by Alexa Hart
I raised an eyebrow, giggling. Poor Alex. “Well enjoy your family! I’ll see you after the new year!” I offered a hug, and he returned it warmly, if not awkwardly, while handling his multiple purchases clumsily.
In the split second that I had embraced Alex, I saw a man begin walking towards us very quickly. He was dressed in normal jeans and a sweater, but his face was not normal. Serious. Stern. And moving in quickly.
I released Alex in alarm, and the man instantly stopped short.
“Bye, Abby,” Alex called, already walking away.
The man now seemed disinterested entirely, loitering around a coin fountain as though I didn’t exist and he hadn’t just been approaching like a very determined jet plane. I made my way somewhat frantically to the boutique up ahead, and was soon surrounded by silk, over-attentive sales ladies, and price tags. Emerging an hour later – plus one gorgeous dress and minus a painful amount of money – I wasted no time summoning an Uber and getting out of the mall as fast as my feet could carry me.
The anonymous gentleman was nowhere to be seen.
This time there was absolutely no holding back when Marcello called. He listened patiently, seemingly undisturbed. When I had finished my near hysteric account of the day’s events, he calmly said, “I know.”
“You know? You know? What does that even mean?” I knew I was nearly yelling at this point, but the confusion mixed with the remaining fear from the day had pushed me slightly too far.
“It was a misunderstanding, Abby,” Marcello’s collected voice didn’t falter in the slightest.
“A misunderstanding? What are you talking about?” I was angry now. Infuriated.
“My men have strict orders if anyone comes near you – to move in quickly and sever the risk posed to you without question.”
“THE RISK POSED TO ME?” Now I was definitely yelling.
“They realized quite late that it was simply Mr. Thomas. They are quite familiar with Mr. Thomas. As I said. It was a misunderstanding,” Marcello was truly indulging me at this point. His voice was even and his tone kind.
“They?” I was coming down from my hysteria, but I was still angry. I felt wronged, and I couldn’t even articulate why.
“Abby,” he sighed. “You must know at this point that you are under rather tight security. Always. Did you not know this?”
“I had suspected, yes,” I admitted, knowing I had more than suspected. I knew.
“I am sorry if it feels intrusive. I am,” Marcello offered. “But it isn’t open to debate. I will protect you, Abby. With or without your approval.”
I wanted to protest, but the relief that was washing over me now that I knew that random asshole at the very least hadn’t intended to hurt me was making me soften. Safe. I was quite safe.
And what about Alex? What exactly does “severing the risk posed” entail? What almost happened to him?
It certainly wasn’t the first, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last time that I felt my privacy was not my own anymore. I breathed deeply, reminding myself that this was how Marcello kept his own sanity. He had to protect what he held dear. He could not lose another thing that he loved.
And does he love you?
He interrupted my thoughts then with a random query. “Abby, were you wearing your necklace today?”
My face went quizzical, but he couldn’t see that. “Of course. Yes. Yes, I was. I’m wearing it now,” I answered truthfully.
“Good,” was his simple reply. A small pause, and then, “Do you often hug Mr. Thomas, Abby?”
“Alex? I mean... no. Not often. I don’t know – I’ve never even thought about – ”
“I would prefer that you didn’t,” Marcello inserted, stopping me short.
“Why?” Some strange mixture of rebellion and twisted pleasure was brewing inside of me.
“Because you’re mine.”
Marcello had to leave town for business the last three days leading up to our date. He assured me he would be back in plenty of time to meet me for our reservations at the pricey and elitist Crystal On Top restaurant. It was a rather exclusive place that I’d really only ever heard of, located at the top of one of the skyscrapers downtown in the city.
Harrison had strict instructions to pick me up at 8:00 sharp, allowing us to make it through traffic with plenty of spare time for the 9:00 reservation. He was to safely deposit me at the door of the restaurant, but I didn’t believe for a moment that there wasn’t awaiting security also inside that door. Possibly they were scattered throughout the tables like normal patrons enjoying their heavily overpriced meals. Perhaps they were the waitstaff. For all I knew, Marcello had reserved the entire restaurant for the evening. He could own the fucking place and I wouldn’t know.
But I didn’t ask.
I prepared myself for the night with diligent attention to detail. My hair was down, the way Marcello preferred it, with a few wavy curls spread throughout. My makeup was dramatic – much more so than he had ever seen on me thus far. It screamed sexy, but I still hoped it wasn’t too much. Abigail Greene was not used to commanding attention from the general public for her physical appearance. I had regretted my red dress choice for the Christmas play immediately when I realized the appraising stares it was garnering from the fathers... and the hateful glares that accompanied them from their wives.
But this night was for Marcello. And it certainly wasn’t taking place at Winston Elementary. I wanted to be memorable. Even if we never could make it work together long term, I wanted to inscribe my image this evening on his mind for the rest of his life.
He had already stamped his on mine.
Black silk hugging every soft curve of my body stopped mid-thigh in such an alluring cut that I smiled while dressing, knowing it was going to drive him insane and possibly shorten our dinner experience greatly. I had opted for strapless, which was a style of dress I had literally never allowed myself before. The cut was low, dipping between my breasts with a tempting v, and the slight shimmers of the silk as I moved gave me an all-over majestic feel. I had gone the extra dangerous step of adding strappy black stilettos, knowing they might be the death of me were I to misstep even once.
The dress didn’t allow for a bra – so the only thing separating me from the entire world was a lacy red thong I had picked exactly for the way it matched my ruby necklace perfectly. I wanted to take his breath away.
If Felicity had been there, she would have pumped me up with such an intense pep talk that I would have felt like a goddess by the time I walked out the door. But she wasn’t there, and she might not be there ever again. Not like before.
Harrison arrived dutifully at 8:00. If I did look impressive, he showed no acknowledgement of it. He had a way of politely making me feel that I was a package to deliver wherever Marcello Morano had requested, and nothing more.
I watched the city lights flying by as we drove, slipping into that dreamy state that so often overcame me when Marcello was involved. There had been pain, and fear, and so much frustration – but I loved Marcello deeply and tonight, I looked like a fucking princess.
When I was finally shown to our table by the exuberant hostess, I relaxed a bit. The view of the city from our private little corner of the restaurant was extraordinary. Hypnotizing. I sipped white wine slowly, blanketed in a satisfaction I hadn’t ever known existed.
I waited. The wine perhaps started going down slightly quicker as the minutes ticked by. Marcello was late. Alarms started going off in my mind and all throughout my body. I tried to drown them out with the clear, sweet liquid that the waitress kept kindly making appear in my glass like intoxicating magic.
A half hour passed. Then an hour. I was drunk – there was no denying that – and Marcello was incredibly late. I looked at my phone. Nothing. I tried to focus on the skyline, which had become a slightly blurrier version of itself as the time ticked by and the wine went down.
It had just reached 10:30 when Harrison appeared at the side of the table, nearly making m
e scream in surprise, and instantly sending dread through my veins.
“There’s been a development. Please come with me, Miss Greene. Mr. Morano will not be joining you this evening.”
Chapter 13
If I had been capable of feeling anything other than my own heart breaking, I would have pitied Harrison for nearly having to carry me to the car. I certainly would have felt terrible for him when he actually had to carry me into my apartment. He had left, but I was under no ridiculous pretense that I was alone.
It didn’t matter.
I ripped off my stilettos, hurling them at the wall and stumbling to my kitchen. I didn’t need Marcello. I had the perfect date for the turning of the new year. His name was Johnnie Walker. I found the bottle of dark liquor sitting in the back of my fridge like a relic who had patiently been waiting for exactly this moment.
Fuck Marcello. Fuck all of this.
Collapsed in a pathetic, sob-ridden heap on my couch, half drained bottle still in hand, the last thing I heard before blacking out was the fireworks going off downtown.
What a fucking beautiful night.
Dawn was breaking when the pounding at my door started. I sat up slowly, woozily, still very much drunk and thinking that the long walk to the door was perhaps more than my wobbly legs could handle. I had just started to take uncoordinated steps in the general direction of the pounding, when it stopped and the door flew open.
Marcello was rushing to me so quickly that I could barely formulate a reaction to his presence before he had me pressed to him, his face in my hair, nearly moaning, “Abby. Abby. I’m so sorry. Abby.” He was stroking my hair and I felt a surge of rage break through my reeling brain.
“NO!” I pushed him away from me – hard – and he let out a low yelp, actually falling back a few steps.
I attempted to focus then, completely alarmed by that sound – pain, he’s in pain! - and searched his face until the doubled lines blurred back to one and the charcoal eyes were truly there. A sharp gasp escaped from my throat as I saw the swollen, nearly closed left eye that sat above a dark purple, bruised cheekbone. His forehead sported a giant bandage, with the blood just barely showing through its thickness. His bottom lip was cut badly, and nearly double its size from the swelling. Peeking out from beneath his coat I could see the white wrapping around his ribs.
I wanted to hold him, to comfort him, to fix him. But I didn’t move. I just stared. I had the gripping realization that I would never be able to fix Marcello. No one could fix this.
He was rambling then. “There was a deal... it went bad... I was only there for legal purposes... but it went bad... It went bad, Abby. I got to you as soon as they released me from the hospital, I swear. Abby you have to forgive me... This will never happen again... I swear it! Rossi wouldn’t allow it – ”
At the sound of that name escaping his badly beaten lips, I saw red. The mixture of the whiskey and the shock and the disappointment and the anger momentarily gave me a frightening inner strength that I hadn’t known I possessed.
“ROSSI is the reason this happened to you! How can you not see that? It WILL happen again – it WILL! You can’t just do this over and over – I can’t - I WON’T be a part of it, Marcello! Get OUT! GET OUT NOW! JUST GET THE FUCK OUT!” I was screaming – shrieking – wanting to kiss his wounds and simultaneously inflict my own. “GET OUT!”
He was coming to me then, protesting with his eyes and just repeating “No, no, no” over and over while he tried to pull me back into his embrace. I violently broke away from him, no longer caring that he was injured.
“I SAID GET OUT, MARCELLO! GET! OUT!” I stumbled towards the door, holding it wide open and feeling my legs sway unsteadily at the exertion.
He walked slowly towards me, eyes piercing mine as he did, begging silently. Tears. He’s crying. Abby, he’s CRYING.
“Abby, you can’t do this. I love you. I love you, Abby. I NEED YOU,” he pleaded, still trying to bring me to him with desperation dripping from his voice.
I put my hand out, warning him to advance no farther. I fought a miserably strong physical urge to hold him, kiss him – let it be okay. Make it be okay. But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t ever going to be okay.
“Get out,” I repeated, quietly now, and refusing to meet his eyes.
He conceded, and every slow, slightly unsteady step until he was out of the building seemed to be screaming “PLEASE” with its echoes. I waited until I was sure he was completely gone and then ran to the sink and began vomiting violently, wishing I could just die.
But more than anything, I realized that I truly wished I had never met Marcello Morano.
I did three things that day. I cried, I slept, and I stared out the window from my couch. I was still in my New Year’s Eve dress, which was in ridiculous disarray. I hadn’t looked in the mirror, but I knew the torrents of tears that had emerged from my eyes could only have done wondrous works of abstract art with my makeup by now. My hair smelled like whiskey. Everything smelled like whiskey. And still I just lay on the couch, bundled in a blanket, crying or sleeping or staring.
Marcello had called at least ten times by sundown. Eventually I turned the ringer off and slid my phone under the couch. There simply wasn’t anything to talk about.
I thought that by the end of the day I had figured out which cars were Marcello or Rossi’s security guards. They were always in four-door cars, some shade of gray, and parked just far enough away to appear completely disinterested in my apartment building. You would never find them unless you were trying to find them. I even began to time their shift changes, and started offering my middle finger in salutation anytime one of them emerged from a vehicle.
I knew the severe hangover was in other ways dulling the emotional hell screaming inside of me. Tomorrow – physically – I would be much better; and mentally, I would be destroyed.
Knocking again. Followed by Felicity’s voice. “Abs? Abby? You in there? Can I come in?”
It had to be nearly noon the next day, well over 24 hours since I had kicked Marcello out. I was still on the couch, still in the dress, exploring the new levels of emotional pain that had never touched my life before now. At times I felt someone was choking me. Often, I wished someone actually would.
I slowly stood, steadier than the day before, but lifeless – like an extra in a zombie movie – and went to the door. I sucked in my breath, trying to pull my insides together, and opened the door.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Felicity spoke quietly. I could see the alarm and concern on her face, and I wanted to tell her to stop. I was fine. I was just in a different world now where this was the new normal, and I was going to die on my couch, by choice. It was fine.
I started sobbing almost immediately.
Felicity came in, shutting and locking the door, ushering me back to my new home, the couch, and pulling me into a silent hug. She held me and I cried for what seemed like forever. When I had reached the level of hiccups and complete surrender, she held me back slightly. “We’re going to get you in the shower. Then we’ll talk.”
I stood stone-still while Felicity ran the water, grabbed a towel, and gently removed my clothing. She helped me into the inviting warm stream like I was an elderly woman, handing me shampoo, bodywash, and conditioner in turn. I was a robot, a ventriloquist's dummy, an incredibly jacked-up barbie doll – anything but a human. The water felt foreign hitting my cheeks, as though it were an entirely new sensation. I was crying again, and I wanted to apologize – to explain that I didn’t know how to make it stop. I didn’t say anything, however. I went through the motions, let Felicity dry me off and dress me, and ended up back on the couch with a fresh blanket and wet hair.
Felicity had busied herself with clearing the coffee table, loading the dishwasher, rinsing out the kitchen sink, and then taking out the trash. When she returned, she came and calmly sat on the couch, facing me.
“Marcello called me. He said I should check on you – that you weren’t answeri
ng his calls. And then you didn’t answer my calls. So, I just came,” she explained, carefully looking me over as she spoke.
“Thank you,” I replied hoarsely – the first words I had spoken since she arrived. Marcello called Felicity?
“He gave me a brief rundown of what happened. So, if you don’t feel like talking right now, you don’t have to, Abs,” Felicity consoled, putting a hand on my arm gingerly.
I met her gaze, an instant flood of fresh tears coming from my swollen eyes, and shook my head. “You were right. You were right about everything.” I put my face in my hands. “It’s over. It just has to be over.” I was whimpering now like a wounded animal, and I hated the sound of my own voice.
Felicity put an arm around my shoulders, letting me weep. “If it’s over... I can’t say that I think that’s a bad thing, Abby. That life – Marcello's life – I don’t see how that ever could have worked out well for you. How he ever could have made you happy... And what kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t want you to be happy?” She paused then. “I wasn’t right about everything though.”
I looked up, hearing her voice falter. It was rare to ever hear any tone in Felicity’s words other than confidence. She sounded sad. She sounded sorry. I raised an eyebrow at her, waiting.
“After speaking to Marcello...” Felicity closed her eyes, as though what she was about to say caused her great effort and pain. “After talking to him, I can’t say he’s a complete piece of shit anymore, okay? And believe me, I want to – more now than ever. But I can tell...” She paused again, and looked at me sincerely. “I can tell he actually does love you. He really fucking loves you, Abby.”
I know.
And the sobbing continued.
I had exactly one day after Felicity’s visit to pull myself together before returning to Winston. One. Day. In spite of Fel’s advice to get out of the apartment, I spent yet another day on the couch. This time, at least, I was trying to go over my lesson planner.