Violet
Three days later…
It's been three days since I saw him. Since I touched him. Since I told Marcello Orsi that I couldn't do this anymore and walked out of his penthouse like I wasn't breaking apart with every step.
I try to breathe through the pain of missing him, but it presses in like a weight.
Heavy and suffocating. It makes it hard to take a deep breath.
I make coffee, I fold towels, I water the plant on my windowsill that's already half-dead.
The sky is gray outside, the kind of color that turns your bones cold.
I check my phone more times than I want to admit. Nothing.
No messages. No calls. Not even from Luciano. It hurts more than it should.
I told him I couldn't do this. But now that I'm alone with my thoughts, all I can do is feel his absence like a phantom touch.
I miss him so much, more than should be possible for someone you hardly know.
I try to tell myself it's just the nursing instinct inside of me, the need to see my patient through until he's all healed, but I know it's a lie.
I can still feel the weight of his stare, the heat of his hand on my back, the way he said my name in his deep, husky voice.
With every hour that passes, I question my sanity. Am I crazy for leaving him, or am I crazy for wanting him back?
Finally, when I'm about to break down and call him, I go visit my mom, hoping seeing her will strengthen my resolve that this is better and that I need to stay away from him.
"You look tired," she greets me with those knowing mom eyes that see too much.
I force out a laugh, "I hate that polite way of saying you look like shit."
She leads me into the kitchen, where a piece of cheesecake sits waiting for me, her way of a peace offering. Seeing the cake, I realize I haven't eaten since… shit, three days, if you don't count the banana and tub of ice cream. Not since… that dinner. Our date.
I fall over the cheesecake like a starving woman. Mom laughs and asks me if I want more, and I say, "Yes, please."
She cuts another generous slice, and I devour that one too. Feeling slightly better now, although sluggish and oversugared.
"It will get better," Mom says out of the blue.
She's talking about me missing Marcello. But for her, it's different; her husband died. He was taken from her. Marcello, I pushed away.
"Do you still miss him?" I ask, hoping this time she will finally open up to me and tell me about my father.
She sighs and gets up, taking my plate to the sink. "Looks like it might be going to rain," she says, staring out the window.
"Mom, please," I beg.
She shakes her head. "Some stories should never see the light of day. Your father's and mine is one of those."
"Oh, for crying out loud, quit being so dramatic." I rise from the chair. "That's bullshit."
"Watch your tone," she admonishes.
I shake my head. "Is that really all you're going to say to me? Watch your tone? Don't I have a right to know who my father was?"
"Why? He's dead."
I throw my arms up into the air. "I'd still like to know. You're the only person who can tell me about him. And you won't… why? What did he do that was so bad?"
A hint of alarm passes over her features. "What do you mean? What do you know?"
"What? Nothing." I stare at her. Did I just get a tiny bit of information?
"So, have you applied back to your hospital yet?" She tries to change the subject again, and this time, I allow it. I'm tired of asking the same questions over and over for as long as I can remember, and getting no answers.
The image of a white envelope that has been sitting and waiting for me at home for weeks pops into my mind. The results from my DNA test. So far, I've been reluctant to open it, out of respect for my mom, and yes, some apprehension. Because once I open Pandora's box, there will be no turning back.
But this uncertainty is gnawing a hole into my stomach, and it might just be the key to distracting me from Marcello and my constant yearning for him.
So I pretend nothing has happened and that nothing out of the way was said, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon with Mom because that's what we do: we pretend.
Back home, I hold the letter in my hands and stare at the computer screen with the unopened email containing the same information.
I drum my fingers against the desk—too chicken to open either.
That's what you do, isn't it? My internal voice pipes up.
Do what?
Run. Run from something you claim to want to know so desperately, run from the man who made you feel. Living in limbo.
I exhale deeply. Is that what I'm doing?
You want to go down those stairs so badly and find out what's there, but you don't have the courage to follow through.
Shit, am I really bitching myself out right now?
Yes.
I don't run, I defend myself. I don't. I'm a trauma nurse. I deal with shit every day.
Other people's shit.
I shut myself up because I don't want to hear it. I don't want to argue with myself.
I try to eat. I try to sleep. I try to watch TV. I do none of the above.
I dream of him instead. Of his voice, rough and low in my ear. Of his hands on my hips. Of the fire in his eyes right before he kissed me. I wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, my body aching. My clit pulsing and my pussy drenched. Fuck my life.
I text Luciano, asking if there's any news on Sophia. It's a lie. I just want to know if Marcello's okay. If he's alive. If he's thinking of me.
I don't text him.
But I stare at his name for a long time.
And I wonder if he's staring at mine, too.
I wake up in the morning with new resolve, and before I can change my mind or chicken out again, I brew a cup of coffee and sit down by the computer.
I open the e-mail and begin reading the results.
I skim through the may be allergic to and probable health conditions—I'm not in the mood for hearing about probable heart-related issues or brain tumors—and scroll right down to the heart of the matter, the one I'm most interested in.
Of course, there is nothing like your father's name is, that would be too easy.
@[CONFIDENTIAL DNA Ancestry it looks like we have that much in common.
I'm not into building but renovating, but both are a kind of construction, right?
Another picture is an old black-and-white image of an older man wearing an honest to God fedora, standing next to a black Cadillac.
This caption reads, Nonno, 1972. Legend.
I save the image for a later Google reverse image search and take a moment to scrutinize it.
Then I ask Google, If this man is the grandfather of my first or second cousin, would he be my grandfather too?
The answer is long and drawn out, but is, in essence, a yes.
My heart beats a little faster while I study the grainy image.
The stupid fedora puts half of his face into the shadows, but he looks tall and muscular.
Powerful. Like he owns the world. Now my heart stutters, and I shut the laptop closed with a loud click.
He resembles Marcello too much. Not in looks.
No, not at all, but his stance, the don't fuck with me attitude.
My hand shakes when I run it through my hair. What if my dad were involved with the mafia? Or on the run from them? Would that explain Mom's insistence on keeping all this a secret?
You're reading too many thrillers… I admonish myself, but my heart is still pounding furiously. So furiously that when my phone dings with an incoming text message, I nearly jump out of my shoes.
For a crazy moment, I think it might be from Marcello, and my stomach flutters in anticipation. But it's from Pippa, my best friend.
Pippa:
Let's do lunch tomorrow