Page 7 of Marcello DeLuca

And then I woke up, drenched in sweat, heart racing, tears flowing down my cheeks. The sound of the explosion still echoed in my ears, a cruel reminder of the nightmare I couldn’t escape. Every morning, it was like the sound of my family’s car bombing was my daily alarm, dragging me back to that day, that moment, that loss.

I wrapped my arms around myself and murmured “I’m so sorry…” to my family. I hated that they were gone, and I was still here.

I wiped away the flood of tears pouring down my cheeks. It’d been two years since my family was killed, and it felt like it was yesterday. Grief had overtaken me. It owned me. Shook my very core. I did everything I could to overcome it. Yet, grief was still winning.

The police didn’t know who had murdered my family or if they would come back to hurt me, so I was in protective custody until the case was solved. At the rate the investigation was moving along, that could be forever.

Because I was underage at the time of the bombing, my uncle agreed to be my guardian and to go into the protective custody program with me.

I glanced at my closed curtains, a reminder that I lived in constant caution, not even allowing the sun in to kiss my skin in the morning for fear that someone might be creeping around, peeping through my window.

I was in a new city with a new identity. There had been no threats against me since the day my family died, but there is always that fear that the next moment will be the last. I had experienced such a moment, so I knew how easily one could be here one moment and gone the next.

As much as I tried to hide it, I broke completely apart every time I thought about my family, and I thought about them all the time. I hoped Marcello didn’t see me fall apart right in front of him yesterday, when I so desperately tried to hold myself together.

I shouldn’t be thinking about Marcello, the boy my uncle forbade me to see again. The boy who had lines of concern etched into his face over my visceral response to his casual mention of his family business.

A sense of dread and hope warred for my attention.

Hope won because today was another rehearsal for our school production of Romeo and Juliet, and I could hardly contain my excitement. Joining the theater was the one thing I was allowed to do besides attend school. It was the one place where I could go to try to feel normal. To not feel like the girl that lost everything two years ago.

I quickly dressed and grabbed a bite to eat. My uncle was already outside with the car running. He most likely had walked the property around our house and scanned the neighborhood for unusual people or vehicles.

As we made our way to the theater, a flutter of nerves danced in my stomach. When I arrived, the place was alive with energy as my fellow cast members gathered, each of us buzzing with anticipation for the day ahead. The director led us through warm-up exercises, and soon we were immersed in the world of Shakespearean tragedy, our voices filling the space as we brought the timeless tale of star-crossed lovers to life.

I played the role of Juliet, the young and passionate daughter of the Capulet family. It was a challenging role, but one I embraced wholeheartedly, relishing the opportunity to embody such a complex character.

As rehearsal ended, I left the theater, still buzzing with the adrenaline of the performance. The evening air was cool against my skin as I stepped onto the sidewalk, my thoughts consumed by the play and the character I inhabited.

And then I saw him.

Marcello stood across the street, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. He was gorgeous in a way that made my heart skip a beat. I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from him.

Before I gathered my feelings and thoughts on the matter, my uncle James appeared at my side, his expression stern.

“I got out to come get you to make sure the guy giving you the googly eyes stays away. You are to stay away from him too,” he warned, his voice low but firm. “ I’m telling you now Safie, he’s nothing but trouble.”

My heart sunk at his words. Marcello was intriguing, but I couldn’t afford to get involved with someone who could lead me down the wrong path. And at this point, I had to trust my uncle’s judgement, even though parts of me strongly resisted his assessment of Marcello.

As my uncle's car pulled away from the curb, I stole one last glance at Marcello, our eyes locking in a silent exchange that spoke volumes.

After we stepped inside the safety of our modest home, Uncle James closed the door behind us and sighed. “Safia, I need to talk to you about something.”

I nodded. “Okay, sure.”

Uncle James took a seat at the kitchen table, motioning for me to join him. His eyes, once in this lifetime bright with laughter and warmth, now held a sadness that cut me to the core. Every day of our seclusion took a tiny piece of his soul.

I wondered if he saw the same sadness when he looked at me. Ever since the tragedy that killed our family, we had lived with the fear of danger lurking around every corner.

His voice was thick with emotion as he began. “I know things haven't been easy since we lost your parents, but I need you to understand that I’m doing everything I can to keep you safe. You have to trust me when I tell you things.”

I sank into the seat across from him. “I trust you, Uncle James.”

Relief entered his weary eyes. “Good. All the boys hanging out on Handover Street corner are thugs with a future of jail or hell. You don’t want to get involved with any of them. I don’t even want them near you.”

“Uncle James, I—”

“No, you have to listen to me on this! You are the spitting image of my dear sister.” He reaches across the table, his rugged hand finding mine for a gentle squeeze. “You are all I have left of her, and I will do whatever it takes to protect you. Whatever it takes. I will not let some young thug ruin your life.”

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