Page 72 of Deceptive Desires (The Syndicate #2)

Cecilia

Five weeks later…

I look around the café I work at, and sigh. After over a month in Marigold Valley, I still have trouble accepting the reality of my new life.

I have a job as a barista. It’s not bad, but it’s different.

I live in a studio apartment and have a sweet elderly neighbor, Mr. Banks.

He’s my only friend here. I’ve had some customers and coworkers try to initiate friendships, but I just don’t have it in me.

I can’t let anyone in. I don’t know how to trust anymore.

Not just others, but myself. I never doubted Roman, not for a minute. And look at how wrong I was.

My days feel meaningless. I work as much as possible, not that I’m desperate for money.

With how frugal I’ve been, I still have plenty of what Leo gave me.

He’s my only connection to my old life. To Cecilia María álvarez Rivera.

To the ghost of my past. But despite how hard he tries to stay connected, it hurts too much.

I barely reply unless it’s about the people I care about. My family. Gracie… The Montclairs.

He only updates me on Roman’s family when it’s pertinent to their search. I know they’re still looking. All of them. So, I can’t reach out to my family yet.

But I care. More than I should. And not because of the problems they’re causing me. But because despite what they’ve done, despite who they are, I still love them.

I still love him.

I lift my hand to my long necklace chain, lift it from under my shirt, and hold the engagement ring. It’s the only thing I kept. I’ve tried to get rid of it so many times, but I just can’t.

Because despite how dumb it is, despite not even knowing the man, he’s still my Roman. My héroe.

I still have trouble connecting the monster to the hero.

I still have dreams about him. On the good nights, he’s holding me, caring for me, saving me. We’re back at the penthouse loving each other. And I wake up only to cry at my reality.

On the bad nights, I watch him torture and kill people I love. People I don’t know. Innocent people. And I wake up drenched in sweat.

Because of the dreams, I work every early shift I can. I work doubles most days. Always the one to pick up other’s shifts. I need the distraction, or I find myself wallowing in my depression.

After work, I head home every day.

My only joy is cooking dinner for Mr. Banks. He’s a kind man, never prying, but always here for me. I know he suspects I’m running from something, but he never asks.

I cook my native dishes almost every night, needing that connection to home.

He loves them, always praising the food.

It feels good to share that connection to home with someone.

Sometimes we watch old war movies and westerns.

I’ve never been a fan of action before, but so much about me has changed.

I’m not Cecilia María álvarez Rivera. I’ll never be her again. And I’ve had to sever all ties to her.

I don’t do yoga. I run now. Every day. To chase the demons away. Some mornings, if I wake too early, I’m running at three a.m. I don’t go shopping or gardening. But in my free time, I crochet. It’s a craft I picked up from Mr. Banks. We crochet while watching the violent black-and-whites.

I keep busy. Working. Running. Cooking. Mr. Banks. Just so I can’t be stuck in the past.

I know it’s no way to live. It’s not conducive. And long term, it’ll drive me crazy. But I’m still in denial about the permanence of my situation. The only thing keeping me in Marigold Valley is my elderly friend.

“Emily, we need more cups. Go get them from the back,” my teenage manager tells me.

“On it!” I yell back wearing a fake smile.

The same fake smile that I’ve been wearing the past five weeks.

Because I don’t know if I’m capable of smiling anymore.

If I’m capable of happiness.