Chapter 38
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
THEO
“Two Princes”
Three Years Ago
I’m mesmerized by the way flecks of light glide across the horizon. Waking the past week during the witching hour, has me reflecting on the way stock finds its way into Boston, under the cover of the night.
Cargo vessels drift along the harbor waters, burdened by their heavy load. While most of the city sleeps, some work thankless jobs. Laboring for the greater good and never being able to share their plight of traffic jams and unnecessarily long lines, all for a regular to get them through their day.
I’m Disconnected. No more than a ghost above the city in a haze of my own subconscious.
Obviously, I wasn't a specter, but I’m sure I’d give someone a fright if they happened to look upon the twentieth floor, finding me stark naked before the massive window.
The cloud of smoke around me was meant to be more of a stress relief than a health risk, but nothing I seem to do lately falls into my better judgment.
The more I draw from this vape pen, the more it takes on the taste of burnt toast, so at odds with its cinnamon bun claim.
Nothing could compare to the swirled pastries my dad would make with my little sister.
I grew up in this city, although that seems to be the only consistent thing about my childhood.
My family moved around a lot. Changing addresses meant changing schools.
Hell, my folks even revamped our last name at one point.
Their behavior was as erratic as the weather in Boston, yet because of them, I am who I am.
Strong-willed and inquisitive to a fault.
Always questioning everything. Simply put, I can’t accept the direction of my sail until I understand where the breeze is coming from.
Even before a storm rolls in, I can feel it. It makes my bones sore.
Currently, I can’t sleep. Tormented by my mind and body. No dark looming clouds, yet I can sense a force on the horizon.
“Hey,” calls a deep-groggy voice behind me. “Come back to bed.”
I let out the inhale of charred bread before tossing the vape pen back onto the dresser.
My hand bats away the lingering mist, prior to making my way back to the bed.
The chilled-satin sheets urge me toward the other warm body inside.
It’s remarkable how a simple touch can ground me.
Causing all my cares to instantly melt away.
Arms wrap around me, as I press myself flush against my partner.
Turning my gaze upward, I playfully lick across his stubbled cheek.
Causing a devious grin to grow on his face.
Swiftly, he moves putting me into a chokehold.
Despite the lighthearted position, I still struggle to be released.
Ultimately waving my free arm as a way of saying, “uncle.”
He kisses the top of my head and frees me. Instantly making me miss his tight embrace. Eamon leans back, basking in the red ambient light of the room, with a smug look of victory painted across his face.
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 at arm’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.