Page 44 of No Greater Oblivion

It’s always there, simmering under the surface of my skin, tempting the thin restraints of my self-control within an inch of snapping. A time bomb ticks inside of me and seconds count down on a clock I cannot see. Eventually, the timer will stop and when it does, I’ll lose control. The temper my grandfather has always warned will be my undoing might finally succeed in extinguishing the last remnants of my humanity I’ve always fought so hard to preserve.

I can’t run the risk of her being on a campus full of hundreds of students, staff, and faculty I don’t know. I can’t run the risk of Sandro finding a way to hurt her again.

The answer is right there on the tip of my tongue, like a confession between me and my maker, but something stops me.

Dahlia’s lips purse and she spins away, snatching her purse and stomping out of the room as best she can in her boot. I think I hear a soft cry but it’s muffled by the sound of the door slamming shut.

11

IN PURSUIT OF THE HEART

Dahlia

The Present

New York City

Ipull my arm back and clutch the key against my middle, unable to look him in the eye. A beat passes before I notice his hand closing and slowly moving away.

We stand there, unmoving, unspeaking, lost in whatever memory has just sent a bolt of lightning down our spines.

I know I should say something but I can’t. My tongue goes lame and language evades me. Without a word, he turns and leaves the kitchen. I hold my breath for the full sixty seconds it takes him to walk through my home and out the front door. When I hear it close behind him, I exhale and slump against the island, my own weight suddenly too much for me to carry.

I reach for my phone to call someone, but who? There isn’t anyone.

The only person in the world who I want to talk to right now has just walked out the door and I don’t think I can get him back; I don’t even know who he is anymore. Whoever inhabits that body now isn’t my Alejandro.

Mine died in the fire.

Damiano Vellucci.

Twenty-eight-years-old, third generation Italian-American, born and raised in New York before he was sent to Sicily for eight years when he was seven years old. He returned fluent in three languages, with a slight accent he can’t quite shake, and a deep understanding of what it means to have “a family business.”

Aside from Lyss, whom I’ve known my whole life, he’s my closest friend in the entire world.

The driver leaves us on the corner of Park and 34th right outside a hideous brick monstrosity the city has the nerve to call an office building.

Damiano gets out first and walks around to open my door. As soon as I step out, he says, “I don’t think this is a⁠—”

“Shut up, Damiano.”

He presses his lips together and accepts defeat. “All right then…”

He trails after me and drops the heavy, white fur coat on my shoulders. I put a cigarette between my lips but the wind makes it impossible to light the end. By the time it catches fire, we’re already inside the lobby of Rian’s office building which has a strict no-smoking policy.

The security guard Wally and I have serious beef. He rises from his seat and opens his mouth but before the words can leave his lips, I snap at him.

“Fuck off, Wally.”

I walk right through the glass security gates whose sensors trigger the doors to swing open. However, I don’t have a badge for the building or a visitor’s pass so the alarms start ringing like a bank safe has been cracked open. The elevator doors open and Damiano and I step inside. Made of reflective glass, I watch as six different versions of us blink back at me, my face obscured by cigarette smoke and Damiano with his light blond curls windswept and tousled. We look as poorly matched as water and oil and yet I couldn’t imagine my life without him.

We met around the same time Lyss and I met Rian at The Empress last year and took to each other immediately. There was a brief moment in time where the chemistry might’ve been sexual but all it took was one drunken kiss last May for us to realize anything more than a sibling-like relationship between us would not only be blasphemous but deeply incestuous.

Whereas Li and Rian are childhood best friends, his acquaintance with Rian started when they played on the same football team in high school and again in college. Damiano owns the building The Empress calls home along with a few other smaller properties downtown but his portfolio is mostly filled with warehouses and factories.

An incessant jingle announces our arrival to the fortieth floor, and I step out into the foyer, Damiano close behind.

Despite my abhorrence for all things modern and lifeless, even I can admit how beautiful the foyer is. It’s exactly what modernist design should be; sleek, clean lines and bright colors accentuated by natural lighting. None of the cold, brutal austerity that often exists in 21st century design lives here. The floors are a soft honey color and the front desk is an elegantly designed wood and marble peninsula, the dream of any receptionist who craves both privacy and style. Behind the front desk, the walls are painted in alternating shades of sand and pearl white. All of it is tied together by an abstract chandelier and a fully furnished sitting area off to the right.