My first step toward the scene is tentative, hesitant. Fearful.
My second step physically hurts.
My third step brings me close enough to see that the blood hasn’t been scrubbed off. It’s there, a stain on the cement and in my memories. A color forever synonymous with loss.
He died saving my life.
It’s my fault he’s dead.
I did this.
My breath hitches but I refuse to break down again. I need to organize the wake and the funeral because I know for a fact that he had no one. Everyone he loved is gone. And now, so is he.
As I reach the door, the flashbacks from that afternoon assault me.
The hug, the laughter, the yelling, the pain from my skull hitting the cement.
Biting my lower lip to stave off the tears, I look away, concentrating instead on every step until I reach my apartment door.
It’s when I enter my private space, one that already has the bitter taste of invasion of privacy written all over it, that I completely lose my shit.
“Where’s all my stuff?” How am I supposed to take it easy if Marco insists of making me fucking crazy?
“Most of it is in storage. Your personal belongings are in the bathroom.” Yeah, we’re going to have words over this.
“What the fuck, Marco? Who the hell do you think you are?” He doesn’t step inside, instead he stands in the doorway like he owns the fucking block, his hands in his pockets, his features stoic.
“Tsk tsk, Dolcezza.” He’s shaking his head as he flicks an imaginary piece of lint from his perfect suit that he slept in all night before he raises his eyes and pins me with a look that would make the devil cower. “What did I say about that mouth of yours?”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, cunt, fuck.” I sound like a lunatic, my voice shrill, my hands shaking and before I know what’s happening, I’m engulfed in the steel embrace of Marco’s arms.
“The doctors said you needed to rest, which means you can’t do everything yourself.” He lets up just a little when I’ve started to calm down and looks me straight in the eyes. “Given the choice, would you rather take care of your grandpa’s funeral or pack your shit?” I can’t deal with this hot and cold treatment, and I’m pretty sure he’s even giving himself a migraine.
“Please, don’t make this out to be some kind act on your part. You’re controlling and need things to be exactly as you want them.” Fucker doesn’t even pretend to disagree.
“Si. I am controlling. I am domineering. I am all the things.” Pinching my chin, he brings my face up to his. “And the reason I am all of these things is because I protect what’s mine. I’ve told you, this, River. Don’t make me repeat myself.” With a quick kiss on the cheek, he steps away and just like that, he’s back to being cold.
“Get your shit, you have a meeting with the grandpa’s lawyer.”
“What?”
The sigh he gives me reminds me of when my mother would get annoyed with my teenage antics. Like he’s frustrated and exhausted all at once.
“I’ve arranged a meeting with Mr. Bobby’s lawyer since he had important information for you.”
“Why am I only hearing about this now? I appreciate the gesture and all but a little heads up would be appreciated.” Marco’s gaze is assessing, his eyes traveling around my face as though searching for more and nodding when he seemingly finds it.
“Duly noted.” Those two little words feel like a victory.
“I mean, I get it. You’re used to doling out orders and having everyone sprint to do your bidding, but I’m not that person, Marco. I’ve been on my own for too long to just be your doormat.” As per usual, he’s on me in a split second, large hands palming my face.
“If I wanted a doormat, I’d buy one that says ‘fuck off’. And as far as you being alone? Those days are over. You stand beside me, not behind me.” I smile at his words, at the sincerity echoing in every syllable. At the meaning between the lines and the expiration date in the full stop.
It takes me less than twenty minutes to grab what I need since everything non-essential was apparently packed away in storage. I’m so used to being the one who plans and takes care of business that it almost feels like an affront to be the one being cared for like this. But secretly, I’m grateful. Not that I’d ever tell him, his ego is big enough as it is.
With a backpack filled to the brim, I walk out of my room to find Marco in my kitchen, talking quietly on the phone. As if he can feel my presence, he turns to me and for a brief moment, the fire in his eyes has returned, but then he shuts it down like a machine, reverting back to his mother tongue.
“Si. Trovalo e portalo da me… in ginocchio.” I have no idea what he’s saying but the heat in his words seems just as important as the command he gives. I don’t need to understand the language to know he’s given an order to whomever is on the other end of the line. It’s obvious, despite his cool demeanor, when he disconnects the call.