**
It takes all my willpower to get out of my car. Parked outside of my mother's house, I'm forced to believe that the moment I set foot on the porch, I'll no longer be safe. But still, I know I should do this.

The street my mother lives on is quiet and wealthy. Not as wealthy as Sebastian's neighborhood, of course, but wealthier than where we lived when I was younger—the Ciglianos are successful restaurateurs in Italy, but it took a while for that success to make its way to my mom here in the states. I saw it after my parents divorced but wanted nothing to do with it, especially after I left for college.

"I wasn't going to pay for your schooling anyway," my mother told me the moment I declined any financial assistance for my education from her.

My heels sound loudly against the pavement; I'm sure she hears me coming. My mother has supersonic senses that I believe I've adopted, too. The lights in the house are on, and I see shadows moving about. I don't hear anything, though; maybe my supersonic sense of 'hearing' isn't as great as I believe it is.

I ring the doorbell reluctantly and am welcomed to my little sister when the door finally opens. Not much has changed in terms of Samantha's appearance—still beautifully tanned and dark haired with the same tall, curvy figure as my mom. But not only has her appearance gone unchanged, but her attitude towards me, as well.

"Hi, Leslie," Samantha says, lacking any emotion in her voice.

"Hello, Samantha."

She lets me inside the house that happens to be almost unfamiliar due to how rarely I visit. When the door closes behind us, I hear my mom's voice.

"Cara, chi è?"

"Who is it?" she asked. I can tell by her slurring that she's drunk again.

"Leslie, mom," Samantha replies.

I already know that my mother's face is twisting and distorting at the sound of my name. I take off my coat and set it on the coat rack—mother hates jackets or coats on in the house.

She enters the room in her royal blue satin robe with a glass of wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other. My eyes avert to Samantha to see her reaction, but she's more used to this than I am. In all honesty, it makes me feel bad for her, how she's caught in my mother's web of pity and the need to take care of her.

"Here to beg not to press charges for assaulting me?" is the first thing she says to me, broken English and all. I force myself to hide the grimace that wants to surface. If I want to make this visit successful, I need to give her the benefit of the doubt. Frankly, making her believe I was wrong for pushing her at the party even though she warranted the reaction is the road I need to take.

"Nice to see you too, mother."

Samantha leads herself into the kitchen promptly. Mother kisses her check before she leaves us; her eyes stare at me the entire time over the cigarette smoke.

The room is quiet when my little sister is gone. Wordlessly, Mother walks into the living room and I follow her. The décor is still the same—rustic burgundy and deep browns with a myriad of family portraits on the walls, my father and I in none of them. The fireplace crackles softly on the other end, making me wonder if leaving my mother near a going-fire is the smartest idea.

I doubt even having a functioning fireplace in June is a smart idea, either.

Mother plops down on the love seat while I sit on the couch. I block the putrid scent of nicotine from entering my lungs when she expels it from her mouth.

"You're here because you want something, yes?" she asks me.

"I just need to talk to you."

"I see." The leather chair squeaks underneath her as she gets comfortable. "What happened when I wanted to talk with you about giving Samantha a job?"

Here we go. I should have expected this.

"That isn't fair," I reply sternly. "I can't just hand out jobs to anyone."

"Your sister isn't 'anyone.'" I see the dark evil appear in her eyes that I remember clearly from my childhood. "If only you could see the way you look right now—as if you're better than us, hm? Dacci un taglio, Leslie. Perfavore!"

Samantha enters the living room with coffees for us, just in time to end the short-lived conversation. I'm so angry I feel tears forming in my eyes, and I hadn't even told my mother my reason for being here. Still, I thank Samantha for the beverage and try not to show how she's gotten to me again.

Samantha sets my mother's cup down on the table. She thanks her gratefully to make me jealous, and Samantha sees it, too, surprisingly trying not to indulge in my mother's antics.

"Wait. Samantha," Mother scoots over to make room. "Come, please."

"You know I don't like being around you when you smoke and drink, mom."

My mother laughs. "I'm not drinking now. You brought me coffee, I'll drink that, certo? OK?"

Samantha is still reluctant. I don't blame her.

With a groan, my mother gets up and disposes of her cigarette and wine glass in the kitchen. Samantha and I don't talk while she's gone.

"There. Happy?"

My sister doesn't respond. She just sits in the vacant spot on the seat, next to my mother when she finally sits. My mother runs her fingers through Samantha's dark, thick tresses and smirks.

"When Samantha was born," she starts, "I used to do this to her until she fell asleep in my arms. I would ask your father, 'why doesn't Leslie have hair as beautiful as hers, hm?' Of course, he never answered me because he didn't like hearing questions so truthful."

"Mom—"

"Then," she interrupts Samantha, "Samantha got older and I wondered why she never got as big as you were when you were her age? And I still don't understand why you can't keep a figure as nice as your sister?"

"This is not why I came over here, mother," I manage to respond. My head is throbbing from how angry and upset I'm becoming, but ultimately, it's what my mother wants. She enjoys patronizing me and humiliating me. She finds the utmost enjoyment in it.

The fireplace's cracking is the only sound throughout the room. Samantha gets up during the awkwardness and excuses herself to another room. When she's gone, I see my mother's expression; she's disgusted that she's left alone with me again. And seeing the look on my mother's face is proof enough that no compromise will convince her not to work with Garrett against me anymore.

"I know you've been pinning Claire and Felicity against me. I want it to stop."

Laughter. It's immediate, and drunken, but mostly immediate. Mother's age comes through when she laughs—around her eyes and mouth. I, however, keep my face straight. She stops laughing when she realizes I'm serious.

"Do you hear what you're saying?" she says. "I don't even know who those people are."

"Stop lying, mom. I have proof, I know it's you, and I want it to stop."

Mother chugs the coffee like it's scotch. She's intimidating, I'll admit.

"Claire and Felicity were with Sebastian at his party that night. You set that up, didn't you?"

"Ridiculous," she says dismissively. Her nonchalance fuels the fire inside me, and I can't stop.

"You met with them at the restaurant and planned it. You wanted me to find him with them; you knew how it would get to me, right?"

I'm going against the "promise" I made to Claude—how I would only try and convince my mother to stop working alongside Garrett. Now, I just want to know why. It's become more than just begging her to remove herself from Garrett's roster.

"You come into my house and make accusations against me?" she says to me, eyebrows pressed into an intense frown. "How dare you?"

"I just want to know why, mom? Why go through all of this to get to me? Just tell me why and I won't bother you again!"

She's cursing in Italian now. I see Samantha's figure behind a corner, watching us. Instinctively, I have half a mind to walk to her side, in case my mother intends to do anything that would put her—us—in danger. Despite our rocky relationship, she's still my little sister. Then again, how could I possibly protect us from mother's wrath? I can't even protect myself from it most of the time.

Mother tries to calm herself down in her native language after her fit of vulgar rage. Her hands grip the handles of the chair, rocking her body back and forth.

"Mom—"

"You are just upset," she suddenly says. "Upset that another man doesn't love you the way you love them, so you come to my home and blame me for some other girl taking your place again, hm? Claire and Felicity sleeping with Sebastian was not my fault, and you thinking that it was is just insulting"

My eyes widen at her words, followed by a weight crushing my chest. I know exactly what she's doing—trying to unnerve me for her own personal gain, all while trying to make me forget what I'm accusing her of. But for once, she isn't smart about it.

"If you had nothing to do with it, how did you know that Felicity and Claire had sex with Sebastian that night?"

"Wh-what?"

I see it in her eyes—I've caught her off guard.

"Their threesome was never in any tabloid or gossip site, believe me, I've checked. The only people who knew were me and Sebastian's three friends. So how did you know it was sex that happened?"

"Because you told me—"

"I never said it was sex, mom. I only said that they were at the party."

Mother starts fumbling her words, trying to retaliate with a remark to clean up her mistake. I already had the proof that she was conspiring with Garrett by using Claire and Felicity; the pictures of them together was proof enough. But sitting in front of her, watching her basically admit to me that it was her is more than any picture could give me. And at this point, I already know that any hope of convincing her to stop is out of the window. If anything, I've most likely given her more reason to try and ruin my life even more than she already has. Maybe she believes that since she got me out of the situation involving Axel, I'm indebted to her.

Which isn't the case.

The pounding in my chest increases its tempo; a mixture of anger, sadness and confusion.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask again, as if the second attempt will warrant a reply.

"Because," she starts lowly, and I'm stunned she's saying anything in return. "Because you're...you're just like her. And...she can't win."

I frown at her, but she doesn't seem fazed by my confusion. "Who am I like? Who are you talking about?"

My mother starts cursing in Italian again, only this time it's more erratic; I can barely understand what she's saying. Eventually, I grasp one part of her rant well enough to translate it in my head:

"She's just like her; I thought I'd leave her behind a long time ago."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Samantha entering the room, trying to calm my mom down. I don't know what contribution I could provide, so I grab my purse and start for the door.

"You come over to look down upon me and leave?! Fucking coward!" Mom screams after me.

"I've got everything I need from you, mom." I take my coat off the coat rack as quickly as I can. "I don't need to sit through your bullshit any longer."

"I bet if I press charges against you for pushing me, you wouldn't hold your head up so high! And not only that, but how would the police feel if I told them that you killed someone, too?!"

She doesn't mean that. She didn't mean it when I first walked in here, and she doesn't mean it now. But somehow, those words leaving her mouth disable me from turning the doorknob and leaving this wretched place.

I don't give her the satisfaction by looking her in the eye, but there's satisfaction for her in the long run by knowing she's gotten my attention; after everything she's said and done to and against me, pressing charges doesn't sound too outlandish. There are witnesses who could vouch for her on what happened that night at Harrison Inc. when I pushed her onto the ground. And if we're speaking from past experiences, she's a professional at over-exaggerating stories to her benefit.

I know that. My father knows that, too.

But what really makes my skin cold is her mentioning Axel's name. She wouldn't say anything to the authorities about that; I didn't kill him. He killed himself. I was just there, and I got scared and ran. Plus, that happened years ago. It couldn't hurt me now. Could it?

Could it?

"You wouldn't do that," I reply, my eyes on the wood of the door.

"Really, Leslie? You think I wouldn't? You were an accessory. You were with him while he was taking illegal drugs, and you watched as he overdosed and suffocated to death. You and that girl ran—"

"But you're the one who covered it up!" I scream at her, eyes delivering full contact in her direction now. Samantha has no idea what we're talking about; her eyes are wide with bafflement. "Doesn't that make you an accessory, too?!"

"No, it doesn't!" is all she yells to me, and when the pieces line up, I understand what she means. I have to remember that she's now in Garrett's pocket; she told him everything about what happened with Axel those many years ago. With his influence, I don't want to imagine what he would do with the story. My stomach churns; I've lost this one, and my mother knows it.

Think, Leslie. Think your way out of this. Think, think...

Mother, by the slight smile on her face, realizes that she's redeemed herself from the fuckup she endured when she accidentally admitted her involvement with Claire and Felicity. Speechless, I look down at my shoes, defeated, regretful of my decision of coming here, but too prideful to meet her eyes when she finally expressed whatever demands she wants from me.

"Listen very closely, Leslie," she says down to me, more confident in herself since she's speaking in Italian once again. I have no other choice but to listen. "The way you and Sebastian are now, is the way it should stay. You understand how much is at stake for him; you'd only prove to be a distraction."

"You don't give a fuck about what's at stake for him. This is personal for you."

"Stay far away from his personal affairs," she continues as if she didn't hear me. "And we won't have any legal problems. Do your job, let fate take its course, and you won't have to worry about what I just told you."

She sounds like a machine, repeating everything and anything Garrett wants her to say. But now I know that this is personal for her; I remind her of a woman she doesn't like. But who? Apparently, this woman must have done something horrible to her, but for my mother to go through all of this to get to me because I'm reminiscent of this person? It doesn't make sense.

"Do you understand me?"

"Yes," I reply.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, mamma."

"Good," she says. I can smell the alcohol and tobacco on her lips. "I'm glad you came over to talk."

I stand in the same place she addressed me as she walks up the staircase. I'm so dumbfounded I'm at a loss of words.

"Oh, and Leslie," she says from atop the staircase, "Make sure Samantha gets that job I spoke to you about."

**