by Alexa Hart
That wasn’t good enough for me. How could I put my hands up in the air and pretend this poor little girl wasn’t living some kind of daily trauma at the carelessness of her criminal father? She wouldn’t have drawn something like that if it wasn’t starkly present in her beautiful little mind.
Was that her mother? Was that how Mrs. Morano died?
The idea of Gia walking around every day carrying the weight of that image and the loss it had procured for her at such a delicate age overwhelmed me. It didn’t matter if she were my favorite student or not – no little girl should be living a life at the mercy of such ongoing trauma and danger. Mr. Morano was worse than an absent father. Mr. Morano was a bad father.
I reached my front stoop and paused as one heel hit the first step.
No.
I rummaged through my purse for my phone and within minutes found myself entering the back of the taxi I had summoned. I felt powerful and alive and very sure that I was the only person in this entire world who might have the nerve to stand up to Mr. Morano for Gia’s sake.
All of the teachers at Winston had a school directory in their classroom. I kept mine in the top center drawer of my desk, and though I had barely ever found reason to open the cover, I now went to it with a sense of purpose that sent shivers through my body. I grabbed the directory and Gia’s artwork hastily and was back in the cab in under two minutes, leafing rapidly through the pages to the “M’s”. Martin. Maxwell. Down. Down. Moore. Morano. Boom.
“7003 Auber Lane, please,” I requested, meeting the driver’s questioning gaze. Immediately we were off, and as the sun set for the day it hit me that I had absolutely no idea what part of the city Auber Lane existed in.
I shook my head. It doesn’t matter, Abby. And it didn’t. Gia mattered.
The drive was admittedly longer than I had anticipated, and I had cooled a few degrees by the time we pulled up to a giant steel gate blocking a gargantuan drive. I had never doubted Mr. Morano was well-off – Winston Elementary Private School was certainly not priced for the average Joe. This was far beyond what I had expected, however.
A shiny metal box came to life and a polite female voice boomed through the taxicab windows. “Name?”
The driver looked back at me.
“Say you’re dropping off Miss Greene, Gia’s teacher, and that I would like to speak to Mr. Morano,” I rambled off, suddenly aware that I was still in my work clothes. Winston required all of the teachers to wear navy tops and tan bottoms. We were graciously allowed the “freedom” to choose our own outfits so long as they were the appropriate colors and in modest fashion. Today I was in a simple beige pencil skirt that hit just at my knees and a button up blue blouse that collared my neck with crisp edges. My “tasteful” shoe choice of navy ballet flats now felt drab and plain. I wasn’t even having a good hair day. I could feel the blonde strays sticking out of my unkempt bun.
I look like a fucking exhausted librarian.
But why should that matter, exactly?
Once granted entry, the car pulled up the drive and round a monstrous circle to the front entrance of what I could only think of as a mini-mansion. “Holy shit,” I murmured, eyes popping off my face.
“You ain’t kiddin’, lady,” the cab driver agreed. I attempted to pull myself together and paid him generously. He had the vague look of someone who was very relieved to not be involved in a situation, and drove off with according speed.
Six tiered steps up to the landing at the front door, I stopped and fumbled with my belongings. At a normal home you would just ring the bell. I could find no bell, however, and knew that they were already quite aware I was here.
As if on cue, the giant door opened slowly, and there was Gia’s nanny, with a courteous smile on her face. “Miss Greene. Come in. Mr. Morano will be down shortly.”
She led me to a type of sitting room on the left, and I chose a solitary French-style seat over the larger settee. The room had a pleasant floral smell and the walls were lined with books and exquisite artwork that reminded me of how ridiculously out of place I must look in this setting.
I smoothed my skirt and crossed my ankles, telling myself that this was for Gia, and my appearance was of no consequence. That drawing.
How long he had been standing there I would never know, but I suddenly sensed myself being observed and raised my eyes to meet the fervent charcoal gaze that was Mr. Morano’s. He leaned casually against the doorframe and I sucked in my breath slightly, surprised and irritated by my body’s traitorous response.
Had anyone ever mentioned, in all of that rumor mill cycling, that this man was absolutely beautiful? If they had, I must have ignored it altogether. I wanted to speak but my voice caught in my throat.
There were the eyes, first of all. How two pools that incredibly dark could still somehow twinkle with light was beyond me. They sat on a chiseled, close-shaven face, and were complimented by abnormally full, masculine lips. The short, slightly wavy hair was as dark as the eyes and had a somewhat disheveled, boyish quality to it. He wore a collared white button-down, light gray dress pants, and sensible (yet shiny) brown loafers. His sleeves, which hugged muscular arms, were rolled slightly up, allowing the edge of a black tattoo to be glimpsed on his right forearm. A sudden hungry curiosity swelled up from somewhere very deep inside of me at the sight of that skin.
“Miss Greene, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
It was only a voice, I told myself. But it carried like a warm purr across the room and electrically roused all of my senses. Snap out of this, Abby. Remember who this man is.
Regaining my inward composure and hoping it had gone unnoticed, I stood and offered a hand. “It is good to meet you as well, Mr. Morano.”
Those eyes seemed incredibly amused by something, and the lips curved into a charming, genuine smile. He walked towards me and firmly shook my little hand. A small volt of excitement shot through my body and I pulled my hand away quickly. What in the actual fuck? As Felicity would say...
Feeling I may have been rude, I offered a stiff smile and re-seated myself, this time keeping both feet firmly on the floor. How exactly did I start a conversation such as the one I had charged over here to have? It had seemed clearer when I was at the school. It had seemed clearer when he wasn’t three feet away from me, sending out some kind of mind numbing, panty wetting wi-fi.
“Marcello. You can call me Marcello,” came more soothing notes from those lips. “Gia speaks quite highly of you, Miss Greene. It is a great comfort for me to know she is happy at school.” He moved to a nearby bookshelf and pulled it open like a door, revealing a sparkling mini-bar.
“Thank you, Mr. Morano. She is a very bright and kind little girl – a bit of a favorite of mine,” I returned, being careful to not call him by his first name. It will be a cold day in hell before I give you that satisfaction, Mr. Morano.
He came towards me holding a delicate, fluted glass. “Champagne,” he stated, handing me the drink without asking if I wanted it.
I clumsily received it and felt like an overgrown child holding it in my hand. “Thank you, but that’s really not necessary, Mr. Morano.” I was sure I spied a slight eye twitch at my continued refusal to call him Marcello. I had a feeling not many people in his life refused him much of anything – ever.
“Don’t thank me. Champagne is given to all the guests. Nothing special,” Marcello seemed to emphasize that last sentence, and I realized I really had pissed him off with my coldness. I felt a tiny twinge of victory, but it was immediately followed by a blanket of humiliation when I thought about the fact that he probably did have many guests much more worthy of his complimentary champagne.
“Oh,” I said, stalling. Had I not expected he might be a bit of an asshole? I was here to discuss his criminal lifestyle, after all – not the Queen of England’s gowns.
“Gia’s a favorite... Hm. I thought teachers weren’t really supposed to have favorites, Miss Greene? It’s a bit politically incorrect in your line of work,
wouldn’t you say?” Marcello seemed to be attempting to return to good-humored banter, but the intensity on his face told me he was not quite getting there.
I had gotten under his skin already without really meaning to. What was the point in that? Yet I knew that the moment I saw him I had wanted to do so. It was just too irritating, meeting him and having him be this Hollywood A-List level of gorgeous when he was also somehow linked to the mafia and ruining his daughter’s life. I had resented his beauty, his calm demeanor, and his self-assured mannerisms instantly.
Besides, he had just set himself up perfectly for me to introduce my reason for being there in the first place. I cleared my throat and leveled my gaze with his. “Having favorites is usually a faux pas in my “line of work”, Mr. Morano. But... it is what it is.” I gave a polite smile and then, “I was hoping to inquire of you about your line of work this evening.”
It was a strange sensation, watching someone’s eyes go from somewhat warm and open to complete Antarctica-grade ice-cold in a split second. No matter the accuracy in my assumptions, what I had just said had instantly struck a nerve. I felt actual fear crawling up my spine as I faced the heat of his glare. I hastily pulled Gia’s picture from my purse. “Here,” I held it towards him, not standing up.
I thought for a second that he might not take it from me at all. All emotion and good nature had left his face. He stood and stretched his arm out, briefly allowing me a close up of the tattoo I had eyed before. (Stars... stars and lettering...) Swiftly grabbing the paper, he looked down at it, and at first turned quizzical. Then that quiet amusement seemed to creep back over his face, utterly infuriating me.
“Miss Greene, I can assume from this picture paired with your eloquent inquiry that you see me as something of a... a thug? Yes, let’s call it that. And really, I have to say that the concern you show for my daughter and my “line of work” is quite touching. Reassuring even.” He now walked around the room aimlessly. I felt mildly like an animal being circled by a ferocious predator that I had just wildly insulted. He paused and looked directly at me. “I am a lawyer, Miss Greene. I am pleased you asked, because you can now put to bed (my heart skipped) whatever other zany assumptions you have made.”
I frowned. “I wouldn’t call them zany, Mr. Morano. I -”
“Are you familiar with soap operas, Miss Greene? The melodrama and the romance and the over the top storylines that make women swoon and come back every day for one more hour...” he paused, waiting. I nodded, feeling silly and angry. “Ah, good.” He sat back down in his chair and leaned forward as though ready to share some very conspiratorial information. “My nanny, Marta – you've met Marta, of course you have – caught Gia peeking in just a few days ago while she was watching one of her favorite daily soaps. Marta is like family, you know, Miss Greene. She has her own quarters in my home and plenty of free time to indulge herself however she pleases. She was more than a little upset that Gia happened to pull off her spy mission during a scene which turned violent amongst a love triangle. Not the kind of thing you want a child to see, you know.” Marcello waved a hand in the air and gave me a chilly grin. “Now that was a fun talk to have with my daughter. Nothing quite like explaining to a seven-year-old how love can drive a person completely insane.”
I wanted to sink into the floor and die. A soap opera? Gia had drawn that picture based on a scene from a soap opera? How ridiculous did that make me? How out of turn was my questioning if that were true? And then again... What if he’s lying? Criminals lie.
I stubbornly returned the hard, challenging look he was serving me and raised my champagne glass for a casual sip. “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Morano, how exactly did your wife die?”
Too far.
Marcello’s eyes had lost all twinkle and now seemed to be burning. “She choked on her champagne, Miss Greene.”
I swallowed hoarsely, rising from my chair.
“And I do mind you asking, Miss Greene. I mind it very fucking much,” his rage made his voice quiver, and I felt excited tingles exploding inside of me, blurring my intentions. I began walking straight for the front door, alarmed and insanely attracted to that dark façade that had sat inches from my own face. I knew this conversation was very much over. Marcello stopped me with only his voice, which now had a very careful deadness to it. “You have no car here, Miss Greene. I will have my driver see you home.”
I turned, not sure if I meant to protest or thank him, but certainly not wanting to wait a second longer in this house for another cab to arrive. He was already gone. I felt a strange new sadness filling my insides.
What in the actual fuck.
Chapter 3
“You asked him what?” Felicity nearly shouted the words at me.
I cringed, slapping a hand over my eyes. If Felicity Howard thought something was shocking, one could assume that they had gone too far. She practically invented the concept of shock and awe all by herself. I sank down into the cushions of my couch. Maybe if I sank deep enough, I could just disappear forever, lost in a quiet world of gray polyester and shame. It had been almost 48 hours since I had exited the Morano household, and not an ounce of the humiliation seemed to have lifted.
“Fel, I don’t know how it even came out of my mouth. I just – you don’t understand how infuriating he was! He made me feel so stupid – “
“You were there to insinuate that he’s a criminal, Abs. Even you couldn’t make that conversation go sweetly.” Felicity popped a piece of gum into her mouth and appeared to be recovering from her initial incredulous state.
“But he didn’t have to be so – so – demeaning. Talking to me like I was a child and explaining how fucking soap operas work. Soap operas, Fel!” I threw a couch pillow across my living room, barely missing my one and only living houseplant.
Felicity raised her eyebrows and looked at me hard. “Did you think demanding information about his dead wife would make things better?”
I shot her my most murderous look and she giggled. I wondered how long it would be before I could do the same.
Three weeks passed and I realized that the world didn’t give two shits about my conversation with Marcello Morano. Gia had bounced into class on the following Monday morning full of hugs and tales of her trick-or-treating panther adventures. The relief I felt at knowing nothing had changed between her and I was almost enough to alleviate my mind entirely.
Almost.
There were many reasons why I couldn’t seem to fully let go of the encounter. One of them was obvious and strolled into my classroom five days a week with a smile as bright as the sun. I still worried about Gia, and even though I knew I’d made an ass of myself when I confronted Mr. Morano, it ceaselessly bothered me that I hadn’t really answered any of my own questions in that visit. They lingered and twisted around in my brain with unnatural adamancy.
Who was Marcello? Who was he, really? Maybe Gia’s drawing had in no way been related to his “career”, but did I really believe that all of those rumors – countless and relentless as they were – were based on nothing? And what normal parent never came to their child’s school – ever? Parent teacher conferences had been the previous week, and though I did not expect him to show, I was truly surprised that not even Marta came in his stead.
I had attempted to look up his office of law, and it appeared to simply not exist. Not on Google and not even in the old school yellow pages book that was still inexplicably dropped outside of my apartment every year. If Mr. Marcello Morano practiced law, he sure did it stealthily. That’s if I believed he was a lawyer to begin with.
I didn’t.
Possibly worse than the ongoing mystery was the relentless craving that had been born inside of me that night. I wanted him. I didn’t just want to see him or talk to him or be on good terms with him... I wanted him. I wanted charcoal eyes looking down at me every night, scourging me and savagely demanding everything I had to give. I wanted that smile and those godly-endowed lips on every inch of my skin. I wa
nted to run my fingers over his tattoo, memorizing it like holy braille, worshiping it like my own personal cross. I wanted that glowering brow pressed against my own, seizing all that I was in bloodthirsty passion, and returning it mercilessly with his own essence over, and over, and over...
He had instantaneously become my “pleasure idol”. Felicity had made up that ridiculous term when we were young; and once, after college, I had begged her to stop using it. She had raised one wicked eyebrow and then asked me if I was turning into a masturbator-hater. Not wanting that phrase to catch on, I had never complained about it again. And really, Felicity wasn’t the one who even needed a pleasure idol. She more often than not had a flesh and bone source of pleasure lying next to her at night, and therefore our conversations about masturbator-haters and pleasure idols were few and far between.
Just being alone with my thoughts and the image of Marcello had served me in a much hotter – and much more frequent – way than any of the live, human prospects in my direct reality. I’d lost interest in dating. No one held a candle to Marcello and his flaming intensity. It was as though in one encounter he’d made the entire male species useless to me. Which should have made me hate him more.
It hadn’t.
I busied myself with making plans for the holidays. I purchased a roundtrip ticket to fly home on Thanksgiving Day – a much needed escape. At school there were endless construction paper turkeys to be made, fall leaf collections to gather; and the general mood amongst students and teachers alike seemed to be growing merrier. The holidays were coming to save us all.
Felicity had ventured only once during coffee time to make me admit how badly I had “the hots” for Mr. Morano. I had denied it so vehemently and with such disgust that she didn’t ask again. She no longer needed to ask, because my response had spelled it out for her in bold caps. I had protested too much, too well. She knew. And I knew she knew.