77. Rico #2
I don’t tell her that it scared the shit out of me. That seeing her in that dress triggered something so deep and raw it nearly choked me. Because if I do, she’ll blame herself, and she shouldn’t. That wasn’t her burden to carry. It was mine. Still is.
“I came back different,” I say, my voice dropping. “They left me in an alley like a bag of trash someone forgot to take out. And something in me stayed there. Something important. I don’t know what. A piece of color, maybe. A light switch. Whatever it was, it didn’t come back with me.
I remember standing in front of the mirror after.
Lifting my shirt. Staring at what they’d done.
I counted the scars. One, two, three... nineteen in total.
Some deep. Some small. Some shaped like cigarette burns.
I thought if I memorized them, I could own them.
But they owned me. I didn’t talk about it.
Not really. Not to Marco. Not to my parents.
Not to any therapist who scribbled in their little notepads and asked me how I felt.
I stopped trying. What was the point? Nobody could fix it. Nobody could rewind it. All they could do was offer me pity—and I didn’t want it. I still don’t. I don’t want a hug. I don’t want absolution from sins I never committed.”
I meet her eyes now, and mine sting as tears claw their way out.
“I took Marco’s place, and I’ve spent the last twenty-four years regretting it.
Not because I got hurt. But because I survived and turned into this.
And worse, I regret taking his place. What would my life be like if I hadn't, and he was taken? Who thinks that way? Who wants someone else to suffer? A horrible person. I hate myself for thinking that way.”
There’s something stuck in my throat. Not figuratively. Literally. A boulder of words I’ve been too cowardly to cough up for two decades. It burns. Scrapes. Lodges itself behind my sternum like it belongs there—because maybe it does. Maybe pain is the only thing I’ve ever really earned.
Despite that, I don’t stop.
“If I hadn’t taken Marco’s place that day, who knows? He could’ve died. Or maybe he would’ve come out of that basement smiling and emotionally intact—like he does everything else. Maybe he would’ve been fine. Or maybe he’d be just as fucked up as I am, only prettier about it.”
I laugh. Dry. Ugly. One of those sounds that dies halfway up your throat.
“I hated myself for even thinking it. For daring to wonder if it should’ve been him instead of me. What does that make me? A monster? A coward? The answer doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t change the math. I stepped in. I paid the price. And then I had to live with the consequences.”
A tear slips down my cheek. I don’t bother wiping it away. Let it fall. Let her see the wreckage.
“For years, I used to think it would’ve been better if they’d killed me.
That would’ve been easier than watching Mama flinch every time I ignored another therapist. Or Papa, trying to hide the guilt in his eyes when I came home with another busted lip or broken knuckle.
If I were dead, they could grieve. They’d move on.
But broken? Broken is inconvenient. Broken sticks around. ”
My hand moves hers, pressing it over the scar on my side. The one I gave myself.
“After they gave up on the shrink parade, after the family decided ignoring it was synonymous with healing, I started figuring out my own coping strategies. Boxing helped. Pain has a funny way of organizing rage into neat, punchable packages.”
I pause, throat tightening again, but this time I shove the words out, anyway.
“And when boxing didn’t cut it? I did. Myself. Over and over. Because I figured if I had to live with scars, I’d rather they be mine. Something I chose. Something I controlled. But even that got old. Turns out pain doesn’t cancel pain—it just multiplies.
I started pulling away. From everyone. Because if I didn’t talk, I couldn’t hurt anyone.
And the more I disappeared into myself, the more they all seemed…
fine. Happy, even. Marco became Don. Dom softened.
Alex found balance. Mama laughed again. Papa relaxed.
And me? I stayed in my corner and made sure no one had to look too closely. ”
I shrug, but it feels more like a collapse.
“Somehow, I convinced myself that silence was a form of love. If I stayed quiet, stayed out of the way, then I wasn’t infecting them.
I wasn’t poisoning the family with my shit.
And maybe that would’ve worked forever. Maybe I would’ve lived my life as a well-dressed ghost, haunting the marble floors of that sterile house. But then…”
My voice falters. My chest cracks wide open.
“Then you walked in. And you pushed. You spoke. You saw me. And I hated it. Because you didn’t let me be invisible. You demanded more. And it scared the shit out of me, Allie.”
Another tear. Another reminder that I’m bleeding in front of her, and there’s no taking it back.
“I fought you every step of the way. Sabotaged us before we ever had a chance. Because I didn’t believe I deserved you. And if I don’t deserve you, I don’t get to keep you. That’s how it works, right?”
Her thumbs sweep under my eyes wiping away the tears.
“I’ve spent my whole life avoiding feelings. Now I’m drowning in them. Chest tight. Eyes stinging. Throat wrecked. But you know what? For once, I don’t hate it.”
I glance up at her, a bitter smile twitching at my lips.
Her hazel eyes fix on mine, wide and unblinking, and the silence between us stretches so long I start to wonder if I’ve accidentally overloaded her with all of my truth.
No gasp. No tremble. No awkward “thank you for sharing.” Just... nothing.
Not even a damn squeak.
Excellent. I’ve officially trauma-dumped myself into emotional bankruptcy, and she’s sitting there with the expression of someone watching a high-speed car crash in slow motion—morbidly fascinated but maybe regretting her front-row seat.
Can’t blame her. Most people run from fire. She just found out I am the fire.
And still, she doesn’t look away.
I almost wish she would.
Because now she knows. Not just the headline version—kidnapped, tortured, survived.
No, she has the director’s cut. The scars under the scars.
The parts I’ve never said out loud, not even to the walking notepad who charges me three hundred dollars an hour to nod empathetically and pretend he understands.
She has it all now. My ugliest truth. My sharpest edges.
Congratulations, sweetheart. You’ve just become the only person alive who owns every piece of me worth stealing.