Page 3 of The Don

I’ve enjoyed many of these slow walks around the city in recent months, even if Alfonso, always a big, hulking wall at my back, did not. These strolls never failed to make me wonder at a life I’d only imagined in the months since I’d met Shae. Before her, I was something like content with the life I’d fought and killed for. But Shae walked into my restaurant and threw contentment out of the window.

When I was younger, hungry, and dangerous, I’d thought this life was the best I could expect because it’s the only life I’ve ever known. But if I’d ever even considered that there was someone like Shae out there, that I could taste something as sweet and pure as her, well… But that was the Catch-22 of life. If I hadn’t chosen this work, I never would have gained the money and territory necessary to live this long, or owned my restaurant, or been there on that day to spend a few hours living a life I couldn’t keep and didn’t deserve.

I try to untangle this gnarled knot of possibility as I walk to the barber and back, hoping as I have been for months to turn a corner and find that all of the complications of my life are settled, and I can be reunited with Shae. Instead, I return to my office and immediately know that something is wrong.

The bubble of my fantasy bursts, and I’m just an old man, staring at my desk, noting the stack of ledgers for the accountant, the grocery list, the message from the walking tour company, trying to figure out what exactly is out of place. It takes long, silent moments of contemplation before I finally see the slip of paper underneath my phone. I recognize the handwriting. I understand the message. But all I can think of is Shae. In fact, if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with thoughts of her, I might have seen a familiar face on the street, some sign of the messenger who put this note here. But I was distracted — I still am — and this note is a reminder of the danger that always lurks around the corner waiting for me to let my guard down.

There are many things I deserve in life, but Shae is not one of them.

2SHAE

The baby doesn’t knowthat we’re flying back to Italy, of course, but I do, and I feel as if I need to wallow in the importance of this trip on my tiny fetus’s behalf, even though this is all about Zahra and the aunts, even Zoe to some degree. Not me, though. Certainly not this baby no one but me even knows exists.

But Aunt Caroline always says it’s okay to be just a little bit selfish — a tiny bit narcissistic — and that’s exactly what I do while Zoe sleeps peacefully next to me. I’m a little envious at how quickly she falls asleep, almost as soon as the plane starts to taxi away from the gate. I wish I could shut my brain off enough to do the same because I’m so goddamn tired, and sadly, the hard-won business class seat is more comfortable than my old lumpy couch. I would, in fact, love to sleep the entire ten-hour flight to Rome, but I can’t. I’m awake for the first four hours of the flight, worrying over what might happen if I somehow run into Salvatore. And what I’ll do if I don’t. I worry over which option is better. Or worse? I have no more answers today than I did the day I found out I was pregnant.

The little nugget inside me — I think that’s what I’m going to call it — is too small to know or care, so it’s just my imagination and nerves that make me think the tiny avocado of cells is doing flips in a dozen dizzy circles at the prospect of returning to the city where it was created.

Eventually, hours of worry and weeks of bad sleep finally collude with the loud hum of the plane’s engines to lull me into a fitful slumber. But it doesn’t last. One minute I’m hugging my knees into my chest, trying not to let the rollercoaster of emotions and life trigger my nausea and gag reflex; the next moment, I’m dreaming peacefully of snuggling into a bed of crisp, sun-dried white sheets with Salvatore. We’re laughing, fucking — hell, sometimes just touching and staring into one another’s eyes. It’s the best dream I’ve had about him by far, and that’s a very high bar.

Dream me is so happy that real-life me wants to cry. But then, the next moment, I’m blinking awake to the sound of Zoe’s irritated voice.

“Shae. Shae, wake up. Girl, wake the fuck up.”

I hear Zoe in the back of my brain but from far away. I resist following her directions with all I’ve got, trying desperately to hold onto the peace of my dreamworld, the only place where I feel actually happy these days. This behavior is very unlike me, but it’s like the people-pleasing part of my personality is offline temporarily. Or maybe it’s just that nothing in the real world, not Zoe’s annoyance or a just okay airline meal, can beat the dream of Salvatore whispering my name and kissing up my back as he eases his dick inside me. The Salvatore of my dreams presses his hips into my ass as he takes me from behind, his perfectly elegant hands cupping my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers while his mouth spills the filthiest promises across my bare shoulders. I’ve had this dream so many times that it feels familiar, so much better than reality. It’s beautiful and comforting, but it doesn’t last.

Because then Zoe’s hands join her annoyed voice. “Girl, wake up! You need to eat. Your mom will kill me if you faint before we even get to Italy. And I do not have time for that.” She mumbles that last sentence under her breath, but I catch it as my dream begins to slip through my fingers like the finest sand.

Zoe manages to shake me gently and roughly at the same time — her specialty. She pulls me fully awake, and I am not happy about it. Well, my brain isn’t, but the rest of my body is. As soon as I’m awake, my stomach grumbles in hunger, and my back muscles begin to spasm painfully. The plane’s lighting is too artificially bright, and I have to shut my eyes as soon as I open them; a searing pain shoots around the perimeter of my head. I stretch in my seat and groan as all the tense muscles in my body scream from being bunched up in this seat for who knows how long. I wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth and look around, trying to moor myself in whatever part of the trip we’re in. We could be landing, for all I know.

I watch as Zoe pulls the seatback tray down in front of me and places a tray atop it. “I grabbed you breakfast. Hurry up and eat it before we land.”

“I’m not a child,” I snap back.

“Oh, she spicy today. I approve.”

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t get carried away,” Zoe says, shooting me a warning glare as she places a cup of coffee on my tray.

I sit up straighter in the seat and roll my eyes. “Thank you,” I say, opening the lukewarm foil dish in front of me. My stomach growls again. I open the plastic silverware and practically inhale the oddly mushy veggie omelet and potatoes. I’m so hungry that no one could have told me that this wasn’t a meal from a Michelin star restaurant.

I shove the last potato into my mouth and turn to see Zoe watching me with a very familiar look on her face. “I was hungry,” I mumble around a full mouth.

“Told you,” she shrugs.

Just then, the flight attendant pushes the cart past our row and doubles back to smile down at us. We hand over the trash from our meals. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“More coffee, please,” Zoe says.

“Water, please.”

She pours our drinks and goes on about her way. Zoe sits back in her seat to let her food settle. I wish I was so lucky.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say abruptly.

Zoe sighs, taking a critical second to be annoyed before she undoes her seatbelt.

“Come on, Zoe,” I whine.

---