Page 2 of Temptation

The meat on Diego’s fork glistens under the dim overhead light—like blood under the moon—an image eternally etched into my memory. It follows me, indelible, even after years away from that kind of violence—especially since the last blood shed before my eyes was my wife’s.

“It’s a rare occurrence and will most likely stay that way,” I explain, my voice gravelly, a sense of detachment swinging in my tone.

The only reason for my presence is to do my brother a favor.

Since my father finally ceded control of his empire to Marcello, a swarm of opportunists has emerged, eager to gain favor. They come bearing business proposals and parading their daughters, nieces, and granddaughters, hoping to entwine their families with ours.

They continue wasting his time, but there’s a fine line between allies and enemies that must be balanced carefully.

“I understand. I really do,” he says, wiping his mouth before leaning back against the leather-padded booth. “Raising a child, let alone two, on your own isn’t easy.”

I nod slowly, my gaze fixed on the dance of ice cubes in my freshly poured whiskey as it’s placed on the table in front of me. In the following moments of silence, our mutual understanding hangs in the air like cigar smoke.

Diego, too, had lost his wife far too soon, her passing forcing him to raise their daughter Sophia alone.

Yet, while the outlines of our stories seem similar, they are fundamentally different. A heinous disease had stolen Lucille from Diego. My wife, on the other hand, was murdered—stolen from me and our children in a flash of cold-blooded violence.

And the person responsible is yet to be found.

Diego knows better than to pry further into my personal life and shifts the conversation back to safer territory—business. “Nevertheless, I believe Marcello is doing an excellent job so far.”

I offer another nod; Marcello has taken to leadership with a determination and ruthlessness that should make our father proud—if pride would be a sentiment freely shared by him.

Just then, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket—a text from my driver reminding me of my promise to pick up the twins from preschool—something I do far too seldom. It’s another reminder of the duality of my existence and the war between the two vastly different worlds in which I try to exist.

I down the rest of my drink in one swift motion, the amber liquid deliciously burning its way down my throat.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this short,” I say. “Family obligations.” The words are a polite but firm dismissal.

I push my chair back, its legs scraping against the floor as I stand. Diego simply nods as he watches me drop a few bills onto the table, more than enough to cover the tab before I leave without any further pleasantries or even a backward glance.

The soft click of the restaurant’s door behind me marks the point where the criminal becomes a father, the predator a protector, and I exchange my past for my future.

One

Sienna

“Goodbye, Leni. Have a wonderful weekend,” I say, watching the little girl wave back at me with such enthusiasm it almost makes me chuckle. I can’t help but smile despite the pang of melancholy tugging at my heart as she dashes towards her mother with open arms.

Once they disappear through the school’s heavy gate, I head back to the classroom, where the chaotic atmosphere of a day with twenty preschoolers is finally simmering down.

As I step back into the room, my colleague Miriam is already clutching her purse and her keys, looking more than ready to bolt into the weekend.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me heading out early? It’s our anniversary today, and—” Miriam starts to explain, as though she hasn’t mentioned it at least a dozen times this week. As though it hasn’t practically been heronlytopic of conversation.

“Then why are you still here?” I reply with a wide grin, fully aware how excited she is for a romantic weekend getaway with her usually not-so-romantic husband. It’s their fifth wedding anniversary, and apparently, for the first time since they met, Michael has gone out of his way to make their day extra special.

Miriam’s excitement has been contagious all week already, and I can’t help but feel infected by her cheerfulness. And I certainly don’t mind covering for her until pick-up time is over.

After all, there are only two of our students left in my care when she slips out of the classroom door, the keys in her hand jingling as she leaves. “Thanks, you’re the best!” she calls out, her heels clicking down the hallway, gradually fading and being replaced by the steady ticking of the wall clock.

When I glance up, I see it’s already past three o’clock and the official pick-up time has come and gone.

St. Anne’s Preschool offers extensive pre- and after-school care to accommodate working parents. Miriam and I, being the junior teachers and most recent additions to the staff, bore the brunt of these extra hours. But I actually don’t mind them; the additional pay is a welcome boost to the otherwise modest teacher’s salary—one that barely rivals to what public school teachers usually make, despite the exorbitant tuition fees St. Anne charges.

Unlike Miriam, who usually stays until the last child has been picked up, I prefer to leave on time since I handle the early morning shift, welcoming our students while most of the teaching staff is still enjoying their breakfast at home. I don’t mind the early mornings—there’s something peaceful about seeing the school come alive. Just as I don’t mind staying late today so Miriam can get a jumpstart on her weekend.

Her constant rumblings prepared me well enough to know that it might still be a while before my weekend starts, but it’s not like I have anyone waiting for me at home anyway. The onlything awaiting me is the prospect of another weekend spent with a bottle of wine—or two—and a good book for company.

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