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I can only pray they don’t. Everyone else has when I’ve opened up—all the men I speak to. They’ve heard my story on the news, know that Bentley’s partner Roman convinced the Mayor to commute my sentence, but they still don’t want to associate with someone with my past. Someone who was in Rikers Island for eight long years.
"I was in prison for nearly a decade."
Marcello nods. "Go on."
"I didn’t deserve to be there." Tears sting my eyes. "My judge was corrupt. He took money from a Mafia family to keep me behind bars. Even though I was defending my brother from an attacker."
Santino’s left brow ticks up. "Oh?"
A pent-up breath escapes me. It’s time to be fully honest. No beating around the bush.
Every other time I’ve told this story, I start off by pussyfooting around. Perhaps that’s the problem—I need to get the shocking part out there first. Let the cards fall where they may.
"I committed murder on Christmas Eve many years ago. A carjacker killed my parents—he was running away from my brother Bentley’s Daddy Roman after committing murder. He needed my parents’ car. I tried to defend them—I wound up killing him."
Marcello gnashes his teeth. "Wow."
"The judge should’ve let me off. He knew I was keeping my brother safe, trying not to let this psychotic asshole hurt him. The judge didn’t listen—because he’d accepted money."
Santino narrows his eyes. "That’s terrible."
Lazaro kisses my forehead. "Tell us about your time in prison."
My eyes well with tears. "I liked to bake. I was always in the prison kitchen with a couple of my friends from my cell block and we made delicious truffles and cupcakes for bakeries in New York."
Marcello grins. "That’s amazing."
"The program was seriously the best prison program ever. You got to learn new skills and put yourself to work. You weren’t just cooped up in your cell all the time reading awful early twenty-first century translations of Marcel Proust. You actually got to live in the real world."
Lazaro brow rises. "Proust? That’s impressive."
"Oh, IloveMarcel Proust." My heart pitter patters in my chest. "He helped me find something to do besides mope. In prison, all we have are our memories—we certainly can’t make new ones.In Search of Lost Timeprovided me with the roadmap to think about my past. My years with my brother. Christmas with my grandparents on their tree farm."
"Tell us about that, beautiful boy," Marcello urges.
A tear slips down my cheek. "Bentley was my closest friend growing up. We’d stroll around the Christmas trees and sip hot chocolate together as we laughed and watched the first snowflakes come down every winter. In the joint, I’d think about playing toy soldiers with him in my grandparents’ barn’s loft and having so much fun. I always picked blue soldiers when we played—because they reminded me of his eyes."
Santino hugs me. "That’s so sweet."
"I’d think about snuggling with Bentley in my bed on Christmas Eve as we waited for Santa Claus to fill our stockings. I always made Bentley check his stuffy Señor Antlers to see if it could talk when the clock struck midnight. It was those memories that got me through. They only grew more powerful inside. They compounded and grew as real as diamonds. Bentley was the best little brother I could've ever asked for and it was because of him and him alone that I even made it through my time in the joint.”
Marcello kisses my tears away. "You’re so brave, angel."
"It was so fucking hard being locked up without having anyone come to visit me." I cry even harder.
Marcello nods sympathetically. "I get it."
"I dreamt about playing soldiers with Bentley. I was lucky as hell that I had those memories. Lots of prisoners don't have close bonds with anyone before they go to Rikers—and they get into trouble behind bars. I escaped my own mind by thinking about my brother."
A memory from last year—after I left prison—flashes through my brain.
"These are our soldiers, Jericho," Bentley whispers. "They’re what will help you remember our special times.”
I smile. “I know. They’re the toys I thought about while locked up.”
Bentley’s cheeks are bright red as he tugs the lid off the tub and sets it aside. "Pick whichever ones you want. Red or blue. I won't judge."
"I'll pick blue, Bentley.”
