Chapter 15
MARLENA
I’m shaking as I run away. The hallway seems like it goes on forever, and I’m terrified that the front door will be locked when I reach it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of Francisco’s goons in the kitchen.
He watches me go and pulls out his phone.
I’m sure he’s asking the boss whether I have permission to leave the house.
That means I have mere seconds to escape before I’m dragged back to face the king. I burst through the massive doors and scramble down the porch steps. My car is there, waiting to take me away to freedom. But still, I have to get past the gates.
The guard at the bottom of the hill gives me a wave. I wipe tears from my eyes and pretend everything is normal. I give him a wave and wait patiently for the gates to open, as if nothing is out of the ordinary.
My heart stops when the seconds drag on, but finally the heavy iron bars swing open. I step on the gas, not caring who hears me peel out into oncoming traffic. I have to get out of here. I floor it all the way home, ditch the car in the parking lot and race up to my apartment.
Why didn’t I pack already? I stress. I knew what I was going over there to do, and I had a pretty good idea how Francisco would react.
But seeing him in that moment, that dangerous spark in his eyes when I told him I didn’t want to be in his debt, makes it so much more real.
Somehow I know now that, although I’ve cut ties with him, Francisco won’t let me go, and I don’t have much time.
I grab a suitcase from the bottom of my closet and throw my essentials in.
It’s the same suitcase I brought with me after my father died, the same one that’s been with me for most of my life.
There are no distinguishing marks on it, nothing to say that it’s mine.
It’s just a nondescript gray bag on wheels.
It would be at home in any airport or bus terminal in any state in the country.
But for me, it holds great significance. It means I’m on the run again.
I toss my cell phone onto the bedside table.
I can’t take that. I grab my favorite pair of pajamas and my sneakers and thrust them into the suitcase.
Not my tablet, not my earbuds, nothing with an electronic signal.
But I can take the book I’m currently reading and my makeup bag.
I chose three pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, and an entire drawer of underwear and socks.
I can buy whatever else I need. I’ll go to the college and grab Brandon.
He’ll be upset, but what else can I do? Better upset than dead.
I’ll have to explain to him what is happening and beg him to come with me.
I send a silent prayer to the universe that Brandon won’t give me too much trouble.
I know he’s sick of running, and he’s found peace with his college friends.
But it’s too risky with Francisco and our father’s enemies still out there.
We’ve got no choice but to go underground again.
I peel the curtains open and check the parking lot. So far, so good. I hurry to the kitchen, where I grab whatever snacks don’t need refrigeration. I’m sitting down to tie my shoes when there’s a knock on the door.
Crap. I wasn’t fast enough. I exhale a steady stream of air, all the while berating myself for not packing the night before.
I should have been prepared. Why wasn’t I prepared?
Was it because I hoped I wouldn’t have to do this?
Had I somehow believed that Francisco wouldn’t care, even though I had seen subtle signs of his possessiveness?
I know it’s him. If it isn’t him, then it’s one of his men sent to collect me. I wish there was a back door I could sneak out, but there’s only one entrance. I wonder if I can open the bathroom window and climb out, but I’m on the third floor.
Hanging my head, I go to answer the door. My heart is beating in my throat. I’m scared and nauseous, but almost relieved. I want to see him. I want him to fight for me. As stupid as that sounds, I’m flattered that he’s come.
On the other side of the door, I expect to see a handful of bodyguards.
But there’s no one other than Francisco.
He’s alone, which is probably very rare.
What I know of the mafia is that the don doesn’t go anywhere without protection.
They’re probably lurking somewhere just out of sight, giving their boss space to make his peace.
“I can’t stay,” I say softly.
This feels more like a romantic breakup than a runaway scenario. There’s no negative energy surrounding him. He seems sad, but not threatening or vindictive. Suddenly, I’m more worried about breaking his heart than I am about escaping with my life.
“Please,” he replies, not making a move. “I hate to see you go.”
“I can’t,” I repeat, unable to come up with more efficient words.
“Marlena…” Francisco begins, taking a step toward me.
I back up half a step, not because I’m scared but because I’m now deeply aware of his presence. I don’t think he’s going to hurt me. In fact, I’m afraid he might kiss me. This thing is complicated enough without bringing sex into the picture.
I get a flashback of my dream from the previous night. I was kneeling above him on the bed in the middle of the dance floor, his thick cock in my hand. I blink twice to clear my head, terrified that he’ll see right through me.
“I care about you,” Francisco says. “I would never hurt you or allow you to be hurt.”
“I know,” I whisper. And I realize I do know. He’s not a threat to me, at least not in the traditional sense.
“Dammit,” Francisco swears, closing the distance between us in one rapid step.
He threads a hand behind my back and pulls me close. I barely have time to breathe before he crushes his lips to mine. And then I’m flying, and it’s a thousand times better than any dream.
This is dirty and uncensored. I want him, not with my mind or my heart, but with my soul. He’s stirring something deep inside me that goes straight to my core. I’m positive he would be a ferocious lover, and for the life of me, I can’t think of a single reason to resist.
Our kiss enters a new phase, one that promises much more than simple lip action.
In my delirium, I consider undressing him.
Tossing his suit jacket away and undoing the buttons on the front of his shirt one by one, I could signal that I am ready, willing, and able.
But then panic takes hold. This isn’t what I want.
I know how dangerous it is to be associated with a mobster.
I can’t in good conscience let this go any further.
I pull away, sealing the kiss and putting my shoulder between us.
There are tears in my eyes as I walk back toward the sofa, intending only to press the pause button.
Francisco steps inside and closes the door behind him.
Now we’re alone. No bodyguards, no political figures, no eager young law students.
It’s just us and the vast minefield of traumatic memories between us.
“I can’t,” I say, collapsing onto the couch in a state of abject misery.
Francisco takes a seat beside me. He’s given me space to breathe, but he’s closer than a friend or a business colleague might sit. I look away, wishing this wasn’t so hard. How am I going to convince him to let me go? Is that even what I want?
“Talk to me,” he insists gently.
I sniff. “There’s nothing to say.”
“Please,” he continues. “You know how I feel about you. Please tell me what you’re thinking.”
I chance looking back at him, and I find an earnest gentleman, his eyes wide and compassionate, waiting to hold my hand through the worst of it. I break down. The tears bubble up from my stomach where they’ve been hiding all these years.
“My father,” I choke on the words. It all comes out in a flash.
The floodgates are released, and I find myself rushing through the story with no rhythm or punctuation.
It feels like I’m vomiting all over him.
All of my deepest secrets come tumbling out of my lips and into the air, clouding the room.
I tell him about how difficult it was to live with my father. Even though I wanted to leave home as soon as I turned eighteen, I didn’t. Brandon needed me, and despite the fact that I didn’t get along with my dad, I knew he needed me too.
“One day, my father just wasn’t there. I looked for him everywhere but couldn’t find him,” I recall, trying hard to keep my voice from breaking.
“He was in the habit of disappearing sometimes, but this time was different. All we found was his phone, and he never went out without it. After two days without any contact, there was a knock on the door. I went to answer it, and there were two police officers standing there in the rain. They asked to come in, and I let them. Shaking off their caps, they told me they had terrible news.”
I take a deep breath. “One of them asked me for my name, and my first response was to ask what their visit was about. I needed to know, even if I knew deep down what it was about.”
“‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’” the first officer said. “‘We’ve recovered some human remains, and we believe they may be your father’s.’”
I look Francisco deeply in the eyes, punctuating the horror of those two blunt words. “Human remains. That’s what they called him. He wasn’t even human anymore. I told them I wanted to see, but they wouldn’t let me.
“‘If you’ll just look at this photo,’” the one officer said, holding out a cell phone.