She nods.“When something breaks inside a person, the cracks let the light in.That’s what happened to you.Those cracks mean you care too much.Especially those you love.”
Her words hit something deep in my chest, feelings that have been locked away since Syria.
“I’m terrified of what you’re becoming to me,” I confess.“I’m scared of losing you.But I’m more terrified of losing you because I was too afraid to give us a chance.”
Serena leans forward and kisses me, soft and slow and full of promises.When she pulls back, she says, “Then don’t run away.Stay with me.Nightmares and all.”
I pull her onto my lap and claim her lips.I pour into the kiss all the conflicting emotions I don’t know how to express.When we break for air, I lean my forehead against hers.We smile through labored breathing.
She frames my face in her cool hands.“I know.I’m scared, too.”
And just like that, she proves again that she can read me better than I can.Maybe I should believe her when she says I’m not hopelessly broken.
We lie down with her tucked into my chest, my arms around her.She falls asleep again quickly.I stay awake, but it’s different this time.The darkness doesn’t feel like an enemy.It feels like a space where I can finally rest and take inventory.
The city is full of people with their own ghosts.Their own fears.Their own reasons to run.
But for the first time since Syria, I’m choosing to stay and face my demons because Serena Boyle, my wife, is worth every second of this fight.
And that’s the bravest thing I’ve done in many years.
17
Serena
The Varese Inc.tower rises before me.Standing on the sidewalk, I tilt my head back to take in the sleek glass facade that curves elegantly toward the Boston sky.The building was designed by a renowned architect who has received several awards for her work.With its clean lines and reflective surfaces, it’s breathtaking.It’s the kind of structure that commands respect, that announces to the world:we have arrived, and we are here to stay.
My father named the company after Varese, the tiny town near Milan where my mother was born.He told us this story countless times as we grew up, his voice softening in a way it rarely did.He would go on to describe how he’d proposed to her at the Sacro Monte, surrounded by ancient trees.
How can such a romantic husband be a horrible person?I must be mistaken, I tell myself for the hundredth time.Maybe there’s an explanation for the information I’ve found.
Doubt gnaws at me as I watch employees stream in and out of the revolving doors.Suits and briefcases, pressed shirts and polished shoes.They look like any other corporate workers in any other building in Boston’s Financial District.
But what explanation could there possibly be for those physical descriptions and availability status?
I shake off the dark thoughts and cross the street, my heels clicking against the pavement.Across the intersection, the Ferguson & Arpels Hotel gleams in the early morning light, one of the legitimate businesses owned by the Boyles.The irony of the location isn’t lost on me.Two empires facing each other across a city street, bound together by marriage.
The lobby of Varese Inc.is all polished marble and strategic lighting.A massive abstract sculpture dominates the center, something my mother commissioned years ago.I remember her explaining it to me once, how the twisting bronze represented the duality of human nature.Light and shadow.Good and evil.
Did she know?Did my mother ever suspect what her husband was capable of?
Absolutely not!She’d have walked away the second she discovered.
I make my way to the private elevator that services the executive floors.The security guard nods as I pass, his face carefully blank.Miss DiLorenzo, his eyes say.Royalty.Handle with care.
The elevator deposits me on the thirty-second floor, where Joe’s secretary sits behind a massive desk.Miranda is a severe woman in her fifties, all sharp angles and sharper judgment.She’s been with my brother since he took over operations five years ago, and she guards his schedule with the ferocity of a dragon protecting its hoard.
“Serena.”She doesn’t smile, but the slight softening around her eyes is as close to warmth as Miranda gets.“He’s expecting you.Go right in.”
I thank her and push through the heavy oak doors into my brother’s domain.Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate two walls, offering a panoramic view of Boston.He probably feels like a god surveying his kingdom when he stands by them.The furniture is dark leather and polished wood, sophisticated without being ostentatious.Built-in shelves line one wall, holding a carefully curated collection of books and art.A cognac-colored leather sofa sits beneath the windows, positioned to catch the light.But it’s the desk that commands attention, a massive piece of furniture in glossy navy blue with chrome accents, modern enough to signal innovation while substantial enough to announce authority.
My brother stands behind it, phone pressed to his ear, one hand gesturing in the air as he speaks.He looks every inch the CEO of a billion-dollar enterprise, from his perfectly tailored charcoal suit to the Patek Philippe watch glinting at his wrist.His dark curls are artfully tousled, framing a face that belongs on a magazine cover, with his sharp cheekbones, full lips, and deep-set brown eyes that miss nothing.
He spots me and holds up one finger, then gestures toward the cognac leather chair opposite his desk.I sink into it, crossing my legs and trying to project a calm I don’t feel.
“Don’t worry, Pakhan,” Joe says into the phone, his voice smooth and confident.“I’ve got this covered.”
Pakhan.The Russian word for boss.Interesting.
