The Mafia's Mercy

⊰ 9 ⊱ Tempting Fate: Part 1

So the FBI won't be monitoring my every move now that they actually have a reason to? What wonderful news.

"And whenever you're ready to shop, just hand your grocery list over to Marcel and I'll take care of it for ya!" He says enthusiastically as I avert my eyes to meet his dark brown ones. "Any questions? Comments? Concerns?"

Are you on crack?

I offer him a half-hearted smile and slightly shake my head at him, wondering just how much he's getting paid because there's no way someone doing something like this is that happy.

"Don Marcello!" Fabio abruptly exclaims in his thick Italian accent, my eyes snapping up to find Marcel emerging into the room in his usual dark colored suit with a hand tightly tucked into his pocket. "Come sta, signore?"

("How are you, sir?")

With a small smile, Marcel greets Fabio, offering him an amiable hug as he says, his accent almost as thick as Fabio's, "Bene."

("Well.")

So...he doesn't just speak English and Spanish?

...

Italian suits him too.

Watching him interact in a non-menacing way for the first time since we reconnected is almost pleasantly surprising. I was convinced that after he took over his father's business here, in the US, there'd be nothing left of the idea that I had of who he was that night, 6 years ago.

He had assured me that he just wanted to have a conversation with me after subtly pointing out that I looked awfully comfortable in an oversized sweater, sweats that were way too big for me, fuzzy polka dot socks, and a messy bun. Homeless was the word he jokingly used until he realized that I wasn't so much in the mood for jokes.

My arms were crossed beneath my breasts as I hugged myself in a desperate attempt to find comfort in a situation that I wasn't prepared to be in. I didn't think I was ever going to face him again, given that my brother made it perfectly clear that he wanted me to stay away from Marcello Saldívar.

It's funny, really.

I was so sure that Marcel had just used me and wanted nothing to do with me until he insisted on sitting on the couch with me where he leaned back comfortably with an arm extended over the armrest and his legs parted at shoulder width. Beside him, I sat upright, holding my hands on my lap as I senselessly twiddled with my fingers beneath the sleeves concealing them. Despite my gaze being fixed on them, out of the corner of my eye, I watched the stoic look on his face, hoping that I could guess what he wanted to talk to me about.

"I take it your brother told you to stay away from me?" He asked as though he didn't already know the answer to his question.

I drew my lip between my teeth, biting gently as I nodded silently.

In my head, I knew that I should've picked up the phone and called my brother to get him to leave, but in my heart, I knew that Marcel hadn't actually done anything to hurt me and I wanted him to stay. What I was feeling was a result of my own guilt. Altogether, if I really did need to stay as far away from him as my brother told me to, I wanted closure.

With a tenderness lingering in his voice, he suddenly said, "You seem unhappy."

Somehow, despite knowing what the emptiness inside of me was, hearing him diagnose me on the spot made a knot form at the edge of my throat. I tried to swallow it, shaking my head ever-so-slightly as I lied, "I'm not unhappy."

My voice had quavered, and as much as I tried to pretend and brush it off as if it wasn't killing me inside, I couldn't stop the tears that formed at the brim of my eyes and fell with a mind of their own.