Taken by Her Prince

I looked back at him and felt a strange surge of protectiveness. I wanted to shield him from this, but I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like I owed him anything, wasn’t like any of this was my fault. If anything, this was the right thing to do, and yet I wanted to bring Steven back home and keep him away from anything that might hurt him.

Strange, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Come on,” he said, opening the door.

I hesitated then followed. I didn’t expect to go in with him, but if he needed me then I’d show up for him.

He walked to the simple red door and knocked. We waited a moment until a woman answered. She wore a simple cardigan, black trousers, and her eyes were puffy and red from crying. She had a tissue in her right hand, and her dark hair was pulled up into a messy, loose bun.

“Steven,” she said.

“Hello, Martha. Could we come in?”

Her eyes moved to me. “Who’s she?”

“This is Colleen,” he said. “She was there. I thought…” He trailed off and gestured, like that filled in the gaps.

Marta looked at me then turned away. “Come in,” she said.

She led us into a simple Philly rowhome. The layout was similar to Steven’s, though it was a little bit smaller. The living room was carpeted and religious paintings hung on the walls. The television was on mute and played a tennis match that I couldn’t pay attention to. It smelled like cigarette smoke and alcohol, even though everything looked immaculate and neat. There was a bookcase with small trinkets on it, a porcelain baby doll, a little wooden manger scene, and a few different copies of the bible.

“Sit, please,” Martha said. She gestured at the kitchen table and her hand trembled just a little bit. “Can I get you anything? Tea or coffee?”

“No, thank you.” Steven took a seat and I pulled out the chair next to him. Marta hovered at the head of the table, one hand clutching her cardigan at her throat like she was afraid it might spill open.

She smiled at Steven and fresh tears welled up.

“How fast was it?” she asked.

Steven seemed taken off guard by the question. “How fast was what, Martha?” he asked.

“You know what I mean. Did he… did he suffer?”

“No,” Steven said and stared down at the table. He took a breath and looked up. “No, he didn’t suffer, I can promise you that at least.”

She nodded once and sat down abruptly in the chair at the head of the table. I wanted to go to her and hold her hand, but I knew that wasn’t my place.

There was a noise toward the front of the house. I turned and saw a girl come down the steps. She was a teenager, no older than sixteen, with dark hair in tight curls down around her shoulders. Her skin was blotchy and she had an angry scowl on her face as she walked toward us, her arms crossed over her chest. Her sweatpants were gray and baggy and a couple sizes too big, and her white t-shirt looked like it had been washed ten thousand times.

“What’s he doing here?” the girl asked.

“It’s okay, Tessie,” Martha said. “Steven’s just here to talk about Davide.”

“We don’t want you here,” Tessie said, staring at Steven. “You think you’re welcome here? You got my brother killed, you asshole.”

Steven flinched like he’d been slapped but he raised his eyes. I couldn’t believe the sorrow I saw in his expression, and for a second I wondered if he was faking it.

But no, he wasn’t faking. His voice trembled the slightest bit when he spoke.

“I loved your brother like he was my own,” he said. “The way things went down… that wasn’t supposed to happen. You both have my heartfelt apology.”

“You can take your apology and shove it up your—”

“Tessie!” Martha said. “Stop right now. Show Steven some respect.”

“Respect?” Tessie spit the word out like it was a disease. “How could you respect this man, Mom? Davide would be alive right now if it weren’t for him.”

“It wasn’t Steven’s fault,” I said, and everyone stared at me, including Steven. I blanched a little and felt myself sink back into the chair, but I forged ahead anyway. “He did his best in a bad situation. I was there when Davide died, and it was… it was a freak accident.”

“Nobody gets shot in the head in a freak accident,” Tessie said.

“Tessie,” Martha said. “Stop right now. I don’t want to hear this.”

“I know you don’t, Mom, but everyone’s talking about it. He got shot in the head when you were out killing some guys in that… what’s it called? The Celtic Club? That stupid Irish mafia.” She made a face and glared at me. “I bet you know a few of them, don’t you, bitch?”