I was all in when it came to him. He’s actually the one that pursued me at first, but it was fate that ultimately reunited us. We’ve been together just under a year, but I was determined to get him something that reflects how much he means to me. Eamon now has an identical set-up to mine. Louise the tarantula, extends her tarsal claws atop the skull hide in her tank. It took a few weeks of planning, but I think I killed it on his birthday present. He’s not a fan of celebrating since the holidays seem to shroud his special day. Didn’t stop me from spoiling the hell out of him by cooking dinner each night. Everything from broccoli and cheese soup, to penne alla vodka, and even a short rib ragu. Honestly, he’s a terrible cook, although I also don’t mind watching him swallow what I serve him.
“What’s wrong?” Eamon has learned my tells. One of his hands supports his neck, while the other skates over his scalp, as if attempting to rouse himself from his previously tired state.
“Well… besides Brenda nagging me as usual. I’m great!” I lied. My stomach plummets in response to the sympathetic smile that pulls at the corners of his handsome face.
“I get it. Intern jobs are shite work,” he agrees. Sitting up, he reaches for me. Pushing back long strands from my forehead, while managing to look straight into my very core. “You’re going to get that journalism gig. I just know it,” Eamon speaks so matter-of-factly.
Lately, it’s been hard to view the glass as anything but half empty. Quickly reeling in my pessimistic thoughts, I position myself back against the headboard and gaze upward at the mirror, all in an attempt to escape Eamon’s assessing stare. Eventually, I pulled a truth from the illusion. “Investigative journalism can be extremely competitive. I wouldn’t doubt there will be at least a hundred applicants.”
Eamon throws the covers off his naked form. Moving onto me by straddling my legs and resting upon my thighs. When he gets like this… there’s no escaping him. He doesn’t like when I’m hard on myself. When I believe I’m no better than the next guy. He takes it to heart, seeing it as an attack on what’s his. I wish I understood what he saw in me. His hands trace my navel, working up to my chest before tracing the length of my neck, where he eventually rests just upon my jaw.
“Listen to me.”
I can’t fight the pull of his hypnotic focus.
“Any place would be lucky to have you. Now… why don’t you cut the shit, little prince, and tell me the real reason I caught you watching boats at three a.m., instead of in my bed.”
My other half knows me too well. Regrettably, he can’t know what’s truly going on. At least not until I know more. Eamon’s world, although dangerous all on its own, is pretty black and white. I learned early on the kind of life he led. If it meant being together, I was ready to dive in headfirst.
In college, he thought he was slick at first. Attending a journalism class as a business major. I knew he didn’t belong there, but as much as he watched me, I was considering him. Maybe it was our youthful pride? Attempting to fight the pull we had toward one another. It was actually after graduation that we started seeing each other. We tried to keep our relationship private. Not just because he was a gay man who was the son of a crime lord, but because our families have a complicated history. Our memories resemble two slices of Swiss cheese. Overlapping at some points, even if gaping holes leave us questioning whether or not we remember things correctly.
While my folks have attempted to present themselves as hardworking, loving parents. I’ve always known something wasn’t normal. The Murrays are a known name on the streets.I know what they're capable of. They may deal in racketeering, gambling, and tax evasion, but that’s small potatoes compared to what my family has accomplished. They played their part well, trying to hide who they truly are from my sister and me. Real estate and investment? Come on… Really? No one works that much. I’m a nosy motherfucker, so once I had access to a computer, I looked up the name I was supposed to forget. “Lombardi.”
Our grandparents came over from Sicily, immigrating to the States where they quickly made a name for themselves. Between research and collecting old articles, I’ve learned that I’m the descendant of people who got rich from extortion, intimidation, and manipulation. I’ve always known something was uniquely different about our family. Why else would we have to move every couple years and change our name without explanation? Cindel was little, she probably didn’t even realize it was altered.
Come to think of it, it’s kinda crazy my parents even supported the idea of me pursuing a career in communications. They knew full well I planned to minor in investigative journalism. If Mom and Dad wanted their true nature to stay buried, why encourage such an education? Either they're blatantly naive or they knew precisely what they were doing; forging the path for me to uncover truths… all on my own.
Regardless, my kid sister Cindel is in the dark about everything. I can only hope that, after what my parents’ choices had brought to our family’s doorstep, she never learns about any of this. She deserves to stay blissfully ignorant, chasing her love of fashion and staying the hell away from anything or anyone who could bring her harm. Not living at home makes it difficult to find the time to talk to her, more than once a week. We’ve grown distant… her starting college and me chasing the high of ‘why the wind blows.’ It’s better this way. Keeping her atarm’s reach and away from me. It’s for her own good. I would be lying if I didn’t say it kills me when I think back to how close we used to be. Cindel has a good head on her shoulders. If she just stopped getting in her own way, she’d be alright. She has to be alright. Someday I might not be around to protect her.
When I started college, more specifically, interning with news outlets, my uncle Nicholas started coming around more. He said he wants to “help me.” Repeatedly telling me he has connections that could be beneficial in my future career in journalism. I couldn’t fathom how he could help me with a job in financing or whatever he did. Each time he tried to convince me that he could advance my career, I politely declined. At one point, he offered me a hefty salary if I took some time off from my schooling and came and worked for him. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that nothing is what it seems. “If you take everything at face value, you’ll never have a story.” My first journalism professor drilled that saying into her students. She even wrote it on top of one of my papers. Signed, “Moyra.” I ripped the message off the top half of my paper and taped it onto my bedroom mirror. Reminding me each and every day, to keep asking questions until the truth reveals itself.
So, there I was, tailing my uncle around Boston for weeks on end. He commonly met with one particular character in uniform. Clearly, he was an officer of the law. I managed to learn his name only by asking the barista at the coffee shop he frequented. Kent. Odd. The professor who made a lasting impact on me in college had the same last name. Was Kent really that common or could they be related?
When I find myself over analyzing the minute detail, I push the thought aside and focus on the clear evidence before me. My uncle has befriended a cop. That’s clear as day, but to what end? How does working in finance involve secret rendezvous with a copper in an abandoned warehouse? Things weren’t adding up.
When I started looking into my uncle’s place of employment, like who he worked for, or any colleagues… you know what I found? Nothing. Bupkis! There was never any job in investing, banking, or however he spun it. Was he trying to shelter me like my parents did? I already knew I was Lombardi but my folks were done with that kind of life. Weren’t they? I might be out of the loop when it comes to Mafia’s codes of conduct, but I’m pretty fucking certain that being chummy with a cop, gets you a one-way ticket to the bottom of the bay.
However involved my parents may currently be, surely, they can’t be okay with what my uncle is doing. I never wanted to look further into what my family used to do, especially because it resulted in Cindel getting hurt. I may have been young at the time of the explosion, but I understood without anyone spelling it out for me. Someone wanted to hurt us because of who my family was and you know what? My parents did a shit job of keeping us safe, after the incident. What does redacting letters from our last name and moving around all helter-skelter within the city do for protection? Maybe Mom and Dad never stopped the family business… that would explain why they consistently expected me to watch my kid sister.
For a while, I hated my parents. Refused to answer their calls. It was even more confusing when my uncle would invite me out to breakfast the day after I ignored them. I never went. Unwilling to be spoon-fed whatever shit he conjured up. Eamon would one day inherit his father’s empire; I didn’t wantto concern him with theoretical scenarios and my own family drama. Keeping all this from him felt like a rock in the pit of my stomach. A steady-painful burden. I admired how easy it was for Eamon to share with me. Despite my chosen career path, while adhering to an ethical code involving truth, accuracy, fairness, and transparency, he knew I would never report a thing. We have history. He was my beginning. My forever person.
I was frustrated with myself for taking so long to notice it, but I finally saw a pattern. The day after my dear old uncle would meet with Officer Kent, Eamon's family business would face some kind of raid or arrest. Almost like clockwork, Nicholas would have an audience with the man in uniform from the Boston PD, again one of Murray's soldiers would be taken in for questioning. Sometimes one of the Murray guys would just up and disappear! None of the charges ever stuck, but the coincidence was too convenient to overlook. I had a new theory… Uncle Nicholas has taken the omertà, the code of the Mafia and pissed on it. I should give my parents the benefit of the doubt…. maybe they did try to step away from the family business, but clearly Nicholas assumed control.
My father was adopted into the Lombardi family, although unlike their first son Nicholas, Charles had been deemed the dependable son. The one fit to take the reins one day. I wonder how Nicholas felt about all that? Clearly, it seems that he carved out a little space for himself in this city. Convenient for him, that my family went into hiding after a supposed “gas leak.” The explanation never sat right with me. What happened to my sister was the start of many doubts I had. After that day, I never stopped demanding answers and I never will. It’s one of my driving factors. The reason why I wanted to become an investigative journalist.
After multiple sleepless nights, I’ve come to the conclusion that Nicholas is the reason behind the Murray's troubles. He slighted his own family, starting by generating chaos. Classic totalitarian mindset. Nicholas Lombardi plans to obliterate any and all competition. Pulling the strings from behind the curtain, this man will wind up killing off the Murrays and ruling Boston with an iron fist. Still a working theory but a viable, fucked up one.
What I was doing was time consuming. Fully invested in my research and reconnaissance, I made the decision to quit my temp job. Just last week, while looking through a box of old photos, I was taken aback when I stumbled across a photograph of our families together. What could have caused the notorious Murray and Lombardi alliance to stop? Everything should point back to the day my sister could have died, but I have this sick feeling it goes even further back. Possibly when our parents were young, around our age. It looks to be the start in a long series of events. The first domino to fall. It may seem like a slew of loose connections but there is always one consistent variable. My uncle.
Kissing, biting, and teasing away Eamon’s concern, he eventually forgets how I never answered his question. I managed to close my eyes for an hour or so, thanks to Eamon’s arm draped over my torso, pinning me to the bed. He was up with the alarm, then straight to the shower, whereas I headed into the kitchen. Bright light now floods the spacious room, as I set to work all in an attempt to cook away my concerns.
Eamon eventually emerges into the kitchen just as I pull out the baked Eggs en Cocotte with Smoked Salmon. “Mmmmm, tell me I get to eat that!” Eamon commands respect in any room he enters. Not just because of the expensive tailored suits, but the confidence, charisma, and eye contact he maintains without fault. Setting down his briefcase in the chair beside him, he adjusts his cufflinks as he sits down at the island.
“I think I know the way to your heart by now...” I wink in his direction. Taking one of the piping hot ramekins off the baking sheet, I balanced a baguette on the rim and placed the delicate dish in front of him.
“Don’t tell anyone.” He scolds.
I sit beside him as we take turns sharing what the day holds, in between hot spoonfuls of the eggy entree. I push down the buzzing thoughts involving my family as I struggle to focus on Eamon’s words. He mentions having to handle an ‘ongoing issue’ with their bookie at the boxing club. Speaking freely about his world, never hiding the ugly parts from me.
