Chapter 17
MARLENA
I’ve just unpacked my suitcase when there’s another knock at the door. Thinking that Francisco has returned, I hurry to answer. I can’t mask my disappointment when it’s only Giovanni. Francisco’s younger brother is friendly enough, but he’s not the man I want to see.
“Hi,” I say informally.
“Hi,” he responds, pushing into the apartment without permission. “Pack your things.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, startled by the brusque request.
“You heard me,” he says, “Pack your things. You’re coming home with me.”
“Did Francisco put you up to this?” I demand.
“Yes,” he answers, as if I’m a child.
“Well, I agreed not to leave, but I’m not coming to live with Francisco,” I say.
“He’ll explain everything when we get there,” Giovanni promises. “Come on.”
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to decide how much I really want to fight this. I like my apartment, and I’m not willing to give up my entire life. But what Giovanni says sounds reasonable. I don’t have to move in with him. I can just go and hear what he has to say.
I cross my arms over my chest, indicating that I’m ready to go.
“You don’t want to bring any clothes with you?” Giovanni asks. “It’s gonna be a while.”
“I’m not moving in with Francisco,” I say stubbornly.
“Boss says you’re not safe here,” Giovanni remarks, neither friendly nor aggressively, just stating a fact. “Says I should bring you home. You might want to bring a toothbrush.”
I sigh, bowing to the superior wisdom. Francisco wouldn’t be doing this unless he thought I could be in danger, not after hearing my story. “Hang on,” I relent, pointing to the sofa. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Giovanni sighs, taking a seat. He watches as I duck into the bedroom to gather my things, always on the lookout for trouble.
I glare at my suitcase again. It’s still on the bed, wide open with half of my belongings still inside.
I guess I’m moving for the time being, but this time I put a little more thought into what I’m going to bring.
I take out one pair of jeans and fold a spring dress into the bag.
I find my toothbrush and toothpaste, my hairbrush, and my manicure kit.
I don’t know how long I’m going to stay, but I’m determined not to be a burden.
I’ll hear what Francisco has to say and then make my decision. All I need is enough clothes to get me through a night or two, and then I can return to what passes for normal in my life.
I wonder if I should text Rebecca, just to let someone know where I’m off to. But I don’t want to drag her into my mess. As comforting as it would be to share my whereabouts, I’d hate for my father’s enemies or Francisco’s enemies to come down on my best friend.
About fifteen minutes later, I return to the living room, suitcase in hand.
I’ve left my phone on the table, along with all the other electronics.
I can easily retrieve them if this isn’t a permanent thing.
And as long as no one knows where I’m going to be, there’s no reason to keep the phone on me.
But Giovanni has other plans. “You got your phone?” he asks.
“I’m going to leave it here,” I say.
“Why?” he demands.
“Because,” I begin. “I don’t want anyone to know where I’m going.”
“You’re not dropping off the face of the earth,” Giovanni says with a laugh. “Bring your phone. A kid like you would be lost without it.”
I sneer at him, half charmed, half disgusted by his teasing. “I’m not that young.”
“I can see,” he remarks, waiting for me to go back and get the device.
I don’t want to give him the pleasure, but he’s right. I’d rather have it. So I march back to the table, pick it up, and shove it in my pocket. I return to the living room once again, presenting myself to my captor.
He reaches for the suitcase, taking it from my hand as he walks toward the door.
I’ve got no choice but to follow him, leaving the safe haven of my little apartment far behind.
We barely speak on the way over to Francisco’s house.
I know Giovanni likes me, or at least he doesn’t have a strong opinion either way.
But I also get the sense that he’s being careful not to be too friendly.
As if sharing a laugh or getting to know me would send the wrong signal to his powerful brother.
We glide in through the iron gates, and I shiver as they close behind us.
Now that I’ve packed a bag, it feels like I’m not going to see the outside world for a long time.
I put that thought away, focusing on my upcoming meeting with Francisco.
I’m dying to hear what he has to say, and why he thinks it’s important for me to move in with him.
I wonder if he knows something about the people who killed my father.
Giovanni helps me inside, but just leaves my suitcase by the door. He disappears into the house, and I don’t see him again. I don’t see anyone for a moment and wonder if I should go investigate Francisco’s office.
Finally, one maid comes to find me. “May I show you to your room?” she asks.
“That won’t be necessary,” I say. “I’m not even sure if I’m staying.”
“The master had us prepare one of the most beautiful guestrooms,” the maid says. “Come, take a look.”
“Thanks,” I respond, feeling a warmth from the woman that I hadn’t expected. She’s just about my age and pretty for someone whose job demands she remain invisible. I had never noticed her before.
We walk upstairs, me with my suitcase and her with a set of towels.
She shows me to a room at the end of the hallway, about as far from Frankie’s suite as you could get while still being on the same side of the house.
Inside, I’m treated to something similar to what Francisco’s son has.
There’s a sitting room, a bedroom and my own private bath.
In fact, I could live here quite comfortably without ever having to leave.
The three rooms are almost as big as my entire apartment.
The maid sets the towels down in the bathroom, giving me a shy smile. “Please call if you need anything,” she says.
“I will,” I promise.
I’m walking around the living room, examining all of the artwork on the walls, when there’s a knock at the door. The door is open, so I can see Francisco, but he still announces himself anyway.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s beautiful,” I respond. “But I can’t stay.”
“Please,” he insists, coming toward me with no hurry in his step. He takes me by the hand and seems to study the length of my fingers. Then he leads me to the sofa and we both sit down together. “I found out who killed your father and why.”
I gasp, unable to contain my reaction. This is something I’ve spent years agonizing over.
I want to know and yet I don’t at the same time.
Just knowing the condition of his body was enough to drive me crazy.
Am I going to be able to handle the whole truth?
Or will it be equally traumatic as seeing that photo?
“Who? Why?” I whisper.
“A man named Carlo Andretti,” Francisco begins. “Or one of his henchmen. He’s the leader of a rival family, and someone your father pissed off.”
My throat is paper-dry, but I have to hear this. “How did he piss Andretti off?”
“Your father was a hitman,” Francisco says, holding my eyes with his own so I can’t look away.
I find a wealth of compassion in his gaze that helps comfort me. I don’t know how to react. I knew my father was into something illegal, but I had no idea that he committed murder for a living.
“How many people did he kill?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t know all the details,” Francisco admits. “But I do know that at the end, he killed the wrong person.”
I nod silently, trying to assimilate this new information.
It feels strange finally knowing why my father was killed.
All the heartache that came from running away, from changing my name and being forced to live as someone else, becomes secondary.
The real trauma is the fact that my father was a professional killer. How could I have been so blind?
I think back to all the times I came home late at night.
He never scolded me, never tried to ground me.
He didn’t even seem to know I was missing most of the time, and now I know why.
He’d probably been out on a mission while I was with my friends at the movies.
While I laughed along with the audience and ate popcorn like every other teenage girl, he was out there killing people.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” I say, rushing for the bathroom.
Francisco doesn’t follow me, not at first. I fall to my knees in front of the toilet and open the lid.
My stomach revolts, the pain of my father’s crimes making me heave.
I pull my hair back so I won’t get sick on it, and a moment later, I feel Francisco’s hand replacing mine.
I don’t have time to express my gratitude before I throw up what little breakfast I had this morning.
After expelling the bagel and coffee, I feel worse, not better.
Francisco helps me to my feet and pours me a glass of water from the tap.
I swish my mouth out and spit, feeling ridiculous.
Only then does it occur to me that once again, I’m not dressed correctly.
He’s wearing a three-piece suit, and I’m in a pair of jeans.
I’ll have to stop underestimating the formality of his house if I’m going to stay there.
He pulls me back into the living room, and we sit down again.
His voice is patient when he speaks. “I know this is a lot to take in,” he says. “But if Andretti finds out who you are, I’m afraid he won’t just let you be.”
“Is that your way of saying I’ll wind up like my father?” I accuse.
“In not so many words,” he agrees. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. That’s why I think it would be best for you to move in with me.”