Page 33 of Third Degree

“I… I can’t,” I managed to whisper, my voice quivering. The weight of our shared history, the years of separation, crashed down upon me, overwhelming my senses.

The reason I knew I never moved on was standing in front of me, and my emotions threatened to consume me.

I hated the way I felt right now. I needed to escape this. I needed to process.

He took a hesitant step forward, and I retreated.

“Please,” I begged, and the moment the desperate plea left my mouth, he stopped.

I hurried toward my car, finally able to catch my breath once inside. I looked back at him as he stood there in the shadowed night, staring after at my car while he ran his hands through his hair.

I revved the engine and sped down the road to try and escape.

When I reached my apartment, which was situated right in the middle of downtown on the top floor of an apartment building, I took the elevator upstairs and took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of home.

I walked into the apartment and was immediately welcomed by the floor-to-ceiling windows leading to a large balcony with an entire garden. My rose plants were growing rapidly around the railings. Being welcomed by something that needed me to grow and flourish made me feel centered in the chaos around me.

My apartment was the one thing we argued about, Papa and me. I’d wanted something on the ground floor and a little backyard, but he insisted, for my safety, on getting something downtown and up high. Initially, I pressed him but realized it was one of those battles I didn’t want to fight him on. So, I made the inside look the best I could—in my style.

I obsessed over and curated a home for myself that exuded warmth with thrifted furniture, wooden accents, and large spaces filled with knickknacks. Lively greenery breathed life into the space, while soft blankets and vintage lamps created a comforting ambience.

Looking back, I am sure I was chasing the same feeling I had when I went to Elio’s little house on the ocean. I wondered if he still lived there after being forced back to working with the Mafia.

I needed a moment to protect my peace. I jumped into the shower and took off all the ridiculous makeup I wore. After feeling much more like myself, in a pair of gray sweats and a cropped band tee, I grabbed my watering can and checked the water levels of all my plants.

Just as peace settled around me, a sudden, sharp knock pierced through the air, shattering the tranquility and jolting me from my reverie. The sound carried a sense of urgency, causing my heart to skip a beat. I went over to look through the peephole to see who it was, but whoever was standing there was blocking it.

“Who is it?” I echoed through my side of the door, but the person only kept knocking. “I am not opening the door until I know who is on the other side.”

I grabbed the baseball bat I kept next to my bed before returning to the door. The knocking continued.

“Who is it? I am going to call 9-1-1!” I screamed, getting scared because the mysterious person behind the door wasn’t saying anything.

“Open the door.” The voice sounded pained on the other side. “Gianna.” It spoke again. “Please.”

This time, it was quieter and desperate, and I knew immediately who it was. The only person in this entire town who knew my real name. The only person who would beg to see me. The one person who could ruin me.

Slowly, I took a deep breath before I pulled open the door. His eyes were pleading, his designer suit was pulled apart, and he looked as if he’d sped a million miles to get here.

“Please,” he pleaded.

I did nothing. I merely stood there frozen in the doorway, unable to move. Pain shadowed the look in his eyes, and I knew he wanted me to let him in, but I also knew that the moment he walked into the apartment, it was game over.

The painful voice in the back of my head told me that I needed to think about my father and what he would do if he knew we had broken the deal, even if it was in a way that none of us could have predicted.

A flash of my friends and the way their judgments would pass, knowing that I was attracted to a man nearly twenty years older than me who happened to be the father of one of my best friend’s fiancé. We were a walking cliché taboo.

“No,” I finally managed to croak out. “We can’t have this conversation. Not yet.”

He looked over at me before lowering his head solemnly. “It’s too early.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Tell me you are well,” he begged.

“I am fine.”

This time, he put his hand over his mouth as if choking back a cough.

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