STOLEN SMILE

CATERINA

"I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best."

-Walt Whitman

†*******†

THE TICKING OF THE CLOCK brought my gaze to it as I slipped off the island. I'd been engaged to Jenn for only one hour, yet I already felt turned inside out, as if she'd stolen a few of my layers and I'd never get them back. I knew I made the right decision not to give her every piece of me. If I did, the inevitable would happen, and I'd be nothing but dust beneath her feet while she ruled New York's underworld.

I traced the rim of her whiskey glass, the air-conditioning cool against my bare skin. I leaned on the counter and sipped the liquor, hoping it would numb the abrasive feeling of her scruff against my neck, hoping it would make her clean, her scent disappear from my nose. It didn't.

When the sound of the garage door opening met my ears, I glanced toward the noise. I wondered if she would leave me here alone, but when I didn't hear any engines starting, I imagined she was only working on her cars.

I tossed back the rest of the warm whiskey and set the glass on the counter, but before I could walk away, my eyes caught on some paperwork. Hesitation flooded me, but I took a step forward and grabbed the top paper between two fingers.

I stared at my fiancé's private bank account information, my heart beating with confliction. Vacillation at the wrongness of my intentions. Yet, I felt the hope of absolution, no matter how small it might be.

This life I was born into might be dark, but it was transparent. The Cosa Nostra was only a candid version of the Outside's politician smiles. I knew this world, knew its darkness, knew its light. And I knew that I was good, but sometimes even the good has its shadows.

Before I could think more about it, I pulled open cupboard drawer after drawer, searching for a pen and paper. When I found them, I copied the information down and slipped it into the bottom of my duffel bag.

You can only sink or swim.

You can't swim in the underworld, but I'd always heard drowning was the best way to go.

†*****†

After dressing, I took a tour of the home. I found three bedrooms upstairs and dropped my bag on the queen-sized bed of one that had to be a spare. Cream walls, white duvet and furniture. It was understated elegance, and I knew Jenn hadn't been the one to decorate it.

A bay window with a seat below took up the far wall and looked over the backyard and garage. My fingers touched the glass as my gaze found Jenn whose head was beneath the hood of one of her cars in the drive. Only her side profile was visible, but my heart thumped to an uneven beat. She wore a white t-shirt, her button-up and tie lying in a pile on one of the lawn chairs.

I wondered who did her laundry. She said she had a cook, but it was close to lunchtime and no one had arrived yet. I really didn't know how to cook. It was a travesty for an Italian woman, I knew, but I partly blamed it on my mamma for never teaching me. She was a perfectionist in the kitchen and would slap our hands if we took one misstep, so it had always been easier to stay out of her way.

Heading out of my new bedroom, I stopped in front of the master. With gray walls and mahogany furniture, it had a masculine touch. The large bed was unmade, and dress shirts and ties lay over the back of a chair, some fallen to the floor. It looked like a messy king lived in here. I had an impulse to clean it, but I quelled it and moved on. I didn't know how she would feel about me going through her things and I didn't want to. I might have to live with her, but this was an arrangement-not a real marriage.