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He brings my hands up to his lips and kisses the back of them lightly before letting go.
“I owe my mother everything,” he adds, finally.
“She sounds like a wonderful mother,” I ask.
“She is. When I turned seventeen, that was the only time I saw my mother stand up to my father. He will go to college, she said. He will, or else. She sold her diamonds and sent me to a university in Europe. She told me to get
away from my father; go see the real Italy. I took even more Italian cooking classes there on the weekends, a reminder of my mama when I missed her.”
I already knew how Felix’s father died. It was all over the news and spoken off with glee in my household. Yet, I couldn’t ask, or it would seem suspicious.
“Where’s your father now?” I ask, feeling despondent as I do because all I can think of while I ask is what a liar I am turning into.
“He was shot. By a man whose son he killed. He was brutal, but I learned the greatest lesson from him.”
“What lesson is that?” I ask.
“What not to turn into,” says Felix. “Today, everything I am is an embodiment of my mother.”
“You’re lucky to have her,” I say.
“You should meet her,” says Felix, sounding happy for the first time since this conversation started.
“Oh, you really should meet her, Emily!”
I smile at him, glad to see him feeling a little better.
“I would love to meet her someday,” I say.
“But for now, let’s focus on us.”
That is all I can come up with because right now, there’s just one thing running through my mind - I need to tell him the truth.
This is moving forward too fast, too soon, and I know the thoughts lingering in both our minds. Words of love.
But how can I allow a man to love me when he doesn’t even know me?
Felix’s eyes darken as he looks at me, his gaze intense.
“Us,” he repeats, “I like the sound of that.”
I take a deep breath, trying to control my racing heart. Then, without thought, I blurt out what I’m petrified of saying.
“Listen, Felix, there’s something I need to tell you,” I say, my voice quivering slightly.
He looks at me, concern etched on his face. “What is it? You can tell me anything, Emily.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. No. Not right now. It’s too soon to lose him. I can’t lose him right now. Not today.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” I lie again.
The minute I do, guilt seeps through me. I think I will die if I tell him, but not telling him is like a slow death by a million cuts.
That is how I decide at this very moment that I need to tell him the truth. How long can I hide that I am a Battaglia?
Eventually, this will come to an end.
What we have can go two ways - either we take it forward, with the whole nine yards, which we can’t without him knowing who I am, or we end it, for which to get closure, he should know who I am.
