traumatic family dynamic, Danielle watches from the window for two men in a dusty black sedan who keep circling the house and harassing her with phone calls. The two predators drugged her and her cousin, Angie, and then lured them from Pleasure Beach in Bridgeport to a secluded cottage on Long Beach West. She remembers feeling dizzy, the room spinning. She recalls screaming, crying, fighting, and then slipping in and out of consciousness. Angie, however, has no recollection of the incident.

When Danielle attempts to jog Angie’s memory and convince their best friend, Farran, that the two strangers had victimized them, no one seems to believe her. Alone in her pain, Danielle remains guarded, obsessed, and withdrawn. Soon she is sinking deeper into a tumultuous world of adolescent isolation and change. Grief, guilt, and anger send her spiraling into an even darker place.

Tormented by terrifying nightmares, she fears she will lose her sanity, or possibly her soul. Is she having post-traumatic stress hallucinations, as one of her friends suggest, or are her recurring nightmares as real as they seem? Trapped in an unyielding emotional bondage, Danielle continues the fight to reclaim her power. Startling revelations awaken her newfound spirit, inspiring a once naïve girl to grow into a woman of defiance and courage.

***

The new version should be available soon, and I’ll have free copies for people who’d like to read and review the book. Please let me know if you want a free copy for that purpose. I will also have the links available for anyone wishing to purchase the book.

Here are just a few lines from the previous edition’s reviews:

“A dark, alluring and fascinating book about a girl trying to crawl out of the darkness and despair and grow in strength and spirit.” –Books Are Love

“A gripping and emotional story about trauma and abuse…” – Elizabeth Greschner

“…an emotional roller coaster…” –Love Books

“…a startlingly intense look into the lives of the young teens in present day America!” –Deepak Menon

“This book will catch you right in from the start.” –Peggy

“…a powerful story right from the start.” –Joanne Dore

“I can’t wait for her next book because now I’m hooked!” –Lori Stanley

“I’m looking forward to reading more from this author.” –Denise Buttino Terrell

And if you care to read on, here is the first chapter:

CHAPTER ONE
Connecticut, Summer of 1987

There was no blood. I was dead inside, but not bleeding. Zipping my shorts in a daze, I focused on the brown and gold hues of the wall tiles. I washed my hands over the sink, avoiding my reflection. The hexagon-shaped mirror was antique and gilded. I now felt debased in its presence as well as in these familiar surroundings. After turning off the faucet, I stood there for a moment, and then hastened to my room.
The brass bed, dressed in white eyelet sheets and frilly pink bedding, was an update of my choosing. The nativity scene plaque on the wall above it had been there throughout my childhood—Mother Mary in a protective stance over Baby Jesus. I suppose the intention was to comfort and protect me. Still, I lined the bed with stuffed teddy bears and kept a sixteen-inch porcelain doll with golden hair and dark blue eyes on my white dresser. She wore a pink Victorian dress with lace trim and glimmering beads and a hat to match. I picked her up now and held her tightly to my chest. A tear fell as I snuggled her to me for as long as I could. After setting her down, I approached the window.
I could see far from these foothills. A woodlot of mixed forest surrounded our home. In one direction, I saw the Hartford skyline—in another, steep, rolling hills in their divine and blissful glory. My room faced the direction of Old Buckingham, not half a mile away. The ancient cemetery was set back from the road, just beyond a fortress of trees. We heard stories of weeping spirits, distant cries of agony, and diaphanous circles of white light floating above and between the tombstones. I never knew whether people convinced themselves of these things or merely embellished the truth. One thing I knew did happen: Fierce hurricane winds had nearly destroyed the little church on its grounds.
Much as I loved this house, it was an eerie place to grow up. That had little to do with ghost stories. I would lie awake in my bed at night, listening to the sounds of darkness—imagining that the hoarse caw of the crows warned of impending doom. I got this sense of urgency from yapping dogs, yelping coyotes, and the ear-piercing whistles of the woodchucks. Some nights, even the benign chirping of crickets grew louder and more intense with each moment.
I prayed, always.
Watching from the window now, I felt like some reclusive old person who got all the neighbors whispering. I watched for a dusty black Cutlass Supreme, needing to make certain it was nowhere in sight.
The phone rang, and I panicked. My father had mounted it to the wall between my room and the master bedroom, so I had to leave the room to answer it.
“Hello, Danielle,” the voice cooed.
Sickened to my core, I hung up.
It rang again, the innocuous ivory phone that seemed suddenly possessed. I wanted to rip it off the wall.
I lifted the receiver.
“Don’t hang up.” It was the other guy.
“Stop calling here!” I ended the call with a slam.
They had the gall to utter my name! They sounded so casual, so elated—as if the atrocity I had endured earlier that day had been mutually rewarding. Granted, it could have been worse, and yet a part of me had died. More unsettling still, they knew where to find me.

I hope you enjoyed this blog, and I thank you for reading!

© Copyright January 24, 2016 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.

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