Page 53 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
“In such an important case, where information is swift-moving, and I don’t have the time to communicate with Mr. Salvatore as regularly as he requires, we’ve come up with a solution.”
No.
I knew what she would say, heard it as if spoken by the devil in a voice of smoke and brimstone as she said the words I echoed in my mind.
“We need you as point person on this, Ms. Lombardi. We need you to move into Mr. Salvatore’s apartment.”
I’d always had a bad temper.
Irish and Italian blood didn’t exactly lend itself to serenity, and at my heart, I was deeply emotional, too sensitive for my own good. So, I often lashed out violently at anyone who wounded me, the instinct to inflict hurt on those who injured me almost animalistic.
I’d hurt Daniel, ridiculing him about his sexual deviancies because I was so ashamed I couldn’t get past my own sexual issues to even attempt to understand his kinky inclinations.
I’d hurt Giselle when I found out she was pregnant, wanting to eviscerate her with my words if I couldn’t with my hands. Wanting to destroy her as surely as she’d destroyed my dreams.
I’d hurt Christopher when he’d tried to assault Giselle at her gallery opening, not only for hurting me so long ago so irrevocably but also for hurting my sister. In a perverse way, only I was allowed to do that, and only then because I felt I’d earned the right.
I tried to hurt Yara after she struck me with those career-killing blows.
I’d honed the edge of my blade-like tongue, slashing at her with comments about corruption and betrayal, blackmail, and abuse of power.
Because it was all true.
She didn’t have to tell me, though she did at some point in my tirade, that I would be fired, and if she had any say in the matter, blacklisted in New York if I refused her demand. She didn’t have to imply that anyone who refused the Camorra was often found soon after beaten within an inch of their life or dead in some gutter.
I fought with her until my voice was hoarse, my throat cut up by the barbs I tried to throw at her, and then worn weak by the pleas I’d followed up with when nothing else seemed to work.
Yara was unmoved.
She stared at me with that frozen expression I’d once admired so much, watching as the flame of anger and injustice erupted within me and melted me from the inside out.
I felt so young, so weak and naïve to have ever believed she might be my mentor, might take me under her wing and nourish me with love and guidance. Hadn’t I learned better yet? Why did I allow myself to hope for kindness when I saw a hand extended my way when I knew I’d more than likely receive a slap to the face instead of a handshake?
I was at the point in my life where I didn’t even dream of happiness. I just yearned for a life without further pain.
But it seemed God or fate or whatever forces of nature had cursed me since birth had decided to fuck with me again by threatening the only thing I’d ever derived confidence from, the only dream I had left.
If anyone found out I was living with the capo of the New York City Camorra, I’d lose my licence to practice law.
The degree I’d spent four years studying for in Italy and another year computing into American law at NYU, then the last four years of my life practicing with a rabid kind of ferocity.
It could all disappear in a puff of smoke.
I was fucked if I agreed, fucked if I didn’t.
When I left Yara at the café, too furious to say goodbye, it was nearly impossible not to drown in the ocean of self-pity and sorrow rising tidal strong from my gut up into my throat, choking my airways, leaking from my ducts.
I hadn’t cried in over a year, not since I found out Giselle was pregnant with the baby I’d yearned so hard to have with Daniel.
But I cried then, and I discovered just how many types of tears there were.
Angry tears, so salty they burned my hot cheeks.
Wallowing tears, the kind that seeped into my mouth and made me nauseous as if I’d swallowed too much sea water.
Lonely tears as I realized how few people I had in my corner, how few loved ones I could call my own. As I realized much of that solitariness was my fault because I’d pushed so many people away out of fear of being hurt. Only, didn’t this situation prove exactly why I’d done that?
I’d admired Yara, respected her and yearned for her validation.
