I quit drinking six weeks ago.
I hated every second of it.
Losing booze was just as bad as losing Vanessa.
I poured myself into my work because I had nothing else to do with my time. I used to drink a lot, but now that it was taken away from me, I had nothing else to keep busy. The only reason I got clean in the first place was because I’d lost myself to the darkness. Being sober somewhat pulled me out, punished me for the idiotic crime I’d committed.
I had much better control now.
I was in Milan because I’d just come back from a long job. It was in Ireland, and I had a long hit list. Max was giving me lots of work because it made me feel better. The guys got to take time off work, and I got to keep busy. It worked for all of us.
But I couldn’t work all the time.
The quiet times when I was alone were the worst. I never thought I would turn into a pussy like this, the kind of man that moped around after he lost a woman. I should have been over Vanessa six weeks after we went our separate ways.
But now it’d been three months—and I still felt like shit.
I hadn’t gotten pussy because that never felt right. The few times when the opportunity arose, I changed my mind and went home alone. The only action I got was when my hand was wrapped around my length.
Now I was a pathetic man who jerked off every night.
What the fuck had happened to me?
My original goal was to wipe out the Barsetti line for good. But instead, they destroyed my life—a second time.
I couldn’t believe I’d let this happen.
I was sitting in the living room when the elevator beeped to tell me someone was approaching. It had to be Max because he was now the only other one with the code to the building. I’d been sitting on the couch, shirtless, and watching TV. A glass of water sat on the table in front of me.
Fucking piss.
I missed the dark amber liquid of booze. I missed the burn down my throat. I missed the constant buzz my brain was under. Now that I was constantly sober, my mind was clear, and I couldn’t keep Vanessa out of my thoughts.
I hated being sober.
It wasn’t me.
The only reason I kept my word was because I owed that much to my boys. They were worried about me after that stupid night, and I had to prove to them that the worst had passed. I was in control once more. But I still didn’t drink because my name hadn’t been cleared yet.
The doors opened, and Max walked inside. “I just wired the cash.”
“I saw that.”
“You did a great job. No one suspected a thing.”
“No one ever suspects a thing.”
He glanced at my water glass and then took a look around the apartment. “Are you really going to sell this place?”
As much as I loved this apartment, I couldn’t live here anymore. Vanessa’s ghost still drifted in the hallway during the night. Her presence was still in the sheets, on the couch. Sometimes I would find random souvenirs that she’d left behind, like a hair tie in the bathroom drawer or a thong that got stuck to my clothes in the dryer. I kept waiting for it to get easier, but it never did. I needed to start over.
In the back of my mind, I kept waiting for Vanessa to call me and tell me her father changed his mind. I hoped she would have convinced him somehow, had done something to prove to him that what we had was real.
But she didn’t succeed.
Now that three months had come and gone, I knew it was really over.
She wasn’t coming back.
I had to move on.
“Bones.”
I turned to him, my eyes narrowing on his face. “Hmm?”
“You still putting this place up for sale?”
“Yeah,” I finally answered. “I’ll head up to Lake Garda.”
“And where’s all this furniture gonna go?”
“I guess I’ll take it to the new place, whenever I find one.”
He moved to the seat beside me, his arms resting on his knees. He glanced at the water glass again. “I’m surprised you’ve stuck to it this long.”
“Hasn’t been easy. I think I’ve earned the right to go back.”
“I don’t know about that. You were in a pretty dark place. Having a few drinks might put you there again.”
“No. If I really didn’t have any control, I wouldn’t have been able to stay sober this long. That was a bad mistake, and I’m ready to move on from it.”
Max turned his head to look at me, and he watched me with shrewd eyes. “If you were really ready to move on, you would have opened the door to Vanessa’s art room by now. But that door has remained shut for three months.”
The second she was gone, I shut the door and never opened it again. I pretended it didn’t exist, walking past it every single day without even glancing at it. I wanted it to disappear on its own. I should throw all her stuff away, but that seemed like a waste of all her supplies. But I didn’t want to hold on to it either, not when I had no use for it. “I don’t know what to do with her shit, alright?”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t want to do it. That tells me you aren’t over it.”
“I’ll never really be over it, Max.” I stared at my glass of water, which had been untouched since I poured it. Water didn’t taste like anything. It was like drinking air. It didn’t burn my throat or make me feel good. It was pointless.
“Well, you need to start. You need to be with other women and get back to who you used to be.”
“Fucking someone isn’t going to magically fix me.”
“But it’ll start to fix you. You really want to be miserable over this woman forever?”
“No…”
He faced forward again. “We’ll toss everything in that room, get you laid, and go back to the way our lives used to be.”
The plan sounded so simple, but I still couldn’t execute it. Something was holding me back, some misguided hope in my chest. Even though I’d had plenty of time and plenty of closure, I felt like there was something missing. I needed more. “I guess I expected Vanessa to change her father’s mind.”
“That guy will never change his mind, man. He’s stubborn as hell.”
“I guess I’ve always held on to a small bit of hope that something would happen—”
“It’s not, Bones. You need to move on.”
It’d been three months but I still wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared to take the plunge, to really say goodbye forever. “I need more…”
“More what?”
“Closure.”
“How?” he asked. “What does that mean?”
“I want to see her. Just one more time. I want to see if she’s happy, see what her life is like. Maybe she’s moved on, and seeing her moved on will help me move on.”
“Bullshit, man. You want to see if she’s as miserable as you are.”
Was there anything wrong with that?
“Nothing good can come from this. Let it go.”
“Look—”
“No. You made it this long. Forget about her and move on. It would be more beneficial for you to hook up with a woman in a bar instead of hunting down your ex and stalking her like a weirdo. Frankly, it’s pathetic.”
I bowed my head, knowing he was right. “I hate being like this. I don’t regret loving her, but I regret loving her so much. I regret getting this deep with her. If we’d never told her parents and kept our relationship a secret, I could have enjoyed her longer.”
He patted my back. “Don’t dwell on it. Just move on. You could have any woman you want. So go out and get her.”
The only woman I wanted was the one I couldn’t have.
“You’ve worked this hard to get here. So don’t blow it doing something stupid.”
I always did stupid things. The stupidest thing I’d ever done was fall in love with a Barsetti.
And I was even stupider for telling her.
The next day, I made the five-hour drive to Florence.
I kept telling myself to turn around and forget this stupid idea. But every time I actually considered turning back, my hand tightened on the wheel and my foot pressed against the gas. I wouldn’t find anything good in Florence, nothing that would make me feel better about the relationship, but it might bring me closure.
I wanted to know how she was, how her gallery was doing. I didn’t keep tabs on her when I left, knowing watching her would only haunt me. She had the protection of the Barsetti family, so she didn’t need me anyway.
I’d been thinking about her every single day since we’d been apart, and I needed to know what her life was like now. Did she stay in the apartment above the gallery? Did she keep the gallery? Had she sold the car? Would I see her in the window of her shop, talking with a customer who’d just bought a painting? Would she wear a fake smile, hiding her inner turmoil? Or would her smile be real?
Was she over me?
Hours later, I arrived in the city. The sun was starting to go down, and couples walked on the sidewalks as they headed to dinner. I navigated through the motorcyclists and turned on a few narrow streets until I arrived on her street.
This was my first stop after I left her at the house. I wrote the note and left it on the table, my parting words to her. I didn’t tell her I loved her. It seemed redundant at that point. If I didn’t love her, I would have just kidnapped her and took her to some remote place in the world where her family would never find us. Even if she wanted to escape, I wouldn’t have allowed it. Instead, I let her go, knowing she needed her family more than she needed me.
But that didn’t mean shit to her father.
I hated Pearl Barsetti for ruining my inheritance.
But I hated Crow Barsetti so much more.
He ruined my life.
I could be with Vanessa right at that very moment, having dinner together at the dining table. I might be her husband right now. I might be sharing my life with her. But that piece of shit took that away.
There was a vacant parking spot across the street from her gallery, so I pulled into the space and parked. I was in a white Fiat, blending in with all the other cars on the street. My truck was totaled, so I would never have that again. I wore a black baseball cap, hiding my features as much as possible.
The lights were still on in her gallery. I looked through the window, waiting to see her walk by. My heart pounded in my chest with angst. The pulse in my ears was like ringing bells. I didn’t want to see her, but at the same time, I couldn’t drive away until I did.
What did I expect to see? What did I expect to accomplish?
She moved into my line of sight, her dark hair done in nice curls. Her olive skin was the same, deep in intensity and soft in appearance. She wore a blue dress, sandals on her feet. My eyes had been so focused on her that I didn’t notice the man beside her.
Italian in appearance, over a foot taller than her, etched in obvious muscularity. I could tell he was a young man who was similar in age. He stood directly beside her, their bodies not touching. They were staring at the painting on the wall.
Before I panicked and smashed the window, I reminded myself that she wasn’t just an artist, but a businesswoman, so she needed to sell her work for a profit. That’s all he was, just a customer.
But even if he wasn’t, it shouldn’t matter.
I watched them for a few more minutes, saw them move from one painting to the next. She should be closed by now, but maybe she stayed open in the hopes of making a sale. Maybe he wanted to buy several pieces.
She wasn’t mine anymore. It shouldn’t matter.
Then I saw something that ripped my heart cleanly in two. It hurt more than saying goodbye to her. It hurt more than the tears I’d shed on that cruel afternoon. Like everything I’d believed had come raining down, the air left my lungs.
He grabbed her hand and interlocked their fingers together.
Pain. Unbearable pain.
Betrayal.
Hot rage.
I felt a tumult of emotions, ranging from anger to jealousy to emptiness.
Then she rested her head on his shoulder.
The affection was clear. They examined her paintings together as a couple, not as an owner and a customer. He probably worshiped her work, and he was telling her how talented she was at that very moment. It wasn’t clear whether this was a new relationship or one that had been going for a while. The fact that they were alone together in her gallery when it was closed told me he wasn’t a stranger.
She knew him well.
Had probably already slept with him.
I wanted to smash the window of my car.
Smash the windows of her gallery.
Strangle him until he choked to death.
The same rush of adrenaline burst through me, the very kind I experienced before I killed someone. I wanted to kill this man, and I was grateful I couldn’t see his face so it couldn’t haunt me later.
I had to remind myself that this was inevitable. She couldn’t be alone forever. Whether she waited a few weeks or a few months, it shouldn’t matter. I knew she loved me. I knew what we had was real. If we couldn’t be together, she should be happy.
Be happy without me.
Maybe this was the man she wanted, someone her family would adopt into their ranks. Maybe he wasn’t a murderer like I was. Maybe he was clean-cut and boring, respecting her like a gentleman and taking her antique shopping.
Maybe he was better than me.
Maybe he was better than I’d ever been.
No, I couldn’t be angry with her. I couldn’t be jealous either.
This was how it was supposed to be.
I was a bad man, a killer and a criminal. I got off on spilled blood. I got off on putting bullets in my enemies. I was a man of the shadows, of the underworld. I liked booze, women, and bullets. I liked paying for sex so I could get exactly what I wanted. I liked not feeling anything, besides murderous rage.
She was a flower, a flower that belonged in the sun. She needed to be pampered, to sway in the wind under the sky. She was innocent, pure, and beautiful. She wanted a husband, a father for her children. She wanted to have dinner with her family every Sunday night underneath the olive trees. She wanted everything that life had to give, all the beauty, hope, and serenity.
I wasn’t right for her.
I wasn’t good enough for her.
We were from different worlds.
And we should stay in different worlds.
I turned the engine back on, and without looking at her again, I pulled onto the road and drove away. I gripped the steering wheel and refused to glance in the rearview mirror to see if they were walking out of the gallery and to her apartment. I focused my gaze straight ahead, leaving the past behind me for good. “Goodbye, Vanessa.”