Selfishness And Cruelty

He heard my confession. Sorrow was in his big, bright blue eyes, and I couldn't bear to see it. I wanted him to be angry. I wanted him to accuse, threaten and yell at me. He did none of that. There was only pain in those pretty eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. He held my face in his palms, and I could see tears forming. "I'm sorry. It was all my fault, just like how Emma got shot. None of this would've happened if I was a stronger man and wasn't weak and pathetic…."

"Don't say things like that," I was distraught, "don't ever say that."

"You know it too, Anne," he disregarded my plea. "I had nothing to give you, and I still don't. If I were half ambitious as Thomas, we wouldn't be where we are now. Neither of us would've had to marry."

"Please, Laurie, stop," I could feel my eyes turning red, "I beg you. It's not your fault. Not about Emma, and not about us. If you must seek solace in believing you're at fault, then my fault is just as pronounced as yours. I was cruelly selfish. I could've said no to Thomas. I could've left. But I chose to stay. Because of selfishness, I thought I'd get what I wanted. I thought I could live a life I don't deserve, be something I'm not and still keep you by my side. I made us this way. And I've been praying to God for forgiveness ever since."

"Perhaps we can find a way out," he said as he kissed me. The passion in his tone and the warmth of his tears on my cheeks made me limp. "Perhaps we can escape."

-----

I sat still watching Thomas pacing around with a cigarette in hand. It was a form of intimidation that I came to know rather well.

"No," he made a sudden stop, "no."

"Am I allowed to ask why?" I spoke. The delicate distance between him and me created by the wide office table made me feel small.

"Why?" My audacity made him sneer. "Are you seriously asking me why? Have you forgotten what I've told you about the Italians?"

"We don't fuck with them," I answered. 

"Exactly. Don't let your emotions get you and the rest of the family into unnecessary trouble," he warned. "He got himself tangled with them, and that's his problem."

I stood up.

"Leave it." He put out his smoke. "Let me repeat it to you if you still can't remember: We don't mess with the Chicago Italians."

In any ordinary case, I'd follow his order dutifully. Not this time, however. This time, it was personal.

"You won't do anything out of line," he raised his voice as I turned my back to him and began walking away.

I stopped. I didn't know for sure – certainty had always been out of the question – but perhaps this was the time to have a voice, to tell him that I wanted to tie up what was left loose.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The windows shattered. Something chafed my arm. I could see blood from the cut. The pain came in the form of gradual suffering.

Time froze in chaos. Thomas got under his desk. I thought about taking cover with him.

Then I had another thought: Would I feel alive if I got shot?

Thomas yelled at me. He sounded hysterical, distressed, and even concerned. I was pleased and glad to see him finally showing emotion. He was still human. 

I smiled.

He yelled again. I couldn't mutter a word. 

Then he came for me. His hand was on my back, forcing me to stay low. And I was taken to safety.

The pops continued. And all I could think of was the first time I danced with Laurie. 

-----

I sat on the edge of my bed. Thomas stood in front of me, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"What the hell was that?" his voice was husky, squeezing the words out between his teeth. "Have you lost your damn mind?"

He rarely swore. At this moment, he was coarse, unlike the fine-tuned, decorated, and sophisticated self he'd been portraying to the world. Was this the real him? I'd never know, though I wasn't complaining.

He glanced over my wrapped wound, watching blood silently soaking through the white linen.

"Had it cross your wicked mind – even to the slightest –" he paused after realizing he had raised his voice. He gathered himself and went on: "How would I – this family – feel if you died in such a pathetic way?"

"Pity," I said. I thought about Laurie, his thin body lying beside me in this bed. That was all I could think of.

"You will not die in vain without my permission," he demanded childishly. "The only person with the right to take your life is me."

"Did you say that to your first wife too?" I mocked.

I had never seen him this angry because of one single sentence.  

"I called the others for a meeting," he inhaled deeply as his voice returned to flaccid, yet malice in those eyes said otherwise. "In the office, now. We should go."

-----

Everyone was in their assigned seat. Wesley had a chair by the door. It was better than standing. It wouldn't be long until he earned himself a place at the table. He frowned when he saw me. I could tell he tried to refrain from showing much care. When I passed him, I gently brushed against his arm.

"The Changs open fired at my house," Thomas didn't waste any second. "It's a warning. They're telling us that they'd come after us. All of us."

"Look what you did!" Lizzie squealed. She gave Victoria a blamed glare before covering her face with her hands.

Victoria crossed her arms.

"The deal is certainly off," Thomas sighed and continued broodingly. "We'll stay at Lizzie's other house until things are settled."

Confused expressions and curled lips. He spilled his sister's secret without care.

"It's in the Hills," she confessed reluctantly. "Not that big of a house, but it has enough space. I bought it at 31'. Thought it would come into use eventually."

-----

"Help me," I said, "I have to save him."

"Why?"

"I can't go alone. I'd like to have a driver."

"Not that. Why?"

"I thought I had come to an acceptance. But now he showed up again, and I must settle it once and for all."

"And you think I'll help you, why?"

"Tell on me to Thomas. You may even earn yourself a seat before marrying into this family."

-----

Cecil Hotel was quiet at nighttime. Wesley stayed in the car. He insisted on coming with me, but I made sure he stayed behind. I told him it would be too reckless. One of us had to live on to tell the tale. He had to live.

"Anne," he said my name. I stepped out of the car. He swallowed. "Be careful."

I smiled a faint smile. 

I walked through the doors in a decent dress. I could die, yet I wouldn't want to be anywhere else tonight. Not even to be with Laurie by the ocean. This was the first time in a long while since I last risked my life for a personal cause.

Up in the elevator and down the hall. It was time.

Quietly, I sneaked in. The lights were off, and the suite was in an eerie silence. 

I went through the place room by room, avoiding making any sound. The pale moonlight through the gaps between the curtains and the dim flame from the lighter illuminated my path.

He was in the bathroom, curled up in a corner. Gagged and tied.

His eyes lit up with hope when he saw me.

He was weak, vulnerable, and hurt. I had never seen him in such a state of despair.

I freed him from his restraints.

Shakily, he touched my cheek. I let him. His hands held my face, and his forehead was against mine. He had aged. His wrinkles had deepened with time, and the grey strands took refuge in the light hair.

 All had aged.

Nothing was said. Nothing needed or could be said.

I took a deep breath and nodded. He nodded back. Steadily I helped him up and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. In my memory, he was pale and lean. As I held onto him, I realized he had gotten thinner. He was almost as slender as Laurie, though the latter had been that way since youth. He was aged and frail, though his warm, bright, and deceitful smile hadn't changed one bit.

I loved this man once. I was naïve and foolish but without regrets.

He and I approached the door and had nearly gotten away. I didn't like how easy this seemed. Something was off. I was sure of it. Then I heard a soft moan coming from the corner of the drawing room.

"Stay here," I mouthed the words. He grabbed my arm. I shook his hand off.

With my revolver in hand and ready to shoot at whatever was in the way, I found De Rossi lying on the floor, breathing his last breaths.

"What happened?" I asked and knelt next to him.

De Rossi started to laugh maniacally.

"Who wants you dead?"

"Fuck you," he spat blood onto my made-up face. "You're fucked. So is the Murphy family. Just wait and see."

"That's a nice thing to say." I wiped the blood off and proceeded to stick my index finger into his bullet wound. He groaned. "Let's try again: who wants you dead?"

"I've told you before," he laughed for the last time. "You are horrible at this."

I sighed and stood up:

"Goodbye, Mr. De Rossi."

A shot. The moaning stopped. I waited a few seconds to be sure before hurrying back to him.

He was in a state of stupor. His eyes were blank. He had succumbed to numbness. 

"Neil, hey," I said softly, "it's okay. Let's get going."