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Chapter Thirty-Two

Brad

It’s been nonstop since I got back from LA, and trying to schedule time to speak to Jack and Harry has been difficult.

It’s been hard to focus when all I want to do is be with Gabriella. Without her knowledge, she has brought a calmness to my life. I’ve relaxed my routines without even realizing the very routines that keep my flashbacks and daily internal battles I go through at bay. With every day I spend with her, the need to have complete control and map out my day to the minute to ease my anxieties has faded. When I left the military, I began drinking a lot. It was the only thing that silenced my demons. I did the same thing with drugs in my teens to block all the shit that was going on at home.

When my drinking was impacting my daily routines, I replaced the drink with workouts, replaced drugs with cleaning,and the more I did it and the bad stuff didn’t surface, the more it became my way of living and I feared if I didn’t follow the same things each day, then my demons wouldn’t stay buried. But Gabriella has shown me that maybe I can do life without restraints and strict rules for myself. I was meant to be helping her, but I think she's the one who’s helped me the most.

I am more me when I am with her; the me I want to be, the version of myself I have been fighting to be. She said she wanted my help so she could find someone, but I don’t want her to be with anyone else, and I need to tell her. I reply to a few emails, and my phone vibrates across my desk, an unknown number lighting up the screen.

I answer and regret seeps into my skin the minute I hear the words, “An inmate from Bedford Hills Correctional Facility is trying to call you. Please press one to accept or two to decline.”

I always refuse these phone calls. I have no desire to see my dad or my brother, but something in my gut tells me I need to answer after my visit to my mom’s house.

I press one, and a familiar voice filters through the phone. “Hello, son, long time no speak.” His raspy voice, that’s a mixture of old age and years of nicotine, makes my spine stiffen.

“What do you want?” I say in a clipped tone.

“Now, now, Marco, is that any way to speak to your dad? I want you to come and see me. We have things to discuss.”

Anxiety creeps into my body, the same feeling that made my stomach bottom out when my dad told me he had a job for me or just before his fist would meet my face.

“I’m busy,” I say flatly.

He laughs, and that the sound leaves the hairs on the back of my neck standing. “I think you’ll make time. It’s about your little girlfriend.”

And those words are all I need to say.

“I’ll be there later today.”

I’m scanned, patted down, and searched, as if I were a criminal in order to get through to the visiting room. I’m shown to a booth; a hard plastic chair sits in front of a glass panel with a phone beside it. I sit. The white shirt I’m wearing feels like it's clinging to my body in ways that make me want to tear it from my burning skin. My knee bounces nervously, and I force it to stop when a buzzer rings out, alerting everyone that the prisoners are coming in.

I straighten my spine, my hands ball into fists, my fight or flight mode kicking in. I focus on a tiny drawing on the counter to keep my racing mind focused. It looks like a small child has drawn. It’s a little flower with a sun beside it. This is no place for a child to be, and the thought sickens me.

I lift the phone receiver to my ear and just wait. I don’t notice him arriving or taking a seat. It’s the familiar rasp of his voice that has me lifting my head and staring back at a man who, unfortunately, looks like an older version of me. The version I would have morphed into if it hadn’t been for the military saving me.

He’s aged but he’s still the good-looking fucker he’s always been. Fine lines frame his whiskey colored eyes. His dark hair now graying at the sides and the rolled up sleeves of his orange jumpsuit showcase new ink he’s gained since being inside. He’s still muscular, no doubt in the prison gym on the daily, ready to fight anyone who dares cross him. I often wondered if he tried, he could have been a good man. He’d have treated my mom the way she should have been and not his punching bag. That maybehe’d have wanted his kids to grow up and go to college and get a decent job instead of following in his footsteps into a life of crime, drugs, violence, and lies.

My jaw’s locked so tight I’m shocked I haven’t cracked my back teeth. There’s only ever been one person to make me feel like I’m two feet tall and worthless, and it’s the man staring back at me with an impatient expression, who I have the misfortune of sharing his DNA.

I lift the black phone receiver to my ear and remain silent. The less I talk the less worked up I’ll get.

“Hello, son, nice of you to make the effort to come and see your dad. You’re looking well.”

“What do you want? Why am I here?”

He leans back in his chair, balancing the receiver on his shoulder as he folds his arms. “Come on now, you haven’t seen me in what, nearly eighteen years and you can’t make time to have some small talk?”

‘No,” I say flatly.

He leans forward, taking the phone in his hands and balancing his elbow on the table. “A little birdie tells me you are dating the daughter of the motherfucker that put me and Matteo behind bars, and I need you to do something for me.”

A surprised laugh escapes my lips, and I shake my head. “You are out of your mind. I don’t owe you a damn thing. We’re done here.”

I go to place the receiver down, but his next words send a chill down my spine. “If you don’t want her to get hurt, you’ll do what I fucking say, Marco.”

I clear my throat, a copper taste filling my mouth where I’ve bitten my tongue so hard to stifle the words I want to throw his way. “What do you want?” I grit out.