Page 27 of Marcello DeLuca

“It’s hard to believe you didn’t hear me when I came in, especially when I saw you peeking out of your bedroom window when we pulled into the driveway,” I responded.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Busted. Now, tell me how your night was.”

I stirred my cereal absentmindedly, trying to find the right words. “It was... good,” I replied cautiously, knowing what was coming next would change everything between us. “Actually, there's something I need to tell you.”

He set down his mug, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What is it, Safia?”

“About last night…” I took a deep breath, steeling myself for his reaction. “I... I told Marcello.”

Heavy silence followed as he processed what I was saying. He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke with restrained frustration.

“You told him,” he repeated my profession as more a statement than a question. “What would make you tell him about us?” His brow furrowed in confusion until understanding sank into his weathered features. “Unless…wait, you slept with him?”

I nodded, my gaze dropping to the table. “Yes, uncle. I slept with him… and I felt like he deserved to know who I really am.”

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “I should have never allowed you to go to that graduation with him. Never should have allowed you to date him. I know and you know the risks. You know why we keep our identities hidden. Why would you expose us like this? And I hope you used protection!”

“Yes, I did use protection,” I retorted, knowing we hadn’t used a physical barrier between us, but I had been proactive and asked my doctor for birth control on my last visit. “And I know everything, the risks, the secrets, the danger,” I replied softly, my fingers tightening around my spoon.

Uncle James fumed. “You knew of these risks and still exposed us!”

“He... he handled it better than I expected. He listened; he didn't freak out. And he promised not to tell anyone.”

Uncle James's brow furrowed as he considered my words. “And you believe him? Just like that?”

I met his gaze defiantly. “Yes. I trust him.”

He shook his head incredulously. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because...” I hesitated, searching for the right words to convey the depth of my conviction. “Because I have to. Because I believe in him.”

“Oh, you trust him, you believe in him. I guess that makes everything just fucking peachy,” he retorted. “Who knew that all we had to do was find someone, fall in love with them, and believe in them and then we wouldn’t have to worry anymore? If I had known that sooner, I wouldn’t have turned down the many women that have hit on me, Safia! I trusted that you wouldn’t allow yourself to be guided around by your emotions just as I have refrained from doing so.”

I felt a pang of guilt, knowing the weight of my decision was not solely mine to bear. “Everything will never be fine,” I admitted quietly. “But I have to trust and believe that I can find and keep happiness. I want to love. I want to be made love to.”

“Safia, must I remind you that you are seventeen.”

“I am a woman past the age of consent. A young woman, but a woman. And as I grow as a woman, I want to be honest with the people I love,” I argued.

Uncle James sighed. “Trust, belief, honesty and love… that seems to be your theme this morning. Well, young woman, what about the fact that I trusted you to keep our identities sealed?” He held a hand up to block out my reply. “You know what? Don’t answer that. I’m going downstairs!”

An hour later, I stepped into the dimly lit basement, the air heavy with the scent of old sweat and leather. The punching bag swung vigorously from side to side as my uncle punched it with everything in him.

“I’m sorry, Uncle James. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him. I just got caught up in the moment, and it felt like the right thing to do,” I said, stepping into the room and wrapping my hands before putting on my gloves.

“I’m disappointed, but I’m not upset with you.”

Tears streamed down my face.

“I’m sor—”

“Quit apologizing and get on the mat.” He continued to spar with the bag, sweat falling profusely from his face and neck.

“Okay.” I sighed, stepping closer to him, readying myself for a round, both in conversation and in sparring. “But he had a right to know, didn't he?”

“Listen, it’s not your fault that you couldn’t tell your boyfriend your real name,” he said finally, his voice softer now. “But now it's about what happens next. What he does with that knowledge.”

“We will be fine,” I said, more to convince myself than him. “He offered to use his security to protect us.”

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