Nine
Vincent
“Mr. Romano you have a visitor,” Lourdes, my housekeeper, informs me.
“Show them in,” I state, not looking up from my tablet screen, too preoccupied with the recent numbers that Antoine has sent me to care which made man now needs my undivided attention.
There isn’t a day that goes by without some asshole coming up to my house in search of a one-on-one with the capo dei capi to discuss their grievous concerns on the war I want to ensue on New York. Sometimes I think I should listen to Giovanni’s jesting suggestion of whacking the whole lot of them. The code prevents me—of course—but that doesn’t mean I’m not growing tired of their cowardly antics.
My uncle must be rolling in his grave with the despicable show of gutlessness exhibited by his former commilitoni. Greedy made men , who are way past their prime, yet they do not want to step down from their ruling position and give their seats to younger and more worthy mafia blood. I have begun to understand why my uncle was so adamant in retiring at a certain age. He already knew what I’ve only now begun to realize. In the Outfit, there is no room for the tired and weak-willed; only the young and fearless. While old men dread being introduced to the devil, the young laugh in his face.
A few minutes later, I’m interrupted once again from my analysis, with a light knock on my study’s door. Unfortunately, instead of the bothersome visitor I was expecting, an even less desirable guest stands at its threshold.
Selene is ushered into my sanctuary with shy smiles from my housekeeper. Her hair is slightly wet from the latest fall of Chicago snow. Lourdes takes her coat, revealing skin-tight clothes clinging to her, showcasing new curves she didn’t hold when she was younger. The change is both pleasing to the eye and a foul reminder to the heart, of the years she robbed from us.
“I see you finally remembered your manners and used the front door this time. Progress,” I remark critically and watch Selene gnaw at her lower lip, preventing herself from the snarky comeback that must be lodged in her throat.
Progress indeed.
“Lourdes, fetch our guest a towel before she wets my ten-thousand-dollar rug any further, will you?” I order, seemingly annoyed.
“Right away, Mr. Romano,” Lourdes answers back quickly, and I shift my stare back to my iPad, unperturbed with the silence in the room while we wait for my housekeeper’s return.
“Thank you,” Selene replies gratefully to the older woman in my staff and uses the towel to dry up her long blond hair. The change of hair color is a travesty she must have done in the attempt to conceal her identity. Thinking of the lengths she went to, in order to keep us all stupidly unaware of her whereabouts, irks me to no end.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Romano? Some hot tea perhaps? For you and Miss…” Lourdes begins to ask.
“No. This visit should be rather short. I see no need for such pleasantries,” I interject harshly. My tone alone leaves no room for debate, making my housekeeper retreat in haste to complete her daily tasks.
But I don’t miss how she sneaks another glance at Selene, curiosity getting the best of her. Since I moved into this house, I have never once brought a woman to it, much less one as beautiful as Selene.
“I was under the assumption I had made my intentions quite clear last time you came around. I expected you to be miles away by now,” I tell her, my tone thin and to the point, without a hint of emotion behind it.
“I told you, I need your help,” she explains with the same detached tone, and I feel this chess game of ours has just begun in her mind. I have long surpassed any childish game she has planned, and have no desire to play it whatsoever.
“And I told you to leave my city.”
“Guess we’re both hard of hearing.” She shrugs unapologetically and moves over to the lit fireplace for warmth.
“Or stubborn,” I grunt below my breath.
She continues to look into the flames, mesmerized by the fire, with her back turned to me while I take this unguarded minute and allow myself to be captivated by her beauty. It’s the first time I let my eyes take stock of each little, changed detail. Apart from the dyed hair, she looks stronger in body, and maybe even in soul, if she still has one—which I highly doubt.
Wearing a simple black sweater, blue jeans, and black knee-high boots, she looks like what any other normal might. Nothing really screams ‘remarkable’ with her clothing choices. Still, the air of strength and sophistication hovers over her—a quality I’m positive she tried to shed in order to blend in with the crowd but was never fully successful in doing so. She was groomed to be an Outfit’s principessa , and even if she wore a garbage bag overtop her frame, she wouldn’t be able to hide who she really is—mafia-born royalty.
Old habits die hard, it seems.
“You didn’t let me finish last time I was here, but I truly do like the place you chose for yourself. I always assumed you’d live at the Romano estate when you became boss. Finding this place was a pleasant surprise,” she says, never once moving her green emeralds away from the burning blaze.
Show me your eyes, tesoro.
I stand up from my seat, and head over to my corner bar, no longer comfortable with the faint whispers of my frozen heart. I pour myself a glass of whiskey and down it in one go.
“Little early for hard liquor, don’t you think? It’s barely noon,” she reprimands, turning to face me as I pour myself another. Her scrutinizing gaze burns as hot as the lit fire behind her.
“I’m sure it’s happy hour somewhere,” I reply stoically, raising my glass in morbid celebration.
“You’re upset. You only drink when you’re upset,” she adds calmly, and it infuriates me that she is still so familiar with the inner workings of my psyche.
“I’m the head of the Chicago syndicate. If I drank every time someone upset me, then I’d be an alcoholic by now,” I rebuke, unfazed with her fabricated concern.
“Syndicate life never upsets you. Only family has that effect on you; having to grieve the lack of it, I mean.”
“And what do you know about grief?” I sneer, walking over to her, revolted she would go there.
“Don’t look at me like that, Vincent. You’re acting like you don’t even know me. Like you don’t see me ,” she wails, her well-placed guard tumbling down.
“All I see is a spoiled little girl who didn’t even have the decency to be at her mother’s bedside when she took her last breath,” I relent in disgust. Before I can stop her, the sting of her slap burns my cheek and rings in my ears like thunder.
“Fuck you, Vincent,” Selene bellows, with the same stifling, boiling anger I’m trying to contain. My cruel sneer comes to the forefront, as I relish the physical, dull ache she has caused, instead of the internal wound I’m desperate to avoid acknowledging.
“You mafia men and your bloated egos. Always thinking you’re all the smartest people in every room. Thinking you know everything when you haven’t got the vaguest clue. And when someone outsmarts you all, you scratch your heads, puzzled how such a thing could ever happen. Especially if the said feat was done by a woman. It’s pathetic,” she snarls, seething in venom. “Did you really think I would keep my mother in the dark about my whereabouts? My mother has known where I was all along. I’d never be capable of living with myself otherwise,” she spits, with true venom lacing those perfect, jeweled eyes.
How I wish I could burn the gorgeous image away from my heart, and replace it with the poison she insists on feeding me.
“That’s a lie,” I growl, infuriated she would try to deceive me by slandering her mother.
I bared witness to Anna Maria’s anguish. She suffered just like the rest of us with Selene’s disappearance. She was too honorable and too good of a woman to mislead us in such a way.
“You were never this foolish before, Vincent. Don’t disappoint me now. As soon as it was safe, I went down to Florida where she did her volunteer work with the nuns and told Mammà exactly where I was hiding. From then on out, my mother visited me at every chance she got.”
“That’s not possible.” I shake my head in denial.
“You’ve become just like them—cold, ruthless, and blind,” she quips back bitterly. I grab her shoulders and shake her lightly, wanting the whole distorted truth.
“If that were the truth, then why didn’t she just stay with you? Why not be free from The Butcher for good, and live with you, happy on the run, instead of suffering one more day with that monster?” I growl resentfully.
“Because a mother’s love is boundless, Vincent. There is nothing a mother won’t do to protect her child. Even sacrifice herself for their happiness and safety,” Selene struggles to reply, her eyes cast low to the floor, not wanting to face my anger head-on any longer.
I feel my brows press together with the realization that, if there were anyone Anna Maria would die for, it was her daughter. It was Selene.
“If she left, then your father would have just cause to go after you both. The Outfit wouldn’t quit until they found your mother. She was too much of a public figure to disappear successfully without anyone taking notice. Someone would recognize her, and word would come back to us; to him. You both would be found, and an ‘accident’ would have to happen to deal with your betrayal. If she left, she would have been signing both your death warrants,” I reason, finally putting the mismatched pieces of the puzzle together.
“And by staying, she could warn me if anyone was getting close to finding me,” she adds, offering another piece of evidence as to why Anna Maria would never leave Chicago or her nightmarish life.
“You didn’t deserve her,” I spit out, my throat burning at the lie.
“I know. I didn’t deserve a lot of things,” she admits, taking a step back, and away from my grip. The minute my hands are off her, they resent it. Be it in pleasure or pain, they need to hold her.
Just a little while longer.
Please.
“You have to go now,” I order huskily, walking away from her sphere before I do something reckless, like touch her again.
“Okay,” she whispers, and my insides become afflicted with the sound of defeat in her voice.
I take shallow breaths, trying to make sense of it all, when I hear her call out my name, sounding so painfully tender coming from her luscious, plump lips.
“I’ll leave for now. But, Vincent, I won’t go away. Not until I have what I came for. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t falter. A man like you should understand the honor in keeping a promise,” she states before vanishing from my life once more.
I almost convinced myself I was whole again. That I overcame all obstacles against such traitorous betrayals and became who people envisioned me to be—a strong merciless leader, who wouldn’t waver at any pesky lament or fraudulent tear.
Then she had to come back and laugh away at my pitiful excuse of an existence.
I’m not whole at all. I’m barely a man.
And I’ll never amount to one while she still holds my beating heart in her hands.