I stifle my sobs and wipe my runny nose on the corner of my shirt. Pulling myself up to a sitting position, I suck in the last sobs I have to shed. I don’t even know if I can go to jail for this. It might be one thing if I never saw the books but now, I know.
Fuck.
Fuck papa. Fuck Besnik who was going to hide this from me. That must be why he’s anxious to marry me off. He and Papa must have been in on this together.
Fuck the Albanian mafia. I don’t know who I can trust.
But what I do know. . . is that I can’t trust men.
And my heart sinks. I was the perfect cover for Papa and his dirty deeds. And Mama, did she know he was going to do this? What did she see? Here I thought I wanted a marriage like theirs and now I wonder if she was happy. Did they really love each other?
She seemed happy.
I pull myself together. I have to figure a way out of this. I have to clean up the mess I made but breaking glass was very therapeutic. Now, colored glass covers the floor. Damn, we might need these, too.
By the time I’m done sweeping, it’s very late. My brain is mush and I have no desire to cook. I look at the tiny bottle of milk in the fridge, it expires tomorrow. I uncap it, and no rancid odor hits my nostrils, so I pour it over the fruity colored cereal in my bowl.
As I crawl into bed, I console myself with what I know to be true. My parents loved me and tried their best to give me everything. I have the memories I know are real. The rest of the mess will work itself out somehow.
Now I sound like Marchello. He’s got this debonair air about him. It’s very slick the way he makes me think. I have questions and he talks in riddles. But underneath it all, I think he likes me or he wouldn’t be trying to help me. But maybe there is something he wants in return.
My phone dings.
What did you find?
What do you think?
Not think. Know.
Asshole.
But I laugh. Damn if he’s not on top of this shit. I wonder what else he knows. I guess I’ll find out.
Today is going to be the longest day of my life. Marchello texted me sweet condolences for the sad day ahead of me. He shared that he lost his dad a few years ago and it humanizes him even more. I thank him, even though we’re supposed to be at odds.
But I can’t bring myself to hate him without proof he killed my papa and, right now, he’s winning the race in understanding my life. He has moments of compassion for what I’m going through. Marchello has a way with understanding people and figuring out what will happen next.
Damn him, I wish he’d just spill his guts with what he knows. Wrong terminology of guts when one is in the mafia but the sentiment remains. It would be bedlam if he dared to show his face here at church, but then again, no one would suspect that I’ve seen him other than my uncle and I’m sure he’s not going to broadcast it. Seems to me he’s in a precarious position as well.
Mila won’t tell anyone about my personal life. The majority of my employees are seasonal, and they don’t last long. Mila’s sitting beside me at Papa’s eulogy. The altar is colorful with flowers like he would have wanted it. Besnik is on my left, acting like the man in charge and protector.
I have my doubts.
But I hide what I know as well as my anger and tell Besnik everything is okay. Mila and I are both dressed in conservative black dresses and I’m wearing low black heels because they’re practical and I’ll be on my feet all day.
It seemed gauche to carry my large designer handbag, so I’m using a black generic one to match my dress and I don’t know if I’ll ever carry the large one again now that I know where the money came from to pay for it.
We stand, we sit. We sing. I scan the pews looking at faces and wonder if the killer is here. I can’t come up with a motive. But that looks like the guy from the ski lodge. Lirim. . . I think Papa said. He bragged about me to him. He’s the creepy guy I saw at the bar. And today, of all days, he’s ogling me when no one is looking.
I wonder if Marchello is secretly watching the service and I scan the upper balcony and turn to look behind me. I chuckle to myself. He won’t be seen if he doesn’t want to be seen. I don’t know much about him but that I do know. He likes to be in control and prepared.
Since when does Marchello not have any insights into something mafia related?
My beloved papa used me for financial gain. But maybe he was locked into what he was doing or forced into it. I’ll never know. My interpretation of the hurt I’m experiencing is a direct blow by the man I loved the most and I don’t want it to consume me forever. I know he didn’t want me to spend my life filled with anger and malice.
The service is over, I shake hands with scores of people leaving the church service as everyone gives appropriate responses. And I wonder if the man that pulls all the strings is here.
Papa and Besnik’s closest friends come to my home afterwards and others show up with our traditional Albanian food, like Kosi and Kababs, Italian food and bottles of alcohol.