Page 71 of Valentine's Slave

“And now?” I ask.

“Now I’m not going anywhere.” He looks deep into my eyes. “Did you sense my anger and frustration on Valentine’s Day?”

The mind fuckery? That was nothing new, but it did seem especially intense that last night. There were also no kisses or cuddles.

“You were cold,” I say.

Valentino nods. “Would you like to hear why?”

I want to know everything and hear everything about him, even now. I hate myself for it, but I can’t help wanting to.

“Duh.”

He smirks before his face turns serious once more. “I told you I was happy with my life the way it is.”

“Alone,” I clarify.

He nods, pain crackling in his eyes. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself for years,” he says. “And it was partially true, but mostly, it was a defense mechanism. I spoke with Marco about it recently. He’s been trying to get through to me lately, and I kept shutting him out.”

“Get through to you about what?” I ask.

“About you.”

That surprises me. I’ve never even met this Marco.

“He knew I was numbing myself,” Valentino said. “I stopped using drugs and alcohol, but I still medicated with work and sex and anticipation. I engaged in my ritual for years without letting myself feel anything deeper.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because I was ashamed.” He glances away, and I can tell that this is still new for him, expressing the real, deep things inside.“You asked me how my family died,” he says, and I nod. I’m not looking forward to the answer, but I have to hear it. I have to know his story.

“Do you know a lot about fentanyl?” Valentino asks.

“I know people die from it every day.”

“It’s a relatively cheap drug,” he explains. “A legal painkiller when used correctly, but due to its impurity, the street version is unpredictable and often lethal, even in very small quantities. It’s also dangerously addictive, and many dealers, including myself, would mix simple bonding agents with small amounts of fentanyl to create counterfeit opioid pills, which we would pass off as heroin or cocaine. It was a profitable gig when I was twenty, and fentanyl was easier to smuggle since the doses were relatively low.”

Valentino doesn’t hit me as the drug dealer type. But years ago, who knows who he could have been.

“I was very careful,” he goes on. “I excelled in mathematics and chemistry in college, so my products were dependable and didn’t kill anyone that I know of.”

“You went to college?” I break in, confused as to how his drug dealing career took off when most dealers come from the hood.

“Yes, St. John’s, right here in Queens,” Valentino says. “That’s where I started dealing. It was far more interesting than software engineering.”

“But you still became a software engineer?” I ask. These things don’t add up.

“Later,” Valentino says, “after my drug streak. I made a lot of cash, and I made a lot of enemies as well. I’d been seeing Emilia for a few months when she got pregnant, and we had a shotgun wedding before our son, Michael, was born.

I feel my stomach tighten. I already know where this story is going.

“Emilia used to be in the drug world as well, but she wanted me to stop,” Valentino says, “and so did I, but I was addicted to my work. I hardly took the drugs myself, but making the pills and dealing them got me high. I said I would stop once I made enough to afford a mortgage, since we were living in a shitty basement apartment. I thought I’d covered my tracks, but Nico, an old friend-turned-enemy, found out where I was. He always blamed me for stealing his recipe, when really, it was me who perfected the recipe when he was too high to see what he was doing. I stayed away from him after that and was extra cautious, but not enough.”

“How did you and Emelia meet?” I ask.

“At a party. We got high together, and things took off from there.”

“I thought you said you hardly took the drugs yourself?”

---