It’s rude to interrupt her when she’s with someone, but I need to get this out of the way. I’m scheduled to go out with Edoardo in half an hour, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. Marlena has taken to going to bed early and waking up early. I’ve been staying up late because of the work Uncle Gio has me doing, which means I sleep as long as possible during the day. I’m afraid our schedules will never align again, and I want to take advantage of this small window of opportunity to talk with her.
The designer gives me a tight smile. She’s clearly displeased that I’m not valuing her time, but she’s too polite to make a fuss about it. “I’ll be right outside,” she says.
Marlena nods apologetically. “What’s wrong?” she asks as soon as we’re alone.
“I wanted to talk to you about Brandon,” I begin.
“What is it?” she prompts, leaving me no choice but to continue.
“I lied when I said that everything was fine,” I admit. “Everything isn’t fine. I don’t think he’s going to classes.”
“What do you mean?” she mutters.
“When I stayed with him, he didn’t do much except go out to bars at night. He has three roommates who aren’t helping. They’re getting high all the time, and I could tell neither of them has a job.” As soon as I begin talking, I rush to get to the end. It’s best to just lay my cards on the table and let her sort through them. So, I quickly run through my experience at Brandon’s apartment, leaving nothing out.
When I’m done, Marlena sits with the news in silence. Finally, she pats me on the shoulder. “Thank you for telling me.”
“What do you think we should do?” I ask.
“I’ll talk to him,” she says solemnly.
“Okay,” I say, feeling a bit lost. This conversation was anticlimactic. I expected Marlena to cry or to wring her hands in worry, not simply brush it off like another task she must perform before childbirth. She has a lot on her mind and Brandon is only one of those things. But I did my part. “Are you okay?” I ask, hesitant to leave her without assuring myself that she can deal with the news.
“I’m fine,” she says quietly. “It’s sad. I promise I’ll talk to him.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” I offer.
“You didn’t,” she assures me.
I give her a hug. “You’re a lot stronger than I give you credit for.”
She pulls back, giving my shoulder a playful pinch. “You better remember that.”
“I will,” I promise.
Out in the hall, I signal to the designer that she can go back in. I’m feeling a little bit better, but only marginally. I’m glad that one of us has their head on straight. If only Sofia was more like Marlena, then everything could be solved with a simple conversation. But of course, Sofia left, taking with her any hope I might’ve had of reconnecting.
I groan in frustration for even having that thought. Sofia is gone. Brandon is messed up, but at least he has Marlena. I’m sure shecan straighten him out better than I can. In the meantime, I have tons of work to do and an exam to study for.
I go downstairs to grab myself a sandwich before heading out with Edoardo. We’re supposed to meet with some pretty gruff characters today. Edoardo hasn’t told me much about them, but enough to know that he’s nervous about the meeting.
I’m starting to get the hang of my father’s operation. It doesn’t seem to matter how difficult something is, when the boss says, ‘Do it,’ you do it. So, I’m off to accompany the head of security while we deal with an unpleasant issue. In that light, Marlena’s reaction to her brother’s addiction seems par for the course. She and my father are more alike than I thought. They both have a quiet strength of character that allows them to move mountains in their own time.
“Ready to go?” Edoardo asks, swinging into the kitchen from the back porch. He smells like cigarettes, so I guess he’s been smoking outside. Marlena hates that. I’ll have to makes sure he does that far away from the house where she can’t smell, she already has enough with worrying about Brandon.
“Yeah,” I agree, following him through the house and out the front door.
He’s not nearly as conversational as Gio, but I’ve grown accustomed to him. We drive in silence until we’re nearly there, when Edoardo starts to fill me in on the job.
“I just want you to stand there, and not say anything,” he requests.
“Got it,” I respond.
There’s a certain dance that we must perform each time we apply pressure on someone. It involves one or two people looking menacing and staying mute, while the other person asks the questions. My job this time will be to imply that I’m there to kill someone, without saying anything. I’ve done it at least half a dozen times before and so I feel prepared.
“Who’s this guy we’re leaning on?” I ask.
“Freddy Diaz,” Edoardo says. “We think he’s been skimming money off the top.”
