132. Riley
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-TWO
Cinzia keeps her word.We fly to London on a well-appointed private jet. I don”t ask who owns it, or who”s paying. I”ve decided not to ask any questions at all.
Mostly because I don”t want the answers, and the answers I do have, I”m sick of. I”m sick of the mafia, sick of all the money, sick of the terrible undercurrent of evil.
But I also can”t shit on the gift I”ve been given: a fresh start. This will be the easiest way to forget all the trauma of Boston.
Seeds of gratefulness begin to bloom when I walk into the flat, which is more than a little cozy space. It”s a gorgeous, bright, two-bedroom apartment in London”s exclusive Notting Hill neighborhood that probably cost well over a million dollars. Er, pounds. I need to get used to a lot of new things, including some words. I feel painfully American here.
”This is way more posh, as the people here say, than I expected,” Cinzia says, eyeing the brick fireplace. ”I”m jealous, frankly.”
I glance at her with a ”really?” expression. I like Cinzia, I really do. She has some of the same brash qualities of Cath. But she sometimes speaks before she thinks.
Cath. I keep thinking about her. Is she okay? I still haven”t been given a phone.
”Sorry,” she says, grinning. ”I”m not trying to be a bitch. This is a great place.”
”I have to admit, it is. Way better than I was imagining. It”s even decorated how I like. Not sure how you all pulled that off.” I test the sofa cushion, and it seems perfectly plush.
”I work in mysterious ways,” Cinzia says with a twinkle in her eye.
The place is a mix of comfort and old-world luxury, wrapped in modern charm. The building even has a name: Northwick Terrace. It sounds like something out of Downton Abbey to me.
Sunlight floods through the tall windows, illuminating the spacious rooms adorned in tasteful tan and gold décor.
”Who owns this, anyway?” I ask.
”You,” Cinzia says. ”I”ve got the deed here in my briefcase.”
I shake my head in disbelief. This is the luckiest thing that”s ever happened to me, and part of me believes I maybe don”t deserve it after all that happened.
Everything turns out better than I expected. The job, my new boss, the neighborhood. It”s everything a woman could ask for.
Except, Gabriel”s not here with me. And I feel guilty as hell for having all this luxury while he”s... well, I don”t know where he is right now. I can guess, though.
Cinzia spends an entire week getting me settled into my new life. As it turns out, it”s frighteningly easy to assume a new identity and start over. Or, at least it is when you”re connected to the mafia like I am. When you have a Swiss bank account that contains seven figures in your name. When you have a weird, tough bulldog of an attorney orchestrating everything, including right down to your favorite brand of coffee in the cabinet.
On Cinzia”s last night, we go eat at a neighborhood kebab place. Turns out she loves kebabs.
We”ve wolfed down the food when she pulls out a box from her handbag.
”Here”s your phone. Now, I need to explain a few things. It”s paid for through my law firm. You don”t have the capability of calling the United States.”
I gape at her. ”Why?”
”We can”t have you calling Gabriel, or his lawyers, or anyone from your old life.”
”What about my friends? My former co-workers? What do they think happened to me? They”re going to know something is up when Gabriel shows up in court. Which I”m certain he has already.”
Cinzia wipes her hands on a napkin. ”We can”t take the risk because we don”t know if the feds are tapping the phones. You can look at the internet, but not from your phone, please. Do it at work. As far as Gabriel?—”
”What did you find out?” I”d been peppering her daily for the last week for information about him.
”He”s in jail without bond. There”s a hearing next month, and he”s expected to plead guilty.”
”This soon?” A sick feeling overtakes my stomach.
”He wants to get it over with. He also wants to make sure it doesn”t drag on, because if it does, the greater the chance they”ll want you to testify.”
I rest my head in my hands. ”What a mess. Is he okay?”
”He”s as okay as can be, under the circumstances. And I have a message for you from Catherine.”
I lift my head. ”Really?”
”I talked with her. She sends her love. Says she”ll try to be in touch when the heat is off.”
”When will that be?”
Cinzia shrugs. ”Probably not for a long time.”
Gabriel”s wordsecho in my mind every morning when I open my eyes.
You”re a survivor, Riley.
I tell myself this as I get ready for work, as I walk to the office, as I make my way to my desk and prepare for a scintillating day of filing. Work isn”t terrible. It”s a bit monotonous, but it pays well, and the people are kind — and they don”t pry.
A routine takes over. I work, I read, I sleep. I have no friends, no interests, no television. The silence in the hours I”m not working, reading, or sleeping is just too much to bear.
But I keep doing it. Keep doing everything over and over, one foot in front of the other. At first I try drinking myself into a stupor every night, but that leaves me feeling shitty the next day. So I cut out all substances and take up running.
It sucks, but it”s the only way I can feel. Running brings pain and sweat and struggle.
I”m numb otherwise.
Months pass.
One night in winter, I get home well past sundown. I grab my mail on the way in and sift through it. There”s a handwritten letter with several stamps on the front, and the envelope looks dirty and beat up.
The address is from the Marianna Federal Prison Camp, in Florida.
My heart practically beats out of my chest as I unlock the door and slam it shut.
With shaking hands, I open the envelope. The handwriting is painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.
Blondie,
Just reading the opening makes tears come to my eyes.
I hope this letter finds you well, as well as you can be considering the difficult circumstances. I don”t even know where to start. There are so many things I want to say to you, so much I need you to know.
First and foremost, I miss you more than words can express. The emptiness I feel without you here is like a weight on my chest that won”t lift. Every day, every hour, every single second, I wish I could just see you, talk to you, hold you. I”d give anything for that.
I need to tell you something that will break your heart as much as it broke mine. They gave me ten years, Riley. Ten long, endless years in this place. It”s a punishment that”s hard to comprehend, even harder to accept. I want you to know that this has nothing to do with you. You”re not to blame for any of this mess. It”s my world that dragged you into its chaos, and for that, I am eternally sorry.
I will be sorry for this until the day I die.
I”m sobbing so hard now. My vision is clouded with tears, and a drop falls onto the paper, blurring the ink so livingly written by hand.
Because of this, I need you to move on, Riley. I need you to live your life, to find happiness, to find peace. This situation, it”s temporary for me, but I can”t have it consuming your life too. You deserve so much more than waiting for someone locked away. Find someone who treats you like the treasure you are. Someone who makes you laugh, who holds you when you cry, who loves you more than the stars love the night sky.
Our time together, those moments we shared, they were the best of my life. You brought so much light into my world, Riley. You made everything brighter, warmer, more beautiful.
You were, and are, pure love.
I cherish every memory, every laugh, every touch. Please hold on to those, keep them close, but don”t let them keep you from moving forward. You deserve better than me.
I”m sorry I brought you into my world, into the mess of it all. I never wanted you to get hurt, to suffer any consequences because of me. I wanted to protect you, to shield you from all of this. I failed, and I”m sorry. It”s my hope that you are thriving.
I don”t know when I”ll be able to see you again, or if that will ever happen. But please know that even behind these walls, my heart is with you. It beats for you, it longs for you, it hopes for your happiness.
Please, please do not worry about me. I”m in what we call Club Fed — a minimum security prison that”s not as bad as it could be. There are no murderers here. It”s mostly white-collar criminals. It could be a lot worse. So don”t spend even one minute concerned on my behalf.
Stay strong, Riley. You”re a survivor, remember that always. You”re brilliant, beautiful, and capable of so much. Find your joy, live your life, and know that you”ll always have a piece of my heart within you.
Forever and always yours,
Gabriel