Under His Protection: A Dark Mafia Romance

6. The Trouble

The airin my apartment feels heavy and thick with the scent of dust. When will I be able to clean the place? Not today, I guess —

I set the folder on the kitchen table, and push open the window, letting in a gust of cool air that whips around me. It’s a welcome reprieve, a breath of life in this stagnant space. Maybe it’ll clear my head, too.

Alexander’s presence still lingers from yesterday. The boxes, still stacked in the corner, loom like the chaos he introduced into my life.

I turn on the kettle for tea, my eyes drawn back to the file. The wind makes the worn edges of the folder flutter. The paper is brittle, a faded brown as if it has absorbed the city’s grime. Suddenly, a memory slams into me like a car crash, a jarring, visceral jolt. The mangled metal, the shattered glass, the acrid smell of gasoline. The images are sharp and clear, and the raw emotions are almost unbearable. The drive to the crash site. The identification of my drowned battered parents. A wave of grief threatens to pull me under, to drown me in the depths of my pain.

Then the anger returns, fiercer than before. Who drove my parents into the water and left them to die? Is the answer in there? I clutch the file, a silent promise to myself. I’m going to find out the truth. Is that what the file is about? No one ever told me anything besides it being a tragic accident. I was too young to know and to investigate.

My hand hovers over the file, my fingers tracing the outline of it. It feels wrong, a violation of Harvey’s trust, but I’m driven by an insatiable need to know. I’ve always wanted to see what’s hidden behind closed doors. I’ve been drawn to the shadows. I’ve seen the darkness and felt its chill, knowing I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.

I pull papers from the file, my heart throbbing in my chest. The paper is stiff and worn, its edges frayed, and I can almost smell the musty aroma of the police station. The name on the front throws me back to a past I thought I’d left behind: “The Parker family. John, Elaine, and Ava Parker.”

I hesitate, my hand trembling. Do I open it? Do I risk uncovering secrets that might shatter the fragile foundation of my life?

I tell myself it’s a mistake. To leave the past in the past. But I can’t help myself. I open the file. My eyes scan page after page, filled with police reports and witness statements, all related to the accident. It’s a jumble of dates, names, and details – an overwhelming labyrinth of information. I yawn, my eyelids heavy. This is all just routine stuff, I think. Nothing new here.

Then, my gaze catches on a single sheet of paper nestled amidst the reports. It’s a newspaper clipping, and the ink is faded with age.

I recognize the headline: “Bourne Family Vanishes After Tragic Accident.” My heart stutters, a sudden jolt of recognition. I scan the article. The image of a wrecked car, twisted metal, and shattered glass flashes before my eyes again.

A chilling realization dawns upon me, a terrible truth I can’t ignore. The article features a photo of a young Alexander and his sister Michelle, along with a picture of a rusty black car that once belonged to his father, according to the article. The article recounts the accident, describing how the Bournes’ car collided with another vehicle, causing the other car to veer off a bridge and plunge into the water below. One passenger in the second car died on impact, my mother, and the other drowned in the waters below, my father. I trace the faded ink of the article with trembling fingers.

I reread the article, my mind struggling to process the information. The Bourne family. The car accident. It’s as if my life, my entire reality, is crumbling around me. It’s all coming together now.

The secrets I’ve been trying to unmask, the hidden truths that surround me, all connect back to this. The other car. My parents. The date fits.

Was this what Alexander wanted to tell me? That he killed my parents?

My breath hitches, and a sudden chill settles in my bones. The ink of the article blurs as I reread the police reports and the witness statements. My fingers tremble as I reach the final document: the interview with Alexander Bourne, the driver of the car, then just eighteen years old. He claims to have been hit by the other car and to remember nothing of the impact. The truth is hidden just beyond my grasp.

The truth, a jagged shard of glass, slices through the fragile fabric of my life. My heart hammers against my ribs. It’s as if a dam has broken inside me, unleashing a torrent of emotions that threaten to drown me. I see it all with brutal clarity: Alexander, the man I love, the man who swore to protect me, was driving the car, the car that took my parents from me.

The phone feels like a lifeline in the churning sea of my emotions. I punch in his number, each digit a sharp, insistent echo of the betrayal I feel. When it finally rasps through the receiver, his voice is a gruff murmur.

“Ava,” he says.

My voice shakes a thin thread of sound against the roar of the emotions inside me. “The accident,” I whisper. “I know about the accident.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, his tone wary.

I can practically feel his resistance through the phone, the wall of secrets he’s built around his past. “I know about your family, about the crash. About Michelle and you driving the car,” I choke out, each word a struggle against the lump in my throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The silence that follows feels like an eternity, a void filled with the unspoken truths that have shattered my world.

“Alexander,” I say, my voice rising. “How could you keep this from me? You knew about my parents’ death, about the accident; you were driving the fuckin’ car, and you never said a word. You killed them.”

Silence. A silence broken only by the sound of my breathing. The silence is deafening. I can hear his heavy breathing on the other end of the line. It’s shallow and uneven, a sound of struggle and restraint. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even try to explain.

“You — you— you—killed my parents,” I sob.

I hang up the phone, my hands shaking.

There’s a deep emptiness taking hold inside of me. The man I love, the man I trust, the man I thought I knew, has been lying to me. He knows about my parents’ death, about the accident, and he hadn’t said a word. He’d watched me mourn, watched me grieve, and he hadn’t said a word. He was driving the fuckin’ car.

My fingers clench around the phone, digging into the cold plastic as I press the green button to make a call.

“Harvey,” I say, “It’s Ava.”

He answers with a gruff, “Ava, what’s going on? It’s late.”

“It’s about Alexander,” I say, my voice tight. “About the accident. You need to tell me everything you know.”

Silence hangs heavy on the line, then a sigh. “Ava, I—” he begins, his voice hesitant.

“Just tell me, Harvey,” I plead, my voice cracking. “Please.”

“Ava, I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.”

“Then why didn’t you?!” I demand.

Is there a conspiracy to keep me in the dark?

He hesitates, a sigh escaping him, “I was afraid— afraid to hurt you. You were doing well, and I thought—”

“Well, I get to decide that, don’t I?” I interrupt, my voice cold.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says, with a wave of exhaustion. “It didn’t matter for justice, though. There was no evidence that it was more than a tragic accident.”

“Tragic accident?” I scoff, the word tasting like bitter lemon on my tongue. “My life was shattered, Harvey. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t live after they were gone. It took me years to even reach the surface of the ocean I was drowning in.”

“I know, Ava, and I’m so sorry,” he says.

“Are you?”

I hang up before I say something I’ll regret, the red button flashing its finality. My mind races and Harvey’s words echo in my head: “There is no evidence.”

I don’t care about evidence right now. It doesn’t matter. The truth is out there, and I’m broken like a melody, now distorted, the notes of my life forever altered. The man I loved, the man I trusted, killed my parents.

I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, my body wracked with sobs. I knew his life was on the edge. But I hadn’t realized how dangerous, how deadly. Will I end up dead next? By Alexander’s next mistake? And was it a mistake?

I close my eyes, letting the tears flow freely. I don’t know what I will do, but I know I have to find a way to survive this.

The oak doorsgroan open like a beast, letting out a weary sigh. Opulence slams into me - polished marble, his crystal chandelier sparkling like a captured galaxy, the scent of cedarwood and leather that always smells like Alexander. It’s supposed to be intoxicating, but tonight, the air feels thick, like I’m breathing in a blend of luxury and fear.

“Ava,” Alexander’s voice is a low rumble, a familiar sound that should bring comfort but instead makes my stomach clench. He’s standing in the grand foyer. His features are etched with exhaustion. His eyes are shadowed with a weariness that seems to have taken root in the depths of his soul. My thoughts race - How shall I start?

Instead he takes a step closer, his gaze fixed on me. “Where are your bags? Did the moving truck take the boxes?”

I step back, a lump forming in my throat. The cool marble floor feels cold beneath my feet, and the silence of the mansion is almost deafening.

“That’s what concerns you? The moving boxes?” I say, shaking my head.

His face softens, and he reaches out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. “Ava, I missed you. I’m glad you came. Let’s talk.”

Tears welling up in my eyes, I pull away, my voice trembling. “You lied to me, Alexander. You kept the truth from me. You’ve been hiding a secret for all this time.”

“Ava, I—” he says, his voice rough.

How can he be so calm?

“You killed my parents, Alexander!” I hiss.

He doesn’t answer. His gaze is distant, lost.

“The car — it was your father’s car, the car that—” I can’t bring myself to say it. The memory of the mangled car, the shattered glass, and the smell of blood and gasoline, water, and dead bodies rises in my mind.

He steps closer, his arms outstretched, but I back away. Shivering, I pull my coat tighter around me, seeking a sliver of comfort.

“Ava, I was young,” he says, his voice a low plea. “It was a mistake. I never meant to—”

“Murder them?” I spit, the words sharp and cruel.

“Ava,” he says. “I know I can’t take back what happened. But—”

“You killed my parents, Alexander,” I say, my voice trembling. “You stole my family from me, and then you lied to me about it.”

“Ava, please,” he begs, his eyes filled with pain. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I’m just trying to protect you, to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” I laugh, a bitter sound that echoes in the grand foyer. “You’re the most dangerous man I know, Alexander. You’re a monster.”

“Ava, I— I love you,” he whispers, his voice cracking.

“Love?” I scoff. “Love? Do you think love is enough to erase this? You think love can justify what you’ve done?”

He steps back, shoulders slumping like a weary warrior surrendering to defeat. His eyes, usually filled with a playful fire, are now dulled with a despair that chills me to the bone. The tears that stream down my face feel like molten lava, burning a path through the wreckage of my heart. “It’s over,” I whisper, the words barely audible against the storm raging inside me.

I turn and walk towards the door. I can feel his eyes boring into my back. I can’t bear to look at him. The image of his pain, his regret, his desperation, is too much to bear. He is the love of my life, the man I thought I’d spend forever with, but he’s also the man who took everything from me.

A deep, guttural growl erupts from Alexander, and I turn around.

“No, Ava, please,” he begs. He throws his hands up, his face contorted with anguish. His jaw is clenched, his eyes wide and desperate. “Please, don’t leave. I was a mess, a reckless kid, a mistake. I didn’t know what I was doing. I made a mistake. I made so many mistakes, Ava. But I’m different now. I’m not that kid anymore.”

He stumbles forward, his hands reaching out as if to grasp at me, but I keep walking, my eyes now fixed on the imposing oak door.

He collapses to his knees. “Please, Ava,” he cries. “Don’t leave me. I’m so sorry. I’m not the monster you think I am.”

His words, his pain, they are a physical force, a pressure that threatens to crack the shell of my anger. I feel a flicker of sympathy, a tug of compassion, a moment of doubt.

But then, the image of the car crash and the pain of my parents’ loss all floods back, pulling me under. It’s a visceral memory, sharp and unbearable. The anger returns, fiercer than before.

I swallow; my throat is tight as I look at him. His body is slumped over the white marble floor, his hands clenched into fists. I keep walking, his cries fading behind me, the sound of the massive oak door closing behind me like a death knell.

As the massive oak doors close behind me I can hear his cries fading into the distance. He’s begging for forgiveness, but I can’t give it to him. The pieces of my life are shattered, and his words can’t mend them.

My phone buzzes, a jarring reminder of the world outside. It’s a text from Cole: “I’m so sorry if my apology was a bust. I meant it.”

“Whatever,” I think, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “All men are the same. Liars.”