Marco’s revelation basically causes my jaw to unhinge from my skull and shatter all over his shiny hardwood floor.
“I was right around your age,” he continues. “My buddy and I jumped him one night as he was leaving a bar. I was still bashing his head into the pavement when the cops showed up. I didn’t even notice my friend was long gone by then.” He acknowledges my shock with a dark chuckle. “I’m not proud. But you know. Your mom was pregnant and alone. He tried to hurt her… and you. I could have killed him. I’ll admit it was a little out of character for me.”
A little out of character? That’s the understatement of the century.
And yet somehow it makes so much sense. Nonna has always talked about Marco as if he was my actual father. Maybe — in a fucked-up kind of cosmic way — he is. Maybe when he beat up the asshole who created and then tried to cancel me, he was sending a message to the universe that I deserved to be protected. Or at least, you know: born. He was taking responsibility for a mess that wasn’t even his. All because his love for Mom runs that deep.
My heart sinks as I think about how we’ve been taking advantage of it all week.
“I’m so sorry we dragged you into this,” I say. “But can you bring me to Bayonne tonight?”
“You sure?” he asks.
“I have to be.” I fold up Mom’s note and stick it in my pocket. “Don’t I?”