17. Maricela
“Aunt Fairy, you came!”
Connie runs to me on her short legs, the braid I put in her hair a complete mess, the pink shirt she chose stained with mud and some unrecognizable substance that lost its true color hours ago.
Her smile is bright, and her baby teeth on display for the world to see. Soon, they’ll start to fall out.
“Of course, I came. And I brought Uncle Ronen with me.”
The smile Connie gives Ronen is more hesitant.
“Hey, Uncle Ronen. What did you bring me?”
The last time Ronen came to see the kids, he brought some cookies from his restaurant. My niece is more like her Aunt Raven. Sweets are her love language.
“Let’s see.”
Ronen makes a show of looking in his pockets, ignoring the paper bag with the name of his restaurant on it, his play-acting sending Connie into a fit of giggles.
He finally looks at the bag in his hand, as if he hadn’t noticed it was there all this time, and takes out a box. Connie bursts into full-out laughter, and parents and children passing by turn to us with looks of surprise. Everyone heard about what Santino did.
“How are you with chocolate?”
Ronen asks, bowing at the waist and offering her the plain white box tied with a pretty pink ribbon. Connie bounces in place like the little girl she’s supposed to be.
“What do we say when someone brings us a gift?”
I never thought I would get to raise children. Despite my dreams as an innocent little girl who thought of a big, loving family, I never imagined that I would get to be by my little angel’s side again.
“Thank you, Uncle Ronen.” Connie almost sings the words to accept the chocolate he brought her.
We head for the park, and once she’s comfortable on the bench, Ronen asks, “How was your day in kindergarten?”
Connie suddenly goes silent, the chocolate in her hand starting to melt. The psychologist warned us, me and him, that sometimes Connie will act like an ordinary girl with smiles and joy, and sometimes she’ll withdraw.
I take her hand in mine.
“You know you don’t have to share, but if you want to tell me or someone else something, we’re here to listen.”
I always remind her that she has many people who love her and to whom she can talk.
“You won’t tell Uncle Killian?”
“Why don’t you want me to tell him?”
I thought she liked him. She hugs him every night, smiles at him and listens to him when he talks to her.
“Because he’ll be angry with the boys, and I don’t want him to be angry with them.” What boys? Did someone scare her? Hurt her?
“Why don’t you want him to be mad at them?”
“Mommy said Uncle Killian is scary and more important than Daddy. Daddy was very scary.”
Serena. Her name jabs at my heart, but it’s a name I allow myself to say both internally and externally.
I glance at Ronen, who pretends not to be listening.
“Well, it’s true that your uncle is an important person, and sometimes people are afraid of him. People with power can be scary, but Connie, you don’t have to fear him. He would never hurt you. Never. Is that why you stay away from him sometimes?”
Her big blue eyes turn in my direction and widen with fear as if she doesn’t want me to see her concerns.
“Let’s do this.” I bend down to her level.
“You’ll tell me what the boys did, and then we’ll decide together whether to tell your uncle about it.”
Connie bounces one leg in place like she does after difficult conversations with the psychologist.
“Kay,” she says after a long minute of contemplation.
“Mommy said you were good and would protect me from everyone.”
Serena wasn’t wrong. I would do the unspeakable for her and her brother.
“Eli and Joshi said that... That...I’m the daughter of a mur... A mur...”
I don’t know if it’s the word itself that’s difficult for her to say or the fact that she’s beginning to accept the truth.
Appearing to give up on trying to say the word, she asks, “Is that true?”
From what the police told us, the children were locked in their room in the mansion, and Serena’s murder took place in her bedroom.
We don’t know what they heard or how much Connie understands about everything that happened. I tried to explain to her that her mother and father were now in Heaven, protecting her from the awful truth of how that came to be as much as possible.
Choosing my words carefully, I say, “Your father indeed did something terrible.”
A wayward tear falls from my niece’s large, innocent eyes. Those enormous pools of blue that I promised to give everything so that she wouldn’t suffer, but how can I take this pain away from her? The psychologist said we shouldn’t lie to her, that we should speak to her at eye level, and that she should understand that what Santino did was despicable and wrong.
“Eli said Uncle Killian would kill us, too.”
I swallow a gasp. I never felt like silencing a little boy who can’t be more than five, but right now...
“Your uncle would never hurt you. He loves you.”
I know that’s the truth. He doesn’t get close to her because he knows she’s afraid of him. Now that I know the reason, I think he made a mistake with the distance he’s kept from her.
“Let’s do the next thing,” I offer her.
“We’ll tell your uncle this together, and he’ll show you how much he loves you.”
I wipe her tears and present her with the fake smile I’ve learned to put on my face that feels like a heavy mask. I wish I could give her more than counterfeit emotions.
“You promise he won’t get angry?” The man I knew wasn’t one to yell, but after the incident with Lila this afternoon, I’m not sure how he would behave. Everyone heard him screaming at her.
“Even if he does get angry, that’s a good thing. Do you know why?”
She shakes her head, and in that moment, her wide eyes remind me so much of her mother that my heart, or what’s left, sinks.
“Because if he gets angry, that shows he cares about and loves you. He may speak quietly, or he might raise his voice, but I’ll be right there with you.”
“You’re good at this motherhood thing,” Ronen murmurs as Connie slides off the bench and heads for the swings.
I ignore him, watching Connie play.
“All you need to do is let go and tell him.”
“No, Ronen. I love you, but no. I’m not ready to talk about it.”
He’s silent after that and remains silent all the way home.
Home. Since when did I start thinking of his penthouse as a home?
“Maricela,” he calls as he enters the penthouse.
“Connie, Amado,” he calls next, announcing his arrival.
It’s so domestic I want to run. I told him that Connie wanted to tell him something but feared his reaction.
“Hey, Uncle Killian,” Connie whispers in her small voice.
He doesn’t wait and sits her on the table while he gives Amado a quick smile and puts him in his high chair.
I give the baby his plate of peas to crush, even though I know most of the food will be thrown on the floor instead of reaching his mouth, and then take a seat near Connie for support.
“Your aunt told me you wanted to talk to me,” he speaks gently to his living copy.
“You won’t be angry?”
“Did you do something bad?”
“No.”
“Then there’s no reason for me to be angry, and you know what?”
She shakes her head again in the same way her mother used to do. The same way I do.
“Even if sometimes you do something bad and even if sometimes we get angry with you, it doesn’t mean we would ever hurt you. Okay?”
“Daddy hit Mommy. He hurt her a lot. Eli and Joshi said he murdered her and that it was on TV.” The words come out broken.
“True, your father made many mistakes, and that was his biggest mistake.”
“Because he wasn’t a good daddy?”
I jump in and say, “I think it’s because he was a hurt person inside and a person who didn’t get enough love and understanding.”
Killian nods. “Do you want to tell me something else?”
Connie hesitates a moment, then blurts out, “Eli is a liar.”
“Who is Eli, and why is he a liar?”
“Because he said you’re a murderer too and that you’d hurt me like Daddy hurt Mommy.”
His lips thin, but he doesn’t show any emotion other than that.
“I will never hurt you, your brother, or your aunt.”
He didn’t tell her he isn’t a murderer. He doesn’t lie to her because he isn’t one to lie. His form of lying is silence and omission of the truth.
Just like you do to him, the annoying voice in my head says.
After their conversation is complete, dinner goes smoothly. Maddox didn’t join us to act as a buffer, helping the kids relax, and the man I admire answers all the questions Connie comes up with.
How old is he?
When was he born?
Is twenty-five old?
And on and on it goes.
When it’s time for bed, Connie asks her uncle to read her a story after I take care of her bath, and he agrees. I bathe Amado and try to coax him into saying his first words.
“Say water.” I point to his bottle.
He gives me a smile with several teeth and continues to babble in his baby language. His time to speak will come.
After bath time is complete and he’s dry and changed, I sing him a children’s song in Spanish, the words promising him that he’ll always be safe because he’s part of my heart.
“You sing like the angels,” he says from the doorway, entering the room just as I cover the sleeping baby.
This time, I’m not startled, and for a moment, it feels like I never left. I know when he appears, and I know when he disappears. It’s in his scent, his strength. I’m like a druggy after years of rehab, being offered heroin straight into the vein. And like many other addicts, I can’t resist the temptation.
“And I’m a devil who doesn’t deserve an angel like you. It’s time for you to leave this room. You’re done here, and I’m not done with you today.”
“The kids could hear...” How domestic it sounds, as if we’re a normal couple, your typical average family with no painful past.
“The rooms in this house are soundproof. You can shout as much as you want.”
I follow him after I confirm the children are sound asleep. Each step he takes is loud somehow. So sure of each move he takes, this man moves like a lion that awaits the prey to come to him on a platter with the right amount of seasoning.
You love it. It would be best if you just gave up all control, the voice sings happily.
He leads me to his room, and I take the time to look at where he lays his head, where he sleeps and dreams. The room seems similar to his room at the mansion, yet different.
He still has a table full of weapons, and the picture of water, something he hates so much, is still positioned above his head, reminding him of his one weakness.
The colors in this room are vastly different, though. Not a beige thing in sight. It’s like he has a personal dispute with the color.
Not that I can blame him. This room brings on thoughts of the ocean, in a way, with blues and grays. It must be Raven’s doing.
“Did you touch yourself?” he asks.
No, he demands to know. I shake my head, knowing it’s not enough for him. He wants my voice, my emotion, my tears.
He sighs. “Maricela, this can go either way.”
He doesn’t look at me as he speaks.
“You can fully cooperate, and your punishment will be more pleasant.”
I roll my eyes just as he turns to face me. It was intentional on my part. I wanted him to see something in me. Something that even I don’t understand.
I haven’t been here very long, but I’m still here, which means he wants me to stay, and I want his punishment without him knowing why he’s punishing me.
“Fine, we’ll do it the hard way.”
He grabs me by the hair, and his mouth descends to mine. His lips attack me, accusing me with rough, wet kisses. He’s asking me why, demanding to know the truth without words. He’s begging for forgiveness for his part in my leaving.
Deep down, I think he knows. He knows I wouldn’t have left because of Lila. I know it, too. And even if I did, I would have come back, just like he said. The old Maricela would have wanted retribution.
I let him take all the memories from me, everything that was done to me, everything that I did. His touch isn’t gentle. It’s full of pent-up rage. I don’t think he’ll ever stop being mad at me.
His anger seeps into me with every touch of his tongue on mine. In this dance, we rage like gods. Nothing in this collision of ours is gentle. There’s no beauty in his touch—he demands submission.
In the office, he let his longings get the better of him. Every touch or strike was much gentler than this kiss.
Knowing he will, I can ask him to stop. A few words from me, and he’d even apologize. He’ll hate himself for taking from me.
Not like this,my mind screams, but I let him continue, let him hurt me as I did him. As cliché as it sounds, this man needs a little dose of an eye for an eye.
Four years of anger, frustration, and hatred—because I know he hated me, that he still hates me—is in this kiss.
I don’t think I can breathe. I don’t fucking care. He doesn’t give me respite, but I surrender to the dizziness, to the sense of pending doom.
Because I can’t give him the truth, I can’t give him back the woman who was destroyed, but I can let him take what he needs to punish me.
“You left,” he growls into my mouth and bites my lip.
He’s losing his temper.
I don’t say a word, allowing my body to release the sounds it wants and needs to hear. I moan into his mouth.
I also blame him for abandoning me, leaving me behind, and not telling me everything from the beginning.
I always thought communication was our strong point. After we stopped fighting and arguing, we always talked things out between us. All except the important stuff.
Liar. You knew he was lying to you. From the first time you let him take your virginity, he warned you that he would destroy you. The harsh voice I’ve grown used to hearing over the years tells me yet again.
I let the pain consume me, leave me naked and exposed before his eyes. Not that he notices. He’s still devouring what’s left of me. He takes, takes, takes. Soon, I will have nothing left to give.
“Say my name,” he demands again.
I wouldn’t be able to pronounce his name, let alone speak it aloud, even if I could, because his lips have assaulted me again. Because he knows I won’t say his name, not now and maybe not ever.
I hope I last and don’t break. If he only knew it’s not a matter of will, it’s a matter of ability. I can’t say his name because then the wall will fall.
The first crack happened when I decided to get on the plane. The second was when I saw the children, and then he appeared and created a giant crack I may never repair.
Since then, he hasn’t stopped hitting the wall, barreling into it, and all I have left is the hope that I’m strong enough to find in me what’s needed to hold up the wall I erected. A wall that protects him more than it protects me.
He cannot know what happened that night or what I did afterward. I am no less a monster than the one who eradicated me.
“On your knees,” he commands, but I can’t move.
All I can do now that his lips have left mine is give my lungs what they desperately need. Air.
I take a breath and count, one...two...three... And I don’t dare look into his eyes. The blue in them must be stormy.
“Little Ghost.”
Don’t call me that,I want to scream, roar, and howl like the wounded animal I’ve become. I’m not a ghost. I’m here. I’m here.
I refuse to look him in the eyes as I continue to collect oxygen. A headache gathers between my eyes, proving that I exist at this moment. The pain is a gift—what I would give for it to be enough.
The pain. It’s all you have left. Pain. Just pain,the destructive voice continues to taunt me. I tend to agree with it, and I miss the dreamy voice I heard before my destruction.
I miss the little girl who was happy and in love. But she can’t come back because I could never be happy again.
I can almost feel her in the back of my mind, ready to endure everything to capture the same feeling, and all because she returned to him. Into his arms. Pathetic.
“I won’t tell you again. Get down on your knees. Now.”
My legs obey, as always. I kneel, my gaze fixed on his luxurious shoes.
The sneakers he loved are no longer in sight. Now, he is dressed like a true gentleman. Ridiculous. He is the furthest thing from a gentleman or a lawyer. He’s the one who needs a lawyer to hide what he’s doing.
“Good little ghost. I’m not going to be gentle with you, Maricela.”
This is a warning, his way of telling me to allow my mind to go away, that he’s not in a place where he can consider my needs. He won’t ask questions or take care of me. This is about him.
I want to give him that. I want to give him everything, and since I don’t have much left to give, I stay where I am.
He strips and lifts my head with his long fingers. The touch of a killer is so smooth. “Open your mouth. Drink me. Drink all I have to give you.”
I’ll do it. Of course, I’ll do it.
His piercing is still there, gleaming at the tip of his cock, reminding me that this new facade is just a cover for who he is. He hasn’t really changed. I did.
He’s hard already, so very hard. The vein I loved to tease is throbbing for attention. For my touch.
“It’s good to see that not everything has changed. Open your mouth.”
I do, and he pushes two fingers deep into my mouth. He’s relentless. I cough, but he doesn’t stop.
“So gentle. You always needed someone to care for you when you went down on them.”
Only you, it was only you, I say with my eyes, but he’s too preoccupied.
“I can give you what you want if you just say my name.” I shake my head, refusing him.
He sticks out his fingers, but I don’t close my mouth. I need it. I need him. And he gives it to me. His cock has always been thick, but where I loved feeling full when he fucked me, I always needed him to be gentle with me when he fucked my mouth.
This time, he isn’t. He pushes himself in with one go. Stealing my breath and my sanity.
“Fuck. Fuck...” Thrust.
“Your mouth...” Thrust.
“Your fucking scent...” Thrust, he continues relentlessly.
“You’re real.” Thrust.
“Why do you have so much power over me?” Thrust.
“Where have you been all this time?” Thrust.
“Tell me who hurt you so I can kill them.”
This time, he doesn’t pull out, and I can’t breathe.
All I can do is feel him inside me, taking, taking, taking, filling me with his scent and his fury. I’m losing my mind, or what’s left of it.
“I hate you sometimes,” he shouts with another thrust, and those words hurt more than what he’s doing to me.
“You don’t like it, do you? Me taking you like this?”
He keeps talking, moving just a little to let the air flow inside my lungs.
“I did what I told myself I would never do. I took what wasn’t given.”
He didn’t. I gave it to him. I need him to know that, but he doesn’t let me.
“I’ll come in you. Drink me, swallow every drop,” he orders, and lets go.
I take it all. His taste is like traveling to a better place, where I was happy, even if I didn’t know it back then.
He pulls out and takes a step back.
“The boys in Connie’s kindergarten were right. I’m a dangerous man. And I will hurt you,” he says and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me cold on the floor, covered in his cum.