Chapter 15 #2
“I took it and saw it was a picture of my father from the chin up.
I had never seen anyone looking worse for wear.
Both of his eyes were closed, and his nose was mangled.
The hair was in such disarray, it looked like a toupee had been stapled to his head.
I could barely make out the features that had been so prominent when I was a kid.
But there was no one else it could be. Despite the differences between the man I knew and the face in the photo, it was obviously the same person.
“That’s him,” I said, handing the phone back. “Why can’t I see him?”
The two officers looked at each other uncomfortably. “There’s not… an entire body,” one of them explained.
“I didn’t react just then. I was too shocked, just going through the motions without pausing to consider what I’d just learned. It was at the funeral that I realized the danger we were in and sprang into action.
“I packed a suitcase that night, the same suitcase that’s now waiting for me in my bedroom, and took Brandon. We changed our names, and I applied for a new Social Security card with a fake marriage certificate.
“I changed my last name, and moved away,” I finish, expelling the poison that’s kept me hostage for years. “And I swore I would never get involved with the mafia world again.”
“What was your father’s name?” Francisco asks softly.
He’s staying on his side of the couch, resisting the urge to touch me. I appreciate that, even though my body aches to be held. This is too important. I’m trying to tell him why we can never be together, and I need this separation to accomplish my goal.
“Vincent Rocca,” I say, searching his face for signs of recognition. There are none.
“I’ve heard the name,” he admits. “But I didn’t know him.”
I shrug unhappily. It doesn’t matter whether Francisco knew my father. What matters is that we’ve hit an impasse. I can’t remain in his employ, and there’s nothing he can say to change things.
“So you understand why I can’t stay,” I tell him. “Because I know who you are.”
“I’m not your father,” he says roughly.
“I didn’t say you were,” I argue. “But I know the world you travel in, and I can’t be a part of it.”
“Listen,” he says, his voice all business. “I appreciate your honesty. Now, let me be honest in return. I don’t want you to go. And I can protect you. You will never have to worry about something like that happening to you or me.”
How does he know I am worried about being shown a picture of his head the same way they showed me a picture of my father’s?
I can’t bear the thought of someone else going through what my father went through, even someone as rough and capable as Francisco.
That’s all it is, I tell myself. Just one human concerned about another human.
There are no romantic overtones. I simply don’t want to see him decapitated. That doesn’t mean I care.
Yet, the olive branch he’s offering is tempting. I don’t want to run. I’m tired of living out of a suitcase, and I haven’t even started. I like Francisco, and I like his son Frankie. And then there was that kiss just moments ago, the one that blew me off my feet.
Can I really ignore the sensations running through my body while he’s sitting so close?
I’m torn, and he’s not making it easy for me.
I think about everything that’s involved in running away.
I’ll have to change my name again, and that’s not going to be easy.
I don’t have the government or underground connections necessary for a passable fake ID.
That means I'd have to file more paperwork to get a legitimate driver’s license under another pseudonym, and I have no idea how I’m going to accomplish that.
I'd also have to convince Brandon to run away with me, and I know that’s not going to be easy. He’s happy where he is, and I don’t want to be the cause of any more misfortune. Maybe it really will be okay, now that everything is out in the open.
Francisco knows my deepest secrets, something not even my best friend knows. He knows my real name, and that’s something I haven’t experienced in a long time. I feel like I’ve won a trusted confidante, someone I can go to in my times of need. Isn’t that worth fighting for?
“Okay,” I relent with a sigh. “I’ll stay.”
He relaxes visibly. His shoulders drop half an inch, and he leans back in his seat as if I’ve just lifted a great burden from his soul. He smiles gently, letting me know that he’s on my side. We’re in this together now. The walls between us crumble, leaving hope for a new life.
“I’m glad,” he says finally.
“Thanks,” I mutter. I’m not sure where to go from here. Half of me wants to invite him into my bed, and the other half wants to jump in his car and go wherever the wind takes us.
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, standing up.
“Yeah,” I agree, following him to the door.
He doesn’t kiss me again, but he puts his thumb and forefinger against my chin, caressing me gently.
It’s such a tender expression, one that only husbands and boyfriends use, though I don’t have much experience with either.
I look into his eyes and see grateful relief.
It’s a shock to realize how much I mean to him, and how vulnerable he’s willing to be with me.
He finally leaves, and I watch him disappear down the hall, his bodyguards nowhere in sight. Feeling at peace for the first time in a long time, I return to my bedroom and unpack that damned suitcase. I’m staying right where I am, and damn the consequences.