He chalks up a laugh. “Because then I’d be in position to believe you’re a threat to The Donati Famiglia. And I don’t want to have to kill not only my friend but a brother.”
Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t know how to deal with this. “Pietro?—”
“I’m going to hang up. Do with the information what you will but do not ask me again unless it’s for the better of our Famiglia. Capisce?”
“Capisce.”
The call ends. I blow out a long and heavy breath but it does nothing to alleviate the overwhelming feeling I can’t quite place stirring inside me.
Abruptly, I push away from the desk needing space to breathe. Except the documents I’ve collected of Imogen and her family seem to scream at me. They’re too fucking loud. With an aggressive sweep they fly off the desk.
What is this fucking feeling? Why can’t I fucking place it? Why can I never seem to fucking place it?
Breathe, Rico. Center yourself and breathe.
It takes me a while but I eventually regulate myself. After years and years of figuring it out on my own I know how to go about it in a healthy way now.
I stare at the documents scattered across the floor. Majority of them are face down except one important piece perfectly in the middle.
A photograph of her.
I come down to rest on my haunches. Carefully, I retrieve the photograph, holding it delicately between my fingers as if it were her.
I may not understand what I feel. I may not understand her or what she feels, but I do know this, Imogen Murphy is mine. It’s primal. It’s animalistic. It’s a permanent hyper-fixation. And I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s taken from me.
CHAPTER 29
Imogen
It occurres to me I’ve lost count of the number of days I’ve been in captivity. It’s as if my mind has convinced itself that I haven’t been. At least it’s never truly felt that way. Not entirely.
Being the daughter of a Made Man my life has always been on a leash. He’d loosen the rope, allowing me to study abroad, but tighten it to remind me I’ve never been free.
Have I deluded myself into believing that I have freed myself of the collar?
Days of being ignored and left to my own has prompted questions I wish to not have answered.
It is also when I miss ma the most. Terribly so. I long to hear her voice. Even more the embrace of her comforting and loving arms. There is something incredibly different from the love of a ma compared to others.
I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around myself. If I hold myself tight enough I can imagine it’s her.
A long weary sigh escapes me.
I wonder how ma is managing. I know she must be going mad with worry. More than likely ridding herself to tears each and every night. Waking with despair that turns to bargainingwith pa. I know she has to be recycling the stages of grief without ever allowing herself to take the final step; acceptance.
God, I can’t allow myself to think of her. Not only does it bring me the greatest sorrow I know I’ll never be able to look her in the eyes if we are to ever be reunited.
How does one look in their ma’s eyes and tell them they’re falling in love with her son’s killer?
I’m certain disappointment and betrayal will greet me. A heart broken beyond repair.
I wish my heart could follow my head. But the poor bloody vessel I wear so openly begs to be seen by him. It wants to fit perfectly in his capable and tender hands.
I’ve seen the man the world has not. A man with faults yes but a man who has become vulnerable and soft with me. Possibly only ever with me.
And if I am to go by his mindset of fact then there is an abundance to support my claim.
No Made Man threatens his own, no Made Man kills his own, and no Made Man takes the time to care earnestly about someone who is just a bargaining chip.
