Page 90 of Wicked Rivals

Claiming to be a family of four and making the story easily memorable would make us much harder to track.

Only when we made it safely out of this entire region of the country would I sit down with Enzo and explain everything to him. I would tell him the whole truth. I would finally tell him about my family and Stefano’s family.

My son would get the actual story this time.

He deserved that and more. He deserved to know why he could never go back.

But not until we made it safely to our destination.

Finally, after another fucking pothole, we were two blocks away from Con Amore, and I asked the driver to stop. Then my son and I ran the remaining distance to the back of the café.

Even with the colder autumn air, the alleyway reeked of trash and urine, though it smelled more bearable than during the hot summer months.

We dodged broken glass, bags of trash, and stray cats, and when we reached the rear entrance to the café, yellow crime scene tape and a sign posted by the police blocked the door.

“Wait here, Enzo. Stay put for just a second,” I said.

“Hurry, Mama.”

I broke through the tape and unlocked the door.

An image in my mind of all the shattered glass and furniture hit me. I couldn't bear to see it with my own eyes again, the carnage left behind in the attack. Everything we had, destroyed. I just couldn’t do it.

So I didn’t open the door between the kitchen and the dining room. Instead, I pressed my ear against it and shut my eyes. Maybe if I listened hard enough, I could confirm the emptiness of the place without looking.

Completely, eerily silent.

I returned to the back door and extended my hand to Enzo. He grabbed on, and we went up the back staircase to our apartment together.

No yellow police tape there.

Either the cops had been too careless to bother coming upstairs or they had considered it and kept it separate from the crime scene.

A comforting thought. A stupid thought.

“Come on, buddy. Change and pack for three days.”

I kept my voice at a half whisper.

“Socks and underwear too. Put everything in your backpack. Two books, that’s it. Do you understand me, Enzo?”

“Yes, I got it,” he said.

I watched him tiptoe to his bedroom. Then I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed I made the right decisions for my child.

In my room, I grabbed a duffel bag from the closet, shoved my bed aside, and pulled up two loose floorboards. In that dark little hidey-hole were stacks of cash, one-hundred and fifty thousand in large bills, ten thousand in small bills, and plastic bags containing our new identities.

I threw it all into the bag and put my clothes on top.

We needed to move freely and blend in, so I unzipped my dress and let it fall to the floor. I shoved my legs into a pair of jeans, pulled on a plain old sweater, and laced up my sneakers.

As I circled back to my bag and double checked everything, Enzo came in and handed me a framed photo of the woman who had taken me in when I arrived in Brooklyn.

My generous, beautiful, lovingnonna.

We had our arms around each other in front of Con Amore while smiling at the camera.

Enzo must have gone downstairs very quietly, and the fact that he’d risked himself for that photo made my eyes burn with unshed tears. Tears of love. Tears of fear.

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