Page 22 of The Senator: Raphael

We don’t talk much during the drive, mostly because Raphael receives call after call about his campaign. There is always someone asking for his opinion, his decision, his time. It’s tiring just being in the car while he deals with all this. I don’t know how we can talk about anything if he keeps answering the phone.

We arrive at his house after a long climb up Canyon Road and a two-mile stretch along his private driveway behind high walls and a sturdy wooden gate dotted with iron bolts. The sun is high over our heads and the greenery surrounding us is surreal. The road snakes between tall and ancient looking olive trees and ends in front of a roundabout with tall trees surrounding a fountain tiled in blue and gold mosaic, like one of those Mediterranean villas you see on TV.

My mouth hangs open when we step out of the car. The house is covered in pale salmon stucco with terra cotta tiles that wrap around the entire perimeter of the terraced roof. Bougainvillas and vines cover the pergolas climbing a good chunk of the walls, offering shade to the massive reddish wooden door carved with an intricate design of a tree.

I’m startled when Raphael puts a hand on my lower back and invites me toward said door. A small smile graces his lips, maybe because he sees the effect this house has on me. It’s like visiting another country entirely. I forgot my anger, annoyance, and everything that happened in the last few days. For a second I taste the sweet experience of being far away from my problems, like I’ve stepped off a plane and walked straight into a small town in Spain.

Unfortunately, when we reach his office, with its massive bookshelves covering two walls and window facing a vineyard, there’s nothing to distract me from the conversation I’m about to have. Raphael turns off his phone and gives me all his attention.

He waves a hand toward an orange velvet sofa. “Please, sit down.”

“No. This will be a fast conversation and you will bring me back to my place as soon I tell you no for the umpteenth time.” I cross my arms over my chest and I notice how he leans against the carved wooden desk, gripping it with his hands and slumping his shoulders, almost defeated.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then reopens them and looks straight at me. There is concern in his face, but he is not angry. I wonder how important it is for him that I agree to his proposal. It’s not like there aren’t other women willing to jump into his life and his bed. He’s handsome, successful, and seems smart too. Why me?

“Is it because you don’t want to share your private life with the public? You’re not on any social networks or anything available online. Why?” he asks.

He has done his homework.

“None of your business, but yes, I don’t like to share anything about myself with strangers.”

He seems to think about that. “We can agree to share only campaign and public appearance related information. You don’t have to share anything personal. You don’t even have to handle the social accounts; your publicist would do it for you,” he explains and I sigh.

“I don’t want my face online,” I hiss between my teeth.

“Why? Is it a matter of money? We can pay you a lot for the inconvenience of having people recognize you.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to people to recognize me.” I scoff.

“Why? Is it better to work half naked with people harassing you for a blowjob?” He’s trying to fight back and I can see the disbelief in his eyes.

“Yes! It’s way better than having my face all over internet. There’s not enough money in the world to convince me to marry you!” I raise my voice and now I understand why he wanted to talk with me here. Nobody can hear me getting angry and shouting his indecent proposal through the paper-thin walls of my apartment.

“Why?” he repeats, raising his voice too. “Give me just one reason and I’ll leave you alone!”

“Because I’m in the witness protection program. That’s why!” I shout.

The silence that follows is absolute. My heart hammers in my chest after the confession I’ve told nobody about. For eight years, this secret has gnawed at my heart and made my life lonely and miserable. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel the weight leaving my chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers without moving, his eyes never leaving my face.

“Yes, fuck. Now do you understand why I can’t show my face to the public?” I ask angrily.

He shakes his head, like he just realized what this information means and what the consequences are. “Can you tell me what happened? If you’re comfortable. Nothing you say will leave this office.” His voice softens and I feel my legs tremble from the rush of the confession leaving my body.

I sit down on the couch and Raphael takes a spot next to me.

“Have you ever heard of The Hangman of New Jersey?” I ask, looking him straight in his green irises.

He frowns. “The head of the criminal organization?”

I nod. “I was the one who filmed him as he shot the fifteen-year-old in cold blood. I testified at the trial and was responsible for putting him in jail for the rest of his life. Afterwards, the government helped me to change my identity. Gave me a whole new life.”

He rubs a hand over his face, probably trying to process how messed up my life is. “Do you have a family? Did they make them disappear too?” There’s a slight pain in his voice I can’t place. It’s not like it’s his family that’s in danger.

“Yes, my parents and little sister are in the program too. I asked to be separated from them to keep them from danger in case I get caught. I know nothing about their identities or where they live. It’s been eight years since I last saw them.” My voice breaks from the emotions clogging my throat.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is quiet and somehow, I know he means it.

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