Page 35 of Tossed into the Mob
“Don’t laugh.”
I let out a long breath, and I guessed there was no one pointing a gun at my head.
“But I don’t want to be alone.” He glanced sideways and then straight ahead and lowered his voice. “There might be zombies lurking.” He jumped out of the car and raced around to my side.
I pursed my lips, trying to stem a laugh. Without saying a word, I offered him my hand. The tension in his face and shoulders vanished, and he gave me a small smile.
He lifted our joined hands into the air. “I feel so much better.”
I munched my way through more snacks during the second half of the movie using my right hand because my left was holding Treyton’s. And as he drove me home, he stared at shadows on either side of the car.
“I’m going to stay at my folks’ place tonight. I don’t want to stay by myself.”
“Good idea.”
We had two spare bedrooms, but Dad wasn’t up for visits just yet. He was seeing a therapist and attended daily physio sessions. I’d love him to meet Treyton but that moment wasn’t now, and he understood when I explained.
I didn’t get out of the car when he pulled up because I needed to talk to him about something I’d been putting off.
“Remember when we were in the storage unit?” He gave me awhat the fuck?look, and I added, “I took the letters Emilio wrote but never sent.”
He mouthed “Oh,” and we both instinctively reached for one another.
From my pack, I pulled out the bundle of letters I’d been carrying around since that day. They were tied with a faded blue ribbon. From what everyone had told me about Emilio—how he tried to kill Flint and the others and would have killed Tony who was in labor too—the ribbon seemed out of place.
“I wanted to be with you when I read them.”
He tilted his head to the side. “Not with your dad?”
“No. In the future, maybe, depending on what they say, but not yet.”
He turned on the car’s interior lights, and I removed the letter from the bottom of the pack that was dated just after my birth.
My hands trembled as I held the faded paper, but a scent arose from the folds, the same one from the suit Treyton had worn and the photo album. It had to be his.
“I can’t,” I choked and gave it to Treyton. “Please. For me.”
Our hands brushed over one another and tamped down my anxiety.
He cleared his throat and read:
“My son, Brock. You are three days old, and before I handed you back to your dad, I memorized your face and brushed your tiny fingers over my cheeks, hoping you'd internalize my scent. I wish I could be part of your life.”
Tears spilled over my cheeks, and I rested my head on Treyton’s shoulder while breathing in his scent. I gave him the next letter and the next, and he read out birthday wishes and Christmas greetings. I was openly sobbing, trying to balance the image of a man who would have killed Treyton’s family because he was blinded by vengeance but who loved me from afar.
He mentioned Dad, saying he was his one true love, and my heart almost broke at the longing in those words, for him, Dad, and me. Though he didn’t say it outright, his letters confirmed he’d sent us money every month.
In the final one, dated days before his death, he wrote of something he had to do, saying “My boss was allowed to do what was denied to me so many years ago. I chose duty over love, and that has been killing me slowly all these years.”
I put a fist in my mouth and sobbed some more, the hacking sounds echoing around the car.
"He loved you both so much.” Treyton folded the final letter.
I sniffed and wiped away the last of my tears. What my father had done that resulted in his death was unforgivable. It would stain his memory for eternity, but perhaps I could keep a tiny piece of him in my heart. The part that loved me and Dad fiercely.
“I’m glad those old rules are gone.” Treyton turned off the lights.
“Yes, because your cousins couldn’t have mated otherwise.”
