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“Away. I need time to think,” I say, slamming the door behind me.
As I pass his secretary, she eyes me the way she always does when I arrive. Damn the fact that my top is a pretty, white collared shirt, my tits are covered up today, and I bothered to wear a bra, or that my dark jeans fit every curve of my body accentuating my feminine form.
The fact that I wear combat boots instead of high heels and have on a tattered jean jacket with patches on it instead of a cashmere coat is beneath her. I can tell by how she looks me up and down and how her lips turn down into a sneer.
Just as I don’t bother saying much to her whenever I arrive, I don’t bother saying anything when I depart. I have even less to say today now that Kenneth has pissed me off.
Storming from his office, I head out into the chilly weather, hop into my car, and drive a few blocks away. I had no idea this was where I was headed when I started driving here, but somehow my heart led me to this place.
I stare at the outdoor park. It’s odd in its placement surrounded by several businesses. The DeLuca family chose to make this a memorial park rather than rebuilding their restaurant after it was blown up three years ago.
People lost their lives in that explosion, and although I was no longer working there, I knew Alessandro. Most people who know he has ties to a crime syndicate assume he’s a thug. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Yes, Alessandro DeLuca is a dangerous man, one that no one would want to cross, but he’s also a committed and loyal man who cares about others. So, I know that he cared about the victims of the explosion.
I pull around the block and park my car before getting out. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I walk down a few spaces before paying the meter.
Once that business is finished, I return to the park and sit on one of the wooden benches.
My fingers trace over the engravement there. Each bench placed in this park has an engraved plaque with four or five victims’ names.
This one reads:
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KANE MAXWELL, HEADchef
Lori Jones, sous chef
Carlo Valentino, patron
Zahra Valentino, patron
Zoe Valentino, patron
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IKNEW KANE. HE’D BEENworking there when I was, and he was a kind, loving family man. Lori wasn’t working there by the time I quit so I don’t know her. The other three I never met, but I knew the family owned a vineyard. Their faces and stories were plastered on the news for weeks more than most victims.
I turn my back to the plaque and rest against the bench. I close my eyes and allow the early spring sunshine to warm my face against the still, late winter temps.
I listen to the faint sounds of traffic that are mostly silenced as the buildings around the park create somewhat of a barrier. I inhale and shake my head at the scent of car fumes, stale piss from a homeless person nearby, and the sweet pastries from the doughnut shop across the street intermingling with the outdoorsy fragrance.
Not for the first time, it occurs to me that perhaps Kenneth Paxton was never meant to be my husband. Maybe I made a mistake all those years ago.
Shaking my head, I force those thoughts from my mind. No, I didn’t make a mistake. I did the right thing. Marco had already told me that he would never be mine. I could never have him completely because he could not leave his wife.
My face stiffens as I feel a warm trickle of tears flowing down my cheeks, breaking through the dry surface of my skin. God, how I loved that man.
I had no right loving a man like Marco; a married man with known ties to a crime syndicate stemming from a family who was the head of organized crime. But how could I not love a man like Marco? One who loved with his entire being.
His loyalty to his family and to the mafia knows no bounds. It allowed him to deny what his heart wanted most, me. Why? Because he’d already pledged his fidelity toLa Famiglia.
Besides, it wasn’t just me who walked away.
Marco walked away too.
