He threads a hand behind my back and pulls me close. I barely have time to breathe before he crushes his lips to mine. And then I’m flying, and it’s a thousand times better than any dream.
This is dirty and uncensored. I want him, not with my mind or my heart, but with my soul. He’s stirring something deep inside me that goes straight to my core. I’m positive he would be a ferocious lover, and for the life of me, I can’t think of a single reason to resist.
Our kiss enters a new phase, one that promises much more than simple lip action. In my delirium, I consider undressing him. Tossing his suit jacket away and undoing the buttons on the front of his shirt one by one, I could signal that I amready, willing, and able. But then panic takes hold. This isn’t what I want. I know how dangerous it is to be associated with a mobster. I can’t in good conscience let this go any further.
I pull away, sealing the kiss and putting my shoulder between us. There are tears in my eyes as I walk back toward the sofa, intending only to press the pause button. Francisco steps inside and closes the door behind him. Now we’re alone. No bodyguards, no political figures, no eager young law students. It’s just us and the vast minefield of traumatic memories between us.
“I can’t,” I say, collapsing onto the couch in a state of abject misery.
Francisco takes a seat beside me. He’s given me space to breathe, but he’s closer than a friend or a business colleague might sit. I look away, wishing this wasn’t so hard. How am I going to convince him to let me go? Is that even what I want?
“Talk to me,” he insists gently.
I sniff. “There’s nothing to say.”
“Please,” he continues. “You know how I feel about you. Please tell me what you’re thinking.”
I chance looking back at him, and I find an earnest gentleman, his eyes wide and compassionate, waiting to hold my hand through the worst of it. I break down. The tears bubble up from my stomach where they’ve been hiding all these years.
“My father,” I choke on the words. It all comes out in a flash. The floodgates are released, and I find myself rushing through the story with no rhythm or punctuation. It feels like I’m vomitingall over him. All of my deepest secrets come tumbling out of my lips and into the air, clouding the room.
I tell him about how difficult it was to live with my father. Even though I wanted to leave home as soon as I turned eighteen, I didn’t. Brandon needed me, and despite the fact that I didn’t get along with my dad, I knew he needed me too.
“One day, my father just wasn’t there. I looked for him everywhere but couldn’t find him,” I recall, trying hard to keep my voice from breaking.
“He was in the habit of disappearing sometimes, but this time was different. All we found was his phone, and he never went out without it. After two days without any contact, there was a knock on the door. I went to answer it, and there were two police officers standing there in the rain. They asked to come in, and I let them. Shaking off their caps, they told me they had terrible news.”
I take a deep breath. “One of them asked me for my name, and my first response was to ask what their visit was about. I needed to know, even if I knew deep down what it was about.”
“‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’” the first officer said. “‘We’ve recovered some human remains, and we believe they may be your father’s.’”
I look Francisco deeply in the eyes, punctuating the horror of those two blunt words. “Human remains. That’s what they called him. He wasn’t even human anymore. I told them I wanted to see, but they wouldn’t let me.
“‘If you’ll just look at this photo,’” the one officer said, holding out a cell phone.
“I took it and saw it was a picture of my father from the chin up. I had never seen anyone looking worse for wear. Both of his eyes were closed, and his nose was mangled. The hair was in such disarray, it looked like a toupee had been stapled to his head. I could barely make out the features that had been so prominent when I was a kid. But there was no one else it could be. Despite the differences between the man I knew and the face in the photo, it was obviously the same person.
“That’s him,” I said, handing the phone back. “Why can’t I see him?”
The two officers looked at each other uncomfortably. “There’s not… an entire body,” one of them explained.
“I didn’t react just then. I was too shocked, just going through the motions without pausing to consider what I’d just learned. It was at the funeral that I realized the danger we were in and sprang into action.
“I packed a suitcase that night, the same suitcase that’s now waiting for me in my bedroom, and took Brandon. We changed our names, and I applied for a new Social Security card with a fake marriage certificate.
“I changed my last name, and moved away,” I finish, expelling the poison that’s kept me hostage for years. “And I swore I would never get involved with the mafia world again.”
“What was your father’s name?” Francisco asks softly.
He’s staying on his side of the couch, resisting the urge to touch me. I appreciate that, even though my body aches to be held. This is too important. I’m trying to tell him why we can never be together, and I need this separation to accomplish my goal.
“Vincent Rocca,” I say, searching his face for signs of recognition. There are none.
“I’ve heard the name,” he admits. “But I didn’t know him.”
I shrug unhappily. It doesn’t matter whether Francisco knew my father. What matters is that we’ve hit an impasse. I can’t remain in his employ, and there’s nothing he can say to change things.
“So you understand why I can’t stay,” I tell him. “Because I know who you are.”
