Lying in the dark, my own cock painfully hard, I squeeze my eyes shut and remember the time I was inside Salt, when everything between us felt open and full of hope, a foolish hope, because, as he himself admitted, he never cared about a relationship with me.
Sometimes, in desperation, I take out the picture of us sitting on the beach. I stare at his feral, beautiful face, and then I have to hide the photo quickly, because seeing him hits me like a hot iron through my heart.
Salt only wanted revenge, I was a means to an end. He planned to let the police kill him. That was the path hechose, me… not included. The pain of that realization is almost unbearable, which is why, day after day, a great portion of my time is spent making a massive effort to keep my mind tightly closed, separated from memories, cut off from thoughts of what we were orcouldbe.
That is how I function for those first two weeks. But with every passing day, it becomes harder.
Sometimes I press my face into the pillow, the pain tearing through me so violently it crushes my chest. I see again the moment I marked him, the sound of full submission he made. His words pushed me away, but his energy, his body, called to me. Should I have left? Or ignored the Tanner case, stayed, and tried to make it work somehow? My pride mirrors his. In that sense, we are disturbingly alike.
He said he hated me. That he never wanted to see me again. Fine.
I close my eyes and see his beautiful, catlike face, those moments where his defiance mixed with vulnerability. The session on the beach when he posed, his eyes half-lidded as he looked at me, the evenings as he gave himself to me, offering me his body.
Fuck. I want to hit something, kick something, break something.
It could have been beautiful.
It could have been divine.
But we lost each other.
???
As I'm stuck in a dejected mental state, the lack of progress starts to gnaw at me, but instead of making my move, I end up frozen in apathy.
The needed change in me, or what you could call a push from Fate toward action, comes from an unexpected direction.
Not wanting to mooch off Storm any longer, I check the BA program site to find out how to access the account assigned to Salt and me. To keep everything safe, I go to a bank, and withdraw some cash there. Since I have to park far from the bank, I end up walking through downtown.
As I take my stroll, I realize I’m not far from a restaurant my family used to go to, one of those fancy spots.
The urge to check it out hits in a flash, and I find my body already moving on its own, pulled forward by a stupid whisper from my more reckless side.
The restaurant waits at the far end of the block, golden light spilling through its windows, and the sight tightens something in my chest. For a moment I stare at the decorative neon above the entrance, memories flowing through my mind. This is where Anzo took me after my first winning fight. Here, he also celebrated taking two districts from the Russians. Even Rocco used to eat there constantly, always at the same table.
Still, whenever Mauro and I were here, we’d sit like decorative centerpieces, pretending we belonged.
With my brows furrowed, I slow down, drawn closer by some foolish, dangerous impulse, and before I can talk myself out of it, I step up to the window and look inside.
The moment breaks me open.
Rocco is there.
Imposing as ever, he seemed to fill the entire space by sheer presence, with Uncle Vincenzo across the table and Ennio turned slightly, listening to the capo’s voice.
The moment almost hypnotizes me; my eyes stick to Rocco’s scarred face completely against my will, emotions churning inside me.
The hatred I feel for him starts to buzz through me, making my jaws involuntarily clench. Caught in the turbulent feelings, I lose my alertness.
And the worst happens.
Rocco lifts his head mid-motion, and our eyes collide through the glass.
There is no confusion, no delay. He recognizes me instantly. The second stretches, knifelike, bare, and I understand in that breathless pause that I have made a grave mistake.
I turn and run, to save myself, or at least give it a shot.
My boots hammer the pavement as I throw myself forward in a wild sprint. But the sound of my steps is chased almost immediately by another pair, heavier. I do not look over my shoulder. I can feel him behind me, the pressure of his energy pushing at my back.
