Page 33 of The Don

I have always believed in grabbing any amount of joy with both hands.

I bend over and grab a corner before pulling the heavy thing out of the way. Dust lifts into the air. I sneeze and cough but feel assured, at least, that no one has been in this room besides me.

There’s a square outline of a trapdoor in the wooden floor that holds my contingency plan.

One of many.

I kneel down and run my fingers along a floorboard, searching for the outline of the small button. When I locate it by feel, I press down, and the secret compartment in the floor opens on a spring. I dig the tips of my fingers into the small opening and pull the hatch, waiting for the stale air to clear.

There’s a flashlight at the top of the pile that I grab and then switch on. The batteries are old, and the light flickers at first before steadying. I move the shaft of light around, confirming that everything looks as it should; each box stacked neatly one on top of the other in order by size, with the largest deep at the bottom. When I’m satisfied once again that everything is as it should be, I set the flashlight to the side and pull each box out carefully. The first and smallest I set on the desk, the others I place on the floor around the room.

When the hole is empty, I close it and move the rug back into place. If all goes well, I don’t plan to need this hiding place or this apartment ever again.

I have a few hours before I need to wake Shae up and prepare her for me to leave again. Icouldrest. I probablyshouldrest. But my mind always works best when my hands are moving.

My mind wanders to Shae again, and my fingers twitch with need for a few tense moments. I’ve just about pulled myself together when the door squeaks and drifts slowly open.

I’m not surprised to find Shae standing there. I’m relieved, actually.

She’s wearing a long shirt that just barely covers her pussy. She blinks up at me with tired, trusting eyes. “You weren’t there.”

Her voice is scratchy, dry, delicate, and it rips me to shreds. I wasn’t there, and she came after me. What could be simpler than that? I let her go once — pushed her to leave — but clearly, I’m not the only one who won’t let that happen again.

I don’t know how she manages to dig right to the center of me with just a look and a few words, but this is the moment I decide to stop questioning it. “I’m sorry, bella.”

She shrugs. “It’s okay.” Her eyes move around the room. “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t left…me.”

I narrow my eyes in her direction. “I would not.”

She swallows and nods, her eyes going soft as she leans against the doorframe. “Do you…want to be alone? I can wait for you.”

“No.” I have guarded the boxes in this room for over twenty years, hiding these parts of myself from everyone. But not Shae. I extend my hand to her. “Come, bella. There are some things I need to show you.”

There is a part of my brain so small that I know it cannot survive much longer. It wants Shae to run away. It wants her to close the door and distance herself from me. It screams now from its small place, telling her to run as fast as she can. I hold my breath and watch her look around the room, considering. She sighs lightly then steps forward slowly, carefully navigating her way around the boxes on her toes, elongating her lovely bare legs.

She grabs my hand when she’s close, and our fingers entwine. She presses herself against my side, and then we sink to the floor together.

She crosses her legs and rocks side to side, trying to get comfortable and hide her nakedness. I laugh and pull her into my lap. “Better?”

“Harder,” she mumbles, rolling her hips against my cock.

I laugh again and kiss her neck.

“What…what is all this?”

“Many things. Important things.”

“Okay, thanks. That’s a very helpful answer.”

I kiss along her jaw and then reach for the closest box to me. I open it to show Shae the Beretta I haven’t used in years. She gasps before catching herself and pressing her mouth closed.

“This was my father’s,” I tell her. The gun is old. It needs to be cleaned. I know I have a box of cleaning materials in the bottom shelf of the desk, but I don’t keep this gun to use. It’s sentimental, and I try to find the words to describe that to Shae, knowing that she’s lived such a different life from mine.

While I try to collect my thoughts, Shae reaches for the gun with a long finger but stops and asks me silently for permission.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, holding her close.

It takes a few seconds before her hand moves again, shaking. Her fingertips brush along the barrel. “I’ve never—” She gulps. “I’ve never touched a gun before.”

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