Page 116 of For his Surrender

I can’t believe the son of a bitch has the nerve to show up on my doorstep, yet here we are.The handle turns and the door opens.Bruna enters first and waves her arm so that the man right behind her does the same.

Mauro Machado Rodrigues is a man in his sixties, and those who do not know this will never be able to deduce. His light skin is tanned, gray hair and beard seem like an aesthetic choice, not a reflection of time, and the athletic body is well taken care of, making it clear that he invests at least a couple of hours in the gym daily.

But it’s his eyes that catch my attention right away.Brown and dark just like Antonella’s.However, while my wife’s are scandalous and always seem eager to scream secrets, those of the man in front of me possess nothing but the deepest emptiness.

“Mr. Valente!” he exclaims immediately, after Bruna closes the door, and walks towards me with his hand outstretched.The smile on his face wraps my stomach. “Or should I say, my son-in-law?”

I do not reach out my hand to respond to his greeting.I stand still, seriously, and it takes him a few minutes to realize that I’m not even remotely interested in his friendly theater.

“I see my daughter has already painted some picture of me for you.” The smile that watches my lips is pure derision. “Can I sit down?” he asks, and I just nod in agreement. “I don’t know what my daughter told you.”

“The truth! Antonella told me the truth about you and your wife” I interrupt his speech before he dares to say anything that makes me lose the fucking control that I’m struggling to keep.It takes everything for me to sustain the facade of indifference when just looking at him seems to have made my blood circulate faster. “So, if you could be so kind as to cut the shit and get to the point, I’d be extremely grateful, because my time is valuable. I authorized you in out of pure courtesy, but don’t get your hopes up, Mauro.” I want to call him by his name, not by his title. “This is the first and last time. I suggest you take the opportunity.” Antonella’s father laughs as if I told a dull joke, but he wanted to please me.

“Well, Marcos! Let’s start. I know we don’t know each other, but I’ve heard some things about you.Well-born, brilliant lawyer, will be the youngest managing partner in the family firm, and is a man known for eccentric tastes and some controversial behavior...” He lets the words hang in the air as if he hopes they’ll have some effect on me.At first, I don’t understand what he means, but just seeing the suggestive smile on his face makes me to put the pieces together. It’s my turn to laugh without any humor.

“All right, this conversation is over.” I move, walking toward the door. My heart punches my chest and my hands have already bid farewell to the shelter found in my pockets.They are more than ready for the action I insist on denying them.

“Come on, my boy! No judgments here!” Raises his hands in surrender. “With a secretary like that out there, I wouldn’t be able to resist either, and I imagine the others weren’t much different.”

“I’ll interrupt you right there.” I raise my hand on a demand that he stop talking. “First of all, I’m not your boy.” The disgust in my tone is so evident, that even Isabella would be able to perceive it. With my hand on the doorknob, I turn to the son of a bitch.I don’t need a mirror to know that there are bulging veins in my temple and neck. “And I don’t know what you heard about me, I don’t know why you thought it was enough to jump to conclusions about me or what kind of man you think I am, but I think you saying what you just said to your daughter’s husband makes it very clear what kind of man you are.” I bring my thumb to my bottom lip and slide it there.I shake my head, denying, and take a deep breath, searching for necessary control, but I can’t find it. “What the fuck is wrong with you? How the fuck?” I can’t even verbalize the extent of the absurdity of this conversation. “Goddamn it!”

“I just want to talk to my daughter!” All his false cordiality has been set aside and I laugh. Unbelievable.

“Talk?And what exactly do you want to talk to my wife about?”

“It’s between me and her.”

“I’m not sorry for a second that you’re wrong. That would be in my best interest even if you weren’t in my company, in my fucking office, sitting on my fucking couch! So, I’m going to ask you again, what do you want to talk to my wife about?”

“Boy, I suggest you watch your tone.I’m being amicable and I will not tolerate this level of disrespect.” Realizing that I have no intention of bending to his nonsense, Antonella’s father takes on a laughable threat tone. Being the only possible reaction, I laugh widely.

“Really, Mauro? What are you going to do about this? Are you going to tell me I’m under arrest for disrespecting you at an unscheduled meeting in my own office?” I tilt my neck to the side and raise an eyebrow.When silence is the only answer I get, I nod in agreement. “I really didn’t think so. Fuck you, Mauro! We both know this threat couldn’t be emptier if we turned it upside down!” He stands up, already buttoning his jacket, and the stiffened expression on his face is just not more intense than mine.

“This was a mistake!”

“It definitely was! And let’s make one thing very clear here!If I know you’ve been five hundred yards from my wife, I’m not going to file a restraining order against you, I’m going to get one! And if you’ve really been asking questions about me out there, you may have found that underestimating me or my contacts is a bad idea.I don’t give a shit who you are or what position you hold, stay away from my family!” I warn him and never before have I said words as true as the threat that leaves my lips soon after. “Or I swear to God that the next time we meet, the situation will be very different from this one! The past is dead and buried, Mauro! I suggest we keep it like that!”

A sound of derision leaves his mouth before he answers me.

“Let’s see if you’ll keep defending her like this when she starts embarrassing you…” And with that pitiful statement, he turns around and leaves my office.

“What did you say?” I blink, not believing I really heard right what Marcos just told me.

“I said I got a visit from your father today,” he speaks quietly and calmly.I get up from my bed and walk back and forth without being able to keep up with the speed of my thoughts.

My first reaction to seeing Marcos come home at four o’clock in the afternoon was to smile.However, it was enough to see his face to let me know that there was something very wrong.My husband had a serious expression that would have worried me even if it hadn’t been accompanied by the infamous wordsWe need to talk.

I had to deal with my anxiety for almost half an hour before we could finally talk.Because even though I was sure that something serious had happened, Marcos went through the daily ritual of welcome.

That means Isabella chattering endlessly about everything that had happened in her day so far, about the ballet performance she’ll be doing next week, and about anything and everything she deems important.Marcos, not for a second, showed impatience or acted differently than he always does.

Despite the anxiety threatening to consume me, it was impossible for me not to also do what became my daily ritual.Watching them aware of the stupid smile on my face, except that today I spent all my time torn between drooling at the scene or worrying about what was to come.

It was Carmen who came to our rescue when she told Isabella she needed to get ready for ballet class.As soon as my daughter left the scene, Marcos suggested that we talk in his room or mine, and here we are.

I am able to retell a million times each of the steps that have brought us here, but I am not one to repeat the words that have just been spoken to me, blowing my head off in a sudden, shattering migraine.So again, I ask him to repeat them.

“Sorry, I really don’t think I understand.” I stop walking, fold one arm in front of my body and the other I use to bring my hand to my chin.Marcos gets up from my bed, wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my lips.

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