Page 39 of Bronx

“I’m only sure about my dick and taxes, but so far, I believe her story.”

“And you haven’t told her who you are?”

“Didn’t think that’d be wise.”

“I can’t believe that Dad has been looking for this asshole for years and his sister just pops out of nowhere. Wait until I tell–”

“You’re not going to tell him anything.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not your story to tell.”

Seven sighs heavily, then redirects the conversation. “What’s his name?”

“Lev.”

“You said this Lev person was a black guy with an Eastern European accent. How hard can it be to track someone like that down now that we have a name?”

“True.”

“You have a last name too?”

“Moore.”

I hear Seven typing something in the background.

“The girl who called the house didn’t have an accent though,” he remembers.

“You’re right, she doesn’t. I don’t think she’s even ever been out of the country.”

“Hmm, that could explain why Uncle Cam could never find anything on him? Lev Moore is probably not his real name.”

“Maybe not, but that’s what Karma calls him.”

“Karma,” he repeats the name.

“The sister?”

“Right, and she wants you to help her find him?”

“That’s the job.”

“Well, does she want him to die? Because if you ever find him, that will be a certain death sentence for that motherfucker.”

Seven’s voice is more animated than I’ve heard in a long time. The pain of not having closure with what happened that night has lingered for us both in one way or another.

“He instructed her that if she ever needed a big favor, and she couldn’t get a hold of him, to call me.”

“Why the fuck would he do that?”

I pause for a moment and uphold the lie that I’ve been repeating to my family for six years.

“I don’t know.”

It’s the lie that continues to broaden the distance between me and them. I never told anyone in my family, even Seven, that Lev and I had that strange conversation where he made me promise to live a boring life and be a better person than my father and then held off his partner and told me to run.

Why haven’t I told them?