Sailor
In the hours since Noah left so abruptly, I had torn myself apart wondering where I went wrong. Should I not have shared what I thought I knew? What could I have done differently? Telling him my true identity sooner was never an option. It was repeatedly drilled into me that no one should ever know.
But maybe he knew something I didn’t. He was shocked when I said I thought I knew the man in the picture, and it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. Noah was in the mafia, and if the man was too, then it stood to reason that my father was also involved in organized crime.
I could lie to myself and pretend the family member was the only bad guy, and surely my dad never meant to get involved.
But I wasn’t that fucking naïve.
No wonder their lives had been scrubbed from the internet. No wonder the marshal service had moved me upstate to a no-name town and given me a new identity. The only reason there was so much media coverage was because my parents were notorious criminals, and the frenzy had to die down somehow.
Accident, my ass. Clearly, they were killed for who they were; by whom was the big question. Lauder told me they weren't the intended targets, but I no longer believed anything she said. After I put two and two together, the answers were becoming a bit clearer, even if I didn't like them.
When Noah asked if he could come over, I almost told him no. It would be entirely too easy to fall back into old patterns, pushing people away and locking my heart behind its rusted cage, but I wanted to see him. I needed him to reassure me that everything would be okay and that I hadn't ruined anything by taking too long to tell him the truth.
And when he stood in my doorway, sadness in his eyes and defeat etched around his mouth, my heart ached to make it right again. Wordlessly, I leaned against him, soaking up his scent and warmth as I wrapped my arms around him. He hugged me back, squeezing just a bit too tightly.
“I’m sorry I ran out of here the way I did.” He stroked a hand over my hair. “I had to tell my dad we might know who that guy is so we could take steps to protect ourselves.”
“I should have told you about myself sooner.”
“No, you did the right thing. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you.”
“I’ve had to live with secrets almost my entire life.”
Keeping me pressed into his coat, he cupped the back of my head and cradled me like a child.
“Did you know my parents?”
There it was again; his body jerked violently. “Why would I know them?”
Stepping back, I went into the kitchen and pulled down my box of tea. Time for the hard truths, then. “Because you’re a mafia don, Noah, and if you’re looking for the man I recognized, who bears an uncanny resemblance to my dead father, then it stands to reason you might have known the Francos.”
“No, I did not know them.”
“Did you know of them?” I clarified.
He sounded so weary when he responded. “When you were ten, I was barely eighteen, and I wasn’t yet acquainted with any of my father’s associates.”
Setting the kettle on the stove, I asked, “Do you have the resources to help me find out who would have wanted them dead?”
Noah’s eyes slammed shut, and he massaged his temples. “Wouldn't it bring on more heartbreak to know?”
“I need the truth.”
“The only thing I can tell you is that none of us target wives. Not usually.”
His words sounded strangled, and I wondered if that had to do with his mother’s murder. “Someone killed your mother, too, though. Apparently, targeting wives is not that uncommon.”
His eyes welled up with tears, and I was instantly remorseful.
“I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me.”
“We share more than you think,” he whispered.
“Are we fixable?” I asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence.
The water boiled, steam rising from the spout, while I waited for his response.
