“In violation of your parole, I sentence you to six months at Rikers Island.”
The judge banged his gavel on the desk. My jaw dropped.
“What the fuck?” I howled as Monty dragged me away. “What the fuck was that? I didn’t even get a fucking say in my own goddamned case!”
“Shut the fuck up,” Monty hissed under his breath. Everyone in the packed room was staring at me and I straightened up, releasing my grip on Monty’s arm.
“I don’t fucking understand,” I wailed. “This isn’t fucking fair!”
“You may not like it,” Monty said grimly. “But this is good, Alessio. This gives us a chance to mount a defense.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarled. “This isn’t good! My fucking business!”
“We’ll take care of everything for you,” Monty said soothingly. “Come on, Alessio. Your father did worse. Silvio’s done worse. This ain’t bad. You’ll get used to it.”
As the guards led me away from the courtroom and back to the hellish nightmare of jail, I vowed to stop that little bitch, Beth, from testifying against me if it was the last thing I did with my life.
Beth – Six Months Later
I lowered myself into the window seat of my apartment and gazed out over the street. The sun was just beginning to rise – I had about an hour before I had to start getting ready for work – and I shivered, hoping the sun would have a chance to warm the frozen streets before I had to leave.
I’d been living in my new apartment for a little over five months. Heather had worked with a broker and found it after searching for just under a week – impossible by the standards of New York City. Living in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, wasn’t the most glamorous of places. But I didn’t mind – it was a safe, secure home that Heather and I had worked tirelessly to make ours.
After Michael’s death, things really spun out of control. I’d thought that Douglas had been bluffing when he’d threatened to throw me out of the condo. But the day after the funeral, Douglas and a team of thugs had showed up at my door and told me that I had twenty-four hours to get my stuff packed and moved. In retrospect, it’s kind of lucky that I was still stunned with grief at the time – if Douglas had tried that now, I would have ripped him a new asshole. But six months ago, Michael’s death was still fresh. And I should have known that Douglas would always keep his word against me, no matter what.
Getting evicted had been a blow. I’d called Heather and we’d spent the whole day packing boxes and borrowing the neighbor’s car to move them into storage. I’d thought my situation was totally helpless – now that Michael was gone, what kind of an ally would I find in the rest of the world? But Heather had gone above and beyond to make sure things worked out for the two of us. Now, we were closer than ever.
Finding a job hadn’t exactly been easy. I’ve been out of university for five years and I hadn’t worked a real job, or anything other than meager part-time work. I kept seeing rejection email after rejection email – every single hiring manager said I “lacked the necessary experience.” It really pissed me off. How the hell was I supposed to get that experience in the first place if no one would hire me?
Eventually, I’d sucked it up and gone door to door, asking people if they needed a new receptionist. I’d hardly expected it to work, but I’d finally landed a job working for a used car dealership in the Bronx. Getting to work every day was an adventure…I’d started carrying pepper spray, just to be on the safe side.
I hate to admit it, but I’d been doing just fine without Michael. Sure, I thought about him sometimes…mostly, I worried that his final moments had been painful and dreadful. But now that I was single again, it was almost like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Honestly, that made me feel more guilty than anything. Heather told me that it was normal – she’d come to realize that in retrospect, perhaps Michael and I didn’t have the best relationship. But now that he was gone, I began to think that maybe I’d taken him for granted. Sure, Michael never told me he loved me or was very demonstrative. He’d never even brought me flowers. But he’d provided for me, and set a clear example of what he expected in return for his material generosity.
Now I worried that I’d be single for the rest of my life.
Leaning against the glass, I yawned again. Condensation spread across the thin windowpane and I closed my eyes, drawing a finger though the wet mist. The streets were shiny in the early morning sun.
Finally, I made myself get up and get dressed in my “work uniform” – a black pencil skirt with a conservative cream blouse and low heels. I glanced in the mirror, tidying my brown hair. I wonder what Michael would think of me now, I thought as I toyed with my bangs. Would he still like me? Would he even recognize me?
I shook my head as if to clear the thought, then stepped away from the mirror and twisted the bare skin on my left ring finger. I’d never exactly loved my engagement ring, but it still felt weird to have bare hands once again. I hated knowing that I’d given the ring back to Douglas, but as Heather said, it was better to cover my ass than worry about a lawsuit in the future.
Grabbing my jacket, I threw the strap of my work bag over my shoulder and poured myself a go-cup of coffee from the small machine on the counter. Today’s a new day, I thought, forcing a smile as I stepped out the door and closed it quietly behind me. And I can do anything I want.
Work was fine – it always was. My boss had hired me without knowing about Michael…but the death of a billionaire’s son doesn’t stay quiet for long. During my second week of work, the New York Times had published a spread on Michael and his life. There was a big photo of us on the front page of the Style section – it had been on of our engagement photos, with Michael and I both looking happy. When I’d gone into work the next day, my boss had thrown his arms around me and apologized. I hadn’t been pleased about the article. I was sure
that Douglas had manipulated the editor into making sure there was little mention of me, and it felt like an overall stain to Michael’s memory. The article had made him seem so cold and calculating, just like a little version of his father. I’d saved it, of course, but it hadn’t been the Michael I’d known.
I’ve been thinking about him a lot today, I realized as I descended into the grimy subway. I wonder what that’s all about.
When I got home, Heather was standing in front of the stove, stirring something delicious. The air was thick with the creamy, tangy smell of marinara sauce and I grinned when I saw a bag of fresh pasta perched on the side of the stove.
“Hey,” Heather said. “Long day?”
I shrugged. “Same as every other, to be honest,” I said. “God, that looks good. How long have you been cooking?”
Heather laughed. “It’s nothing,” she said. She lifted the lid of the trash can and I saw a jar of gourmet pasta sauce from the bodega down the street. Heather rolled her eyes and we laughed together.
“Still not much of a cook,” I cracked. I put my work bag down on the floor and perched on a barstool.