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I might leave it there.
Put a frame around it and a little tag, like it’s some kind art installation.
Name itLilah Drives Me Fucking Insane.
But I know as much as I want to search every fucking Russo Contracting building, go to every lot to find Marco’s car, walk in guns blazing, she needs this.
She needs this chance to be Delilah Russo, this chance to prove not just to the assholes who told her she was too soft that she’s anything but, but to prove to herself that she is a queen.
And I know a part of her needs to know she can trust me to keep it together while she does her half of our plan, while she works to help us win in the end.
So instead of calling again, instead of sending her a text demanding her location or demanding she come right to me, I sit in my desk chair and stew.
And I take deep, calming breaths for the next two hours, knowing that even though Marco might not be who I thought he was, he still loves my wife. He still would put his own life on the line to keep her safe.
EIGHT
-Lilah-
Marco takes me back through an unmarked door, past the display rooms, before stopping in front of yet another door. He knocks three times, then one, then two before there’s a noise on the other side and he turns the handle.
In another life, I’d probably bite my lip, chew the skin on the inside of my cheek. I’d let the anxiety show on my face, let the fast pace of my heart make my hands shake.
But now I’m Delilah Carluccio-Russo.
I’m a queen.
I’m here to take out anyone who doesn’t see things my way.
I’m here to take my rightful place.
So instead, I roll my shoulders back, tip my chin up, and follow Marco into the room.
Inside is a long, old table, initials and letters and designs carved into it, like men have sat around it for centuries, marking it up, only half paying attention to whoever was speaking. Like memories were made and tattooed into the wood.
And when I look down it, past the empty seats, I see him at the very end.
I don’t have to ask who he is.
I’ve never seen a photo of his face but I still know he’s my blood.
He has my eyes.
He has the set of my jaw.
His eyebrows are a near exact match of mine, despite the gray flecks in them.
But mostly, he looks identical to the man holding me in that picture, the picture I found what feels like a lifetime ago. A young man holding a tiny baby, his face filled with pure, unadulterated joy.
And here is his clone—older, more worn, tired and gray, his face lined, but still nearly identical.
“Alfredo,” I say, tipping my chin to him as Marco pulls out a chair for me a few seats away. I sit, tucking myself in and turning in his direction, my chin still high even though my stomach is in knots.
He stays silent.
I don’t let it phase me.
Or at least, I try not to.
