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“Go where?” I ask, even though I am still burning with rage and anger and confusion and a need to know what the fuck is going on.
“I can’t talk to you here. I'm not comfortable.”
“It’s your home.”
“Lilah.” I continue to stare. “You want to talk; you want answers? Come with me.” I cross my arms on my chest, the feeling of wanting to know wrestling with the need to stay angry. “Please, Lilah. Come.” His voice is lower, his words softer, and he has a genuine plea in his eyes.
And I decide to trust him.
Thirty-Eight
A passage from Libby Turner's journals, written 7 months before Lola was born.
I called Arturo yesterday and told him I was to marry Shane. I’m pregnant with his child, my plan to escape my father’s wishes complete.
His fury broke my heart.
He’s done with me.
I don’t blame him, but I wish he knew I did it for him. If I married Tony Carluccio, I would always be the sharp edge between the future heirs. It would put Arturo in danger forever.
I’ve done nothing but cry ever since.
I’m sure Shane will be a great, attentive father, and we’ll have a beautiful life together. I’m sure I’ll learn to love him, that I won’t feel this unending pain over time, but I’m destroyed right now.
The thing that hurts the most, though, is the guilt.
In some sick way, I feel relieved, knowing I won't be tied to the Russos or the Carluccios. That potential avenue is forever shut down.
The truth is, I don’t think I could have handled living that life if I somehow could be with Arturo. This is the first time I’m admitting that to myself. I think the constant worrying if something would happen to him, if he'd get caught up in the greed and the filth, would destroy me. Knowing my child would be inheriting whatever mess he left behind, would be expected to head the family if he’s a boy, that would kill a part of me.
I want more for my children. More than dirty politics and secret deals. More than cash-lined handshakes and the constant worry if their daddy will be at the dinner table or in prison or the morgue.
And more, I can’t stand the idea of furthering my own father’s corruption by tying myself to the Carluccios. Tony is absolutely barbaric. I’ve heard the stories—everyone has. Marrying him would be a death sentence at best.
And though I know I’ve made the best choice for myself and for my family, I still can’t help but feel like I’ve lost a part of me I’ll never get back.
Every night since, I've gone to bed crying, wondering what I have done.
Thirty-Nine
-Lilah-
I don’t speak for some time, sitting with my arms crossed for the first hour of our drive, waiting for Dante to start talking. We loop and turn and repeat the same circle along streets both familiar and foreign to me more than once before we slip onto 87, heading out of state.
Watching for a tail.
Or losing one, more likely. Now, why would Dante have a tail? I think to myself.
But then again . . . why wouldn’t he?
One of four phones in the center console rings, and Dante looks, flipping the old phone open and pressing it to his ear.
“Yeah?” he asks the caller, eyes to the road. The highway lights are starting to flick on, dusk setting in. “No, I won’t be in until Tuesday. Yes, the dinner is Monday. Yes. Yes, Lilah will be with me.” A longer pause. “She’s sick. Tell him that she’s scared to come to work, and she’s taking a few days off.” “Him” must be Paulie. I wonder which of his henchman Dante is giving directions to. “No, that’s all. Watch the girls. Have Bianca take over, yeah?” And then he snaps the phone shut.
“Marco,” he says, and I run my tongue over my teeth, fighting the urge to speak. “He said he’s sorry.”
I battle with that, with Marco feeling guilty. It’s his job. I should understand more. But also, he gained my trust and friendship. Now, I'm forced to question it.
