WANTED: Love of my Life

Epi-Epilogue

"I have to."

"Stay," I pleaded, taking a step closer. "Don't go."

"Why?" His face was as dark as his voice. "Why would I stay when I am only a danger to you? I cannot put you in danger, Angela. I cannot. I... love you."

Shock washed through me. Not shock like from a car accident, or an earthquake, or anything like that. A sweet, wondrous, emotional shock which was no shock at all, for deep down, I had always known it, seen it in the way his eyes gleamed when he looked at me, in the way he held me, in the way he called me 'Mia Angela' – my Angel.

I took another step forward.

"I love you too, Giacomo! Why do you think I want you to stay? I love you too!"

"You wouldn't if you knew who I really am," he said, bitterly. "It's better that I leave."

I swallowed.

"Your secret? That's what you're talking about?"

"Yes."

"Come here, Giacomo."

"What for?"

"Just come here."

Hesitantly, he stepped closer. I stood up on my tiptoes, raised my face to his, and then he was no longer hesitant. We melted against each other as if we had been made for each other. Which, in a way, maybe we had been. My lips touched his in one silent, sincere, loving kiss. Kissing him was always something special for me. But this time, I tried to make it special for him, to show him the love I felt in every single moment.

When we finally broke apart, I held up my hand.

"Here. Take this."

"What is it?"

"Just take it."

He took the crumpled piece of paper out of my hand, smoothed it out, and held it into the moonlight. His face paled, as he studied the printed-out page of search results from my Dad's computer.

"You knew!" he whispered. His eyes, widened with incredulity, snapped to my face. "You knew! And still..."

"I love you," I said with absolute conviction. "And that's not going to change because of who you are. Or rather, who you were."

Something seemed to break in him then, break down and crumble – some wall he had kept up for a long, long time. Before, I had only glimpsed through its cracks. Now it was gone. His face looked serene, and yet sad. Slowly, he stepped over to the boat, and slumped on the edge, letting his face sink into his hands.

"You want to know?" he asked. "About me?"

I nodded. Then, when I realized he couldn't see me with his hands over his face, I said: "Yes."

There was a momentary silence.

"On my twelfth birthday," he finally said, his voice toneless, far-away, "my father said he had a special surprise for me. I thought, maybe it is a cake, or a sailing trip. We had a sailing yacht, you know. Instead, he took me out to a... I suppose you could call it a school, or maybe training facility would be the better word. He gave me a gun and showed me how to use it. He showed me how to shoot at targets. Then told me I'd be going to this school regularly now, where I'd learn to shoot. At targets and at... breathing targets."

Silence hung in the air for a few, heavy moments. It was clear that those breathing targets hadn't been ferrets or rats.

"I had always known that my family had money, of course," he continued, still not taking his face out of his hands. "You can hardly miss that sort of thing when you live in a mansion and drive to lessons with a private tutor in a Ferrari. But I never really thought about where the money came from. Not until the lessons started. Then I guessed quickly enough."