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I address him like a child, as he deserves. “There won’t be another visit until you can muster respect. At least you have time to work on it.”
“Time is all I have,” he says with a wry chuckle. “A moment alone with Lina?”
Not on my life. “Goodbye, Dalton.”
Gripping Lina’s arm, I lead her back outside where we can almost breathe again. The stench of rotting garbage clings to the streets. It’s part of life in these parts, as are the dogs scavenging through tossed take-out containers, and the gang of barely adults watching us from the corner. I flip my jacket aside, showing them my gun. They don’t scatter, but they look away. I signal for the two cars with armed guards waiting. You can’t go anywhere in this neighborhood without a convoy. The men climb out, taking wide stances. At that, the group dissipates.
I don’t get into the car just yet. There’s something else I want to visit. My men follow, alert and on the lookout as we walk a block down and take a right under the bridge. The church is sandwiched between a shoe factory and a run-down school. Made of gray stone, it almost blends unnoticed into the concrete and tar environment. The clock tower is black from soot from the coal train tracks that run on the overhead bridge. I take a minute to absorb the picture. Little has changed, and yet so much. The space under the bridge posts is empty. The lively flea market with its colorful stalls of vintage clothes and reject factory shoes are gone. The arched windows of the school are encased in rusted bars, and the noise of the trains is replaced with the far-off bark of a dog. It’s a half-hearted, hopeless bark, lasting no more than three seconds.
I nod at my men to guard the street as I venture across with Lina. The front door is open, which comes as a surprise. Who would’ve thought? Not even churches or clergymen are exempted from crime and violence.
On the step, I turn to my wife. How pink and pretty and blonde and innocent she looks in the midst of all this charcoal black. “Do you want to wait outside?”
She shakes her head.
We climb over the raised step and stop inside. The inside is darker, dirtier. It still smells of candlewax and mothballs. Most of the stained-glass windows are broken, and pigeons are shitting on the windowsills. No candles burn in the alcoves. There are fresh flowers in a vase on the altar. They must still be holding services here. God knows for who.
“Wait here,” I say.
Walking down the aisle, I take a trip down memory lane to the bench where I kneeled and hoped and prayed before life made me a man, a man as hard as his diamonds. That’s what the media calls me. They’re wrong. I’m black like soot, unclean like years layered on concrete. I step into the row and drag my shoe over the worn wood many knees have polished, the spot where I made my vow of revenge the day before the police found me. This was my haven, my escape from family fights that got too loud and the guilt my mother loaded on my shoulders for being another mouth to feed. I don’t believe. Haven’t for a very long time, but the space feels sacred. Many of the defining decisions of my life were taken here. The decision to become rich, to dig for diamonds, to join forces with Dalton, to damn him to hell, to destroy his empire, and to take the daughter who was meant for someone worthy of her.
The very thought of Lina makes my cells hum with awareness. At once, I miss her presence as if we’ve been separated for weeks, not minutes. I no longer feel her at my back. Wariness creeps over my skin in an unpleasant ripple. I turn my head a fraction, sweeping the space with a gaze from over my shoulder. She’s no longer standing in the light spilling from the door. Uneasiness tightens my gut. Urgency compels me to find her, even if I know she can’t escape with my men stationed outside. The worn-out runner carpet cushions my steps as I move under the high arch of the ceiling. I scan every dark alcove until I get to the one right next to the door, and then I stop. Where cooing pigeons with deformed, knobbed feet crowd the windowsill, Lina stands under the broken window, staring at the portrait of Mary holding the baby Jesus in her arms. It’s a portrait I know well, the one where my mother used to light a candle every Sunday.
From where I’m standing, I have a good view of Lina’s face. The expression she wears as she looks at that painting stills me. Time disappears. The moment becomes ethereal. It’s just her and me observing her. Her lips are tilted just so. It’s not even a full curve of her lips, but it’s the sweetest of smiles, and she has a dimple. A fucking, beautiful dimple. It hits me like a fist in the balls. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile. Hands folded, face turned up and serene, she looks like a Madonna. Unguarded, her face is even lovelier than usual. The light in her eyes is soft. Her expression is hard to nail. It’s that something indefinable between sorrow and joy, that something that gives you the Sunday blues, that makes you miss someone you don’t know. It’s slight, that perfect smile, and yet so profound. It’s a breeze that lifts the ends of my hair like a phantom caress in my neck, but it’s a hurricane in my heart. It’s the moment a realization hits me like a divine insight. Something happened to Lina, something bad.
