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PLEASE DON’T ASK

SANTINO

O scar’s office on a busy street in Jackson Heights was tiny as fuck. Santino sat at his desk, reading over the settlement papers for probably the tenth time until the ink was swimming in front of his eyes.

His lawyer was leaning back in his chair, contemplating the dingy water-stained ceiling while Santino hunched over that paper. The office secretary, who was also the notary, waited quietly in the corner behind Oscar, her eyes glued to the paper.

Maybe it wasn’t the ink swimming. Something must have gotten in his eyes. No way could he be about to cry over this shit, again. He’d looked at it so many times he’d thought he would have steeled his heart by now.

Wrong.

His hand shook, so he rested it on the paper, giving himself another minute.

As if Vanessa would miraculously burst through the door or tumble through the window, dressed in her spandex and cape.

As if she’d snatch the pen, break it in half and rescue him from this.

Turning to the door, he paused, but no. No sign of her.

It had been three weeks since they’d returned from Montreal. Three weeks of him walking around trying to pick up the pieces and move on from the disaster. He’d had to make some decisions about what moving on really meant, and it started with these fucking papers.

“You ready to do this or not, chamaco ?” Oscar asked. “If not, my mom could use some new rims on that Benz.”

Usually, a joke like that could get him to crack a smile.

Not today. Santino put his large hand on the papers again while Oscar went motionless.

Then he scrawled his signature on the space above his printed name, tossed the pen down and slouched back in his seat.

The wind was knocked out of him. He couldn’t fucking breathe.

He couldn’t face Oscar’s sympathetic stare, either, as the secretary silently notarized the document, then left the office.

Oscar cleared his throat. “Alright, so, next step is for me to have it filed with the court. The judge will sign the decree. You won’t have to attend for that; that’ll be up to her lawyer and me. After that, expect a delivery of the certified copy and you’ll be a free man.”

Freedom? Sure, like being pushed out of a spaceship to float into the dark, cold hell of outer space. Unmoored. No way home.

Santino couldn’t speak. Flushed, he pulled at his shirt, but it felt fused to his skin. Airless, he put his head between his knees, hoping like fuck his lunch wouldn’t come back up. He should’ve known better than to eat before this.

“It’s okay, bro. It feels bad now, but you’ll be okay,” Oscar tried. “Give it a little time and you can start over. Maybe start dating again. You’re a good guy, someone will appreciate —"

Lurching to his feet, Santino attempted a grin. “All good. I’ve gotta go. Thanks.”

“I’m free to go get a drink if you want.” Oscar stoo,d but Santino was already halfway out the door.

“Some other time.”

The interior of his car was sweltering. He sat there, trying to regain his bearings, and finally, he managed to put the car in gear and leave.

It was midday, and the drive from Queens to the Northeast Bronx was quick.

When Santino arrived at the park in Anne’s Harbor, he was just in time to see Bobby defeating one of Patrick’s buddies in racquetball.

His dark skin held a sheen of sweat from the exercise, in addition to the afternoon heat and humidity.

“You’re next, old man,” Bobby said, pointing at Patrick with his racquet.

Patrick groused, “You only wish you could take me.” With his big square 80s shades and a bit more salt than pepper in his hair, Patrick would have been a great extra for a GoodFellas sequel if one was ever made.

Bobby laughed, then spotting Santino as he approached, he raised his chin in greeting. They slapped hands.

“My son has arrived,” Patrick announced to his friends with a grand gesture. “Youse better get ready to get the crap beat out of you.”

“He means that literally,” Bobby said, clearly enjoying the good-natured trash talking.

It was good to see Bobby out and about after three weeks or so of hibernation at his and Vanessa’s Uncle Norton’s. He’d taken a leave of absence from work and seemed to be doing alright, almost like the Bobby he’d first known, albeit sad at not living under the same roof as his daughter.

Santino sat down beside him on a bench apart from Patrick and the others. A much-needed breeze picked up and fanned their faces. Bobby closed his eyes in appreciation.

“I heard from my sister you guys haven’t been speaking since Montreal. What’s up with you? What’s going on?”

Santino shrugged, looking at the players now on the court.

Bobby continued. “Vanessa’s going through a lot right now. She got fired from her job. She was on some big case and quit at the last minute. Her boss was not happy.”

Santino stared at his own hands, not responding.

While they were away, Vanessa had mentioned that guy Claremore and how she was dreading the trial resuming.

She hadn’t talked much about work, but she’d said enough for him to know she’d been unhappy at the firm in general.

To hear the news about her being let go made him sad but also proud of her, for finally doing what she believed was right, even if it cost her.

At least financially, due to the settlement he’d just signed, she’d be okay for money.

When there was no response to that, Bobby asked, “So what’s up? What have you been doing?”

“I made an offer to the guy I’m renting from to buy the house. I started doing a full reno on it and I figured, why let him get the benefit of the improvements? It’s bad right now, but it’s gonna look really good.”

Bobby favored him with a sharp look. “You’re buying a house. Why aren’t you moving back in with Vanessa?”

“I signed the papers today,” Santino said abruptly.

Bobby’s eyes widened with shock. He was silent while absorbing the news. When he could find his voice, he asked, “What the hell for? I thought whatever break you guys needed would be temporary. You have to work this out. Don’t let what happened with Zoe —”

Santino leaned forward, clasping his hands together between his knees. “It’s not about Zoe or Malone or anybody else. Your sister doesn’t want to be married to me anymore. I finally had to accept it. It’s what they call irreconcilable differences.”

“Even though she’s got shit to work out, like we all do, I know my sister loves you. I think you know that, too.”

Santino’s laugh was short, an ugly, wounded sound. “I don’t know anything anymore. Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

Sympathy shone in Bobby’s eyes when he put out his hand. Santino shook it, suddenly incapable of getting words past the lump in his throat. He left before Patrick could demand his presence on the court.

Today was supposed to be a Kelly Day for him, but he wasn’t in the mood to face the next four hours alone in his house until Gina could get off work and come over with the baby.

After a couple of listless hours at the station helping clean the rigs, Santino only stopped at the house long enough to change into a tank top and jeans, went back to switch cars with Dom, then somehow found himself on his old path to Vanessa’s.

The compulsion was just too strong. He parked down the street in his usual spot after seeing her car was in the driveway.

Her hours were strange now. There was no set routine anymore, no telling when she would leave in the morning or where she might be in the afternoon or evening. At least now he understood why, thanks to Bobby.

Either way, he was now following her more often to a cozy Victorian on the Bronx side of the county line where she would enter and come out swollen-eyed about forty-five minutes later.

The sign on the gold plate next to the front door said “Charmaine Drayton-Chang, LSCW” and below that, “Martin Drayton-Chang, LSCW.”

She’d deleted her dating profile. There’d been no sign of Malone, who’d stopped the creepster calls.

No new dude to chase away. Fifth Avenue was silent.

After the judge signed off on the settlement, there would be no legal ties to Vanessa aside from the money transferring from one account to the other.

She didn’t need his protection anymore. So, what the fuck was he still doing out here?

Being a pathetic piece of shit, that’s what. Aching for someone who’d told him to move on, someone who wouldn’t give him what he needed, despite his best efforts to prove they needed each other, that they belonged together.

This is why he’d decided last night that he had to leave New York and move to Italy for a while. He’d leave Angelo in charge of the reno and rent it out to a family that could use a decent home for reasonable rent; he might be a degenerate, but at least he wouldn’t be a scumbag landlord.

The move to Italy had to happen soon. He had dual citizenship, a place to stay, and people who loved him without conditions.

He couldn’t spend another sleepless night in that house wracked with longing for her.

Leaving would be his one last hope to free himself from the invisible chains binding him to her.

But as he sat there on that quiet road, hating himself for this unrelenting hunger to see her, this unquenchable thirst for even a glimpse of her, a car drove up to the house and pulled into the driveway beside Vanessa’s.

It was a Volvo, a late model hybrid. Sitting up straighter to see who emerged, Santino squinted when the driver hopped out and walked up to the front door.

It was a woman, petite and curvy. She used the doorknocker rather than her own delicate honey-brown hand, then straightened her summery carnation pink dress.

After that, with fluttery bird-like movements he’d once known so well, she smoothed down her shoulder-length hair. It used to be a lot longer.

Fucking Antoinette .

Santino’s hand went to the door handle without thinking.

He was ready to jump out, walk over to the house and demand to know what the fuck she wanted, now seized with certainty that she’d been the one calling again after all.

Most likely, she still thought he lived here.

What could she possibly want from him now?

Another rescue? Or had the Park Avenue Princess grown bored and felt like stirring shit up?

Then he realized that should Vanessa open the door and see him there, she’d know what he’d been doing this whole time. She’d know he was nothing but a stalker who was so pathetic, so desperate, that he’d resorted to crossing boundaries that went way beyond following her into a bathroom.

He had no choice but to stay in the car and hope like hell that whatever Antoinette had to say, it wasn’t anything that would wound Vanessa all over again. Hands clenched on the wheel, stomach roiling, he settled in, his eyes fixed on that house. Then he waited.