Torture to Her Soul
Page 101

"She ruined you," he says.
"She didn't ruin me," I say. "She just made me realize there wasn't anything left to salvage in the first place. I died with your daughter, Raymond. I'm the walking dead, and nobody loves a monster. Nobody."
I pull my hand from his, eye shifting to Brandy. She's watching me curiously. My eyes trail over her. She's showing more skin than she's covering.
I turn back to Ray, shaking my head. "Appreciate what you have, while you have it. God knows I wish I could've kept what I had."
I walk away, walking out, not bothering to say goodbye.
I know this isn't the end.
The end will be a bullet to the head.
Nobody walks away, but I'm going to.
Maybe I'll get a day.
A week.
A month.
It won't matter, though, because the end will come eventually. I'm living with a ticking clock strapped to my chest, counting down the seconds I have left.
But then again, I've been living that way for decades.
I drive around for a while, not ready to go home. I haven't been home since she left, since she walked out that door and didn't look back. It hasn't even been a whole day, but it feels like an eternity. She took nothing except her purse, leaving her clothes and phone behind. I wish I knew where she went, or what she's doing, just so I know she's safe, but a promise is a promise.
She's resilient.
As long as she stays away from this godforsaken place, she'll make it.
I have to believe that.
I end up in Hell's Kitchen an hour later, standing on the front steps of my parent's townhouse. I hesitate before knocking quietly, tapping on the old wooden door. I hear my mother's voice inside calling out, saying she's coming. I lean back against the railing, crossing my arms over my chest as I wait.
A moment later, the door opens, my mother appearing. Michelle Vitale is beautiful, looking so much younger than her sixty years, and I know it's natural. It's the kind of beauty that comes from years of unconditional love and a lack of stress. It's what my staying away does for her. As much as she might miss me, and love me, I know she's better off away from the reality of my life. I know it, and my father certainly knows it.
It's why he doesn't want me near her.
But I can't help myself today.
There's no cure for life's ills quite like your mother's smiling face.
She beams when she sees me, gasping with surprise, and instantly pulls me into a hug. Her grip is tight. I hug her back.
She has a way of making me feel like that little boy again, and not just the shell of him. All of him.
"Ignazio!" she says. "What a wonderful surprise!"
"Mom," I say, kissing her cheek. "You look as beautiful as ever."
"Oh, you keep your flattery," she says, blushing as she swats at my chest. "Come in, come in… I was just making some lunch."
I hesitate before stepping inside. She shuts the door behind me, making a point to lock it. They never did that when I was growing up, never bothered to lock their doors, just like they used to not worry about security at the deli. Just like there, I wonder if this is a sign of the times changing or if it's something my father did because of me.
I follow her to the kitchen, plopping down in a chair at the small table.
My mother's a spitfire, gossiping and chatting away like no time at all has passed since she last saw me, treating me as if I'm here for lunch every day. She treats me like I belong.
I miss that.
Belonging.
I listen, happily, her voice putting me at ease, and I chime in when she asks something, but otherwise I just let her talk. She's interrupted after a few minutes by the phone ringing, and she scurries to the living room to answer it. I sit in silence for a moment, looking around. Everything still looks like it did years ago.
She returns, spooning some spaghetti onto plates, and turns to me with a smile. "I hope you're hungry."
I return her smile as she sets the plate in front of me, joining me at the table with a plate of her own. I bow my head instinctively as she says a quick prayer before I grab my fork, stabbing at the pasta.
"This isn't poisoned, is it?" I ask, taking a bite.
She laughs, reaching across the table to smack my arm. "You know better than that, Ignazio. Who in the world would try to poison my boy with spaghetti?"
I shrug a shoulder. "You'd be surprised."
She launches back into gossip again. I just enjoy the company and the homemade meal. My plate is practically licked clean when I push it away, leaning back in the chair. I'm about to thank her, the words on the tip of my tongue, when there's a pounding on the front door. My muscles tense as she lets out an exaggerated sigh, pushing her chair back to stand.
"That's probably your father," she says, rolling her eyes. "He always forgets his house key."
"Were you expecting him for lunch?" I ask.
"No, but I'm not surprised he's here," she says. "That was him that called a bit ago… he was so surprised when I told him you were visiting. He thought I was pulling his leg, said he couldn't believe you were here."
My stomach sinks as she says that.
She thinks his surprise is good.
I know it's not.
I push my chair back and stand up. I follow her, hearing the familiar voice as soon as she opens the front door. It's not my father, no, but he sent somebody. I expect no less.