Farewell, My Loves Read online

  And I do.

  I ride him, holding on to him so tight, I was trying to make us become one again, wishing he couldn’t be away from me anymore.

  I grind on him hard, lost in all the loneliness and desperation to be in his arms.

  And I made love to him, giving him what was left of me, hoping we could salvage what little was left of us.

  Since our fight, not much has changed in regards to our shared time, but I was making an effort to practice more patience, and hoping that things would begin to look up soon.

  I convinced myself everyday that maybe they’ll get their ‘trade’ back in order soon and then Gio will be able to focus on the real important things, like us.

  I was thinking maybe that the first order of business would be to take a long vacation, away from everyone and everything. We could definitely afford it, and we absolutely needed it, but until then it was mafia life as usual.

  Only now, I’ve got Enzo keeping me company.

  Whenever he sees me crying at my vanity, he whines, not liking me upset. He’ll paw at me until I pick him up and cuddle him, making me forget why I was crying in the first place. His constant companionship made me feel just a little bit better, and a little less forsaken.

  At least someone in this world needed me.

  The mayor was hosting a black tie gala tonight, to fundraise for the re-election of the NYPD’s Commissioner.

  We were here because according to Giorgio, we’re very close friends with both the host and the honoree. In other words, the Morettis owned them, and it’s all just a bunch of photo-op hypocrisy.

  The crème de la crème were here all dolled up, doling out cash and enjoying the endless barrage of alcohol.

  And since many of the officers on La Cosa Nostra’s payroll were here, my dear husband—philanthropist to our city’s underpaid community servants, enjoyed the festivities amongst New York’s police without a single worry he’d be put away for the alleged claims of extortion, illegal gambling in his club, smuggling, loan sharking... my God, the list just goes on.

  Turning a blind eye to it all makes me just as guilty as the rest of them, I know that.

  I had imagined with time it wouldn’t weigh as much on me anymore, but lately, my conscience has been coming out of the deep recesses I thought I buried it away in.

  Everything I’ve suppressed over the last few years seems to be slowly resurfacing.

  What’s that saying from the Bible again? Idle hands were... something dangerous? Yeah, whatever it was, it had to be that. I had too much time on my hands to think.

  We’ve done our rounds of hellos, photos, small talks and smiles, and I’m over it already. I just want to hit the champagne hard, smoke a few cigarettes and imagine that I’m not here.

  I excuse myself from Giorgio and the two men he’s charming and make my way toward the bar when someone stops me with a hand to my elbow.

  “Gia?”

  I turn to face the spaz in my way of a reprieve, and my miserable world suddenly halts, feeling like a stick has been thrown into the spokes of the wheel that makes it go round.

  Out of anyone I could have ever run into again in this immense city, I would’ve never imagined I would see that sweet face again.

  “Oh, Michael, how are you?” I ask softly, and without thinking, I grab onto his hand, suddenly feeling things, things I had forbade myself from thinking about.

  My heart was beating fast, genuinely surprised and so pleased to see him.

  He’s the only other person in this world aside from my husband who has given me butterflies upon sight. And I haven’t felt them in a long, long time.

  “It’s been what, maybe six, seven years?” I ask while my eyes roam all over his beautiful face.

  The years have done him good.

  He looks so... manly.

  Not that he hadn’t before, but the last time I’d seen him, we were eighteen, and he had that boyish charm still lingering in him.

  Now he’s filled out everywhere as only maturity in a man does, and it looks good. Actually, he looks great.

  He has a scar across his right brow that wasn’t there before. The devil now on my shoulder, was whispering ‘it’s sexy’ right into my ear.

  “Now that I’ve seen you again, love, I’m great,” Michael says, winking one of those trouble making eyes of his, and smiling so genuinely, you can tell he hasn’t done it in a long time.

  I remember he only ever smiled with his mouth closed to hide his crooked teeth. A shame really; it was such a perfect imperfection he hid, his smile what I always liked most about him... aside from his lips.

  “You are just as lovely as ever, honestly,” he shakes his head as if he can’t believe his eyes and speaks with such longing, I couldn’t help the blush that rose.

  That was another feeling I haven’t had in a while either.

  “You too! You look... grown up,” I say instead, fearing what I really think might slip out.

  He arches an eyebrow, chuckling at my lame compliment, and his laugh is contagious, I start giggling with him.

  Wow, it’s been too long since I’ve felt this kind of bashfulness.

  “Your accent is much softer now; I had loved the sternness of it before,” he shares.

  We both stop laughing and a heavy moment passes between us.

  I realize he’s holding my hand in his still, rubbing the knuckles back and forth with his thumb.

  Looking into my eyes, he opens his mouth to say something, something I’m afraid of hearing, but doesn’t get the chance to.

  “Detective.”

  He drops my hand and we both turn around to see Giorgio behind me.

  “Moretti,” Michael spits out and his demeanor has completely gone sour.

  With a saccharine smile, Giorgio goes on, “I see pleasantries have been exchanged with my wife already.”

  I know that smile.

  That smile didn’t bring anyone any good.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Michael asks, annoyed.

  The tension between them was so palpable, I don’t know how the whole ballroom hadn’t ceased festivities to pay them both all the attention.

  “Is my beautiful wife distracting you from doing your wonderful fucking job of attempting to put me behind bars, Detective?” Gio taunts in sarcasm.

  “Gia’s your wife?” Michael asks in complete horror.

  Giorgio hugs me across the top of my breastbone in a possessive display of ownership and in complete enjoyment over Michael’s visible discomfort.

  “That’s right,” he says kissing my temple. “Married what? Eight years now, tesorina?” he asks, moving his face forward so that I could oblige him with a kiss on the lips.

  I feel a little guilty for doing so in front of Michael.

  “Of all the people you could have been married to...” Michael trails off quietly, shaking his head.

  He was looking at me differently.

  I felt awful with every second we were standing with him, doing whatever this was.

  I understand now what my husband meant all that time ago.

  I hated it.

  “Don’t be so upset, Adair. I’m sure if you knew how to accept a supplement when graciously offered, you’d be able to afford taking out some ninny to bore with your honor and all a’that,” Gio says waving him off.

  Holy shit!

  Giorgio’s been bribing him!

  Adair? But I thought his last name was Inys!

  This is who’s been grating on Gio and Domenico’s nerves from the NYPD? The one they’ve been ranting, ‘that fucking detective... that fucker Adair won’t heel.’

  Holy shit!

  I cut in quickly needing to end this pissing contest for far too many reasons, “Well, gentlemen, this was nice. Let’s catch up again sometime—how about never? Be well, Michael, or Detective, I should say.”

  I try to plaster a smile though I think it came off as manic more than anything.

  Giorgio smirks and Michael sco
wls at us.

  I tug on Gio’s arm to move on quickly and thank God, we do.

  We reach our table and once I’m seated I look up to see that Gio is still standing, and my erratic heart falls. He cups my cheek to take the sting out, but I know what’s coming.

  “Bella, I’ve got to go talk to some important people right now. Sit tight, enjoy your dinner. If I take longer than I’d like, by all means, dance, have some fun. I’ll collect you as soon as I’m done. Va bene?” he asks pinching my cheek softly, and then takes off, not waiting to hear my answer.

  I’m angry he’s ditching me.

  I want to leave.

  I need to.

  But it’s not like I can make a scene here.

  No, I wouldn’t dare.

  The mockery of us being here, the business dealings right here under all their noses.

  Michael.

  A detective.

  And my husband’s been bribing him!

  God, this was all a mess.

  After the dessert plates were cleared from a dinner I couldn’t eat and was all too used to having alone, I felt his presence behind me.

  I turn around and he has his hand extended for me to accept his dance request.

  And the way he’s looking at me, it’s not a request but a demand.

  There’s a troubling edginess coming off of him right now, and damn, if it doesn’t lure me like the stupid moth beckoned to the fucking flame even more.

  That’s what Michael was, a dangerous fire waiting to burn me in every way.

  I polish off all of my champagne in one un-lady-like gulp and accept his hand to lead the way to hell.

  The band starts performing a cover of Dean Martin’s Sway.

  It’s playing differently and very seductive.

  Breathy and a bit hypnotic.

  Almost like the singer is being fucked.

  And it sounds so good because it feels so fitting, of course this is the song Michael wants to dance with me to.

  Why in the world did I think it would be a good choice to wear the Sophia Loren-inspired, flashy red dress tonight, that hugged every damn curve and left nothing to the imagination with all the visible cleavage, entirely bare back, and scandalous thigh-high slit in the front?

  Gio thought it was a hot, tempting little piece to show off his wife in.

  And it was.

  But now with the carnal way Michael was looking at me, I wished I had on a nun’s veil and tunic instead.

  I suddenly felt very exposed to him when normally I could wear even less out and not have a care in the world.

  Something about him makes part of me miss the old me.

  The untainted me.

  The me that’s gone.

  Michael guides me to the center of the dance floor with his palm flat on the small of my back, his hand burning on my bare skin.

  Perfectly, Michael takes the lead and guides me with him like we’ve danced this dance a hundred times.

  “Did you think of me over the years?” Michael whispers, diving right into his mischief.

  Reluctantly I answer because honestly I did.

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” he asks, surprised.

  “Yes, really. Why? Is it that hard to believe?”

  “It is. And just what would you think about, love? Anything naughty?” he teases, and I feel the difference in him toward me now that he knows exactly whom I’m married to.

  His sweet switch was flipped off, and now he’s just itching for trouble.

  “Mostly I wondered if you were married to a nice girl already, with children, and a big belly from all that chocolate you used to eat,” I tell him, treading lightly.

  With a sad smile he reaches for my left hand and flattens it over his chest on top of his tux.

  “There was a girl many years ago who was off limits. She was the only one who ever made my heart race like this,” he says, making me palm a heartbeat that was mimicking my own.

  I ignore him and look away, not acknowledging whom he’s talking about.

  “Hmm,” he hums, making me look back to him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, love.”

  “It’s obviously something; you did it to get my attention,” I tell him.

  “Just trying to figure out whether or not you’re happy if I had or hadn’t,” he shares.

  “Had what?” I ask, not catching on.

  “Had or hadn’t settled down with another girl. How does either scenario make you feel, Gia?”

  “Michael...” I chide.

  That’s the difference between the boy and the man now. He hasn’t lost his forwardness; he’s just gotten more aggressive with it.

  “I’ll be good. Promise,” he says wickedly, right before he twirls me away from him, then pulls me back to him and quickly dips me backward, making me dizzy and not just from the dance.

  I really wanted to blame the feeling that I was melting all around him on having too much champagne with an empty stomach. But the truth I couldn’t hide from was that he made me hot, and bothered, and guilty as fuck with his hands all over me.

  I’m about to walk away from him when again he dips me, but very low this time, bending forward with me; on a slow rise back up, he takes advantage—pulling me in real close to him, leaving nothing in between us but our clothes, as he softly sings in his damn Irish brogue one of the verses of the song in my ear.

  “Other dancers may be on the floor,

  Dear, but my eyes will see only you,

  Only you have the magic technique,

  When we sway I go weak. ”

  His warm breath causes me to shiver as the words he serenaded messed with my head.

  He was handling me as if there was no one else is in the room with us.

  As if I wasn’t married, and married to someone he clearly didn’t like.

  “Michael, please, behave. I don’t need any trouble,” I pant with trepidation because I was beginning to regret this dance.

  I was angry earlier, but he was too good at this.

  He didn’t play like a young boy anymore; he was playing like a man.

  Everyone here had to be watching us.

  It felt lewd to me now. I could imagine just what it appeared like to the observers.

  I had to get away from him.

  “Everything’s just gotten truly complicated, love. A little flirting is the least of your worries.”

  Time was a fickle little thing.

  That figment of measure tricked me into thinking I buried away those confusing feelings for good. It took forever to help me forget what it felt like, and though it did suppress some of the turmoil I had been in back then, it didn’t take more than a glance to unleash all that I tried to hide from myself.

  Out of sight, out of mind, had been my mantra.

  But he came with a tsunami of feelings I still couldn’t understand why I had them in the first place; they enveloped me and made me drown in all things Michael again.

  Actually, time was such a bitch.

  Because it felt as if no time had passed at all.

  After Michael’s troublesome warning, I turned away from him, bolting from the dance floor in search of my husband, without so much as a goodbye to the dashing and dangerous detective.

  I faked illness and begged everyone I ran into to tell me where Giorgio was, and after maybe ten minutes of frantically searching for him, he found me on the verge of tears just as he was stepping out of one of the venue’s conference rooms.

  I begged him to go home. That I was too sick to be able to stay, and my very caring husband didn’t hesitate, never imagining I would be causing the fake scene I was causing because I needed to get away from his adversary and not because I wasn’t really ill.

  No, Giorgio’s wife knew better than to try and pull something like that off.

  When we were in the car on the drive home, I couldn’t stop hugging him, searching for comfort I couldn’t seem to achieve no matter how close I was with him.

>   If I could have climbed inside him and hid forever I would’ve.

  I didn’t know what I had been thinking to accept that dance.

  Gio tried to feel for my temperature not imagining the clamminess and sweat I broke out in was actually caused by my guilt and not the sour stomach I feigned.

  At least it made the lie easier to pull off.

  We got home and I went straight to bed, though sleep was hard to come by.

  When I woke the next morning, Giorgio was still in bed with me, awake, and perched on an elbow watching me.

  It was unsettling.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, leaning over, giving me a delicate kiss on my temple.

  “Better. It must have been something I ate. Or too much champagne. Good thing it wasn’t someone trying to poison me, huh?” I tried joking to lighten the mood, but Gio didn’t find it funny at all.

  “Yeah, bella. Good thing... It’s really a good thing, ‘cause I can’t imagine what I’d do to anyone who tried to hurt you. I’d lose any shred of sanity I have left, I would’ve fucking squeezed the life out of each and every person in this goddamn city with my bare hands until there wasn’t a soul left standing,” he shakes his head.

  Looking into my eyes, he moved my hair back from my face with a finger and continued speaking.

  “What a self-inflicted torture trying to imagine my life without you. I can’t stand just the thought it. No one can take you away from me, tesorina. No one, not you, not even when death tries to do us part, because you’re my queen, all through eternity. Your very own Italian Grim Reaper, bella, will be with you in death, too.”

  He was disturbingly serious, reminding me of that dangerous intensity I sensed from him when he went back for me in Salerno.

  But I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this worked up before. Not even when he manhandled me that one time out of the warehouse.

  He was riled up in the most calm yet threatening way.

  It was a menacing ire boiling to the surface.

  “Hey, I’m here, I’m fine. Just a sour stomach. The food was too rich, that’s all. Don’t get crazy. No one is going anywhere, so you don’t have to burn the world down,” I couldn’t help myself from saying.