The Trophy Wife

TWENTY THREE: Funeral

I just hope that you're all staying safe and healthy. This year has really sucked.

There's ONE more (short) chapter after this that I literally just finished writing, so after I edit it (tomorrow) I'll post it. There's still a couple of ideas that I think need adjustments.

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About thirty minutes after Dante reluctantly left me alone in Enzo's office, I began to panic. Rather than hearing the screams and gun shots that previously flooded my conscious, thoughts about my future –– what I imagined to be a very bleak future –– launched me straight into a new episode of dry heaving into the metal trash can beside his desk.

What was I supposed to do now?

That question was clawing its way into the deepest recess of my mind. The words, "What Now," turned into an ear shattering chant despite my efforts to curve the unwelcomed thought. After about an hour of pacing back and forth, desperately trying to catch my breath and regain control over my sanity, I gave up.

Enzo, what's wrong? I had asked him one night as he pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and balled the other into a tight fist. You're scaring me. I whispered, kneeling down on the floor beside his leather chair.

It's nothing. He answered in a quiet, strained voice. It'll pass, my love.

What will pass? I pleaded. It was so unlike him –– to sit there so helpless and afraid –– I didn't know what to do. I remember thinking that it was hurting him though. Whatever he was feeling physically hurt him

I had a long night. He explained, and instantly I knew what that meant. I knew the horrors that his 'long nights' consisted of. Upstairs, Enzo spoke in a tight voice, causing me to believe that he was close to using up the little bit of oxygen that was left in his lungs. Upstairs, underneath my grandmother's ottoman there is a small box. Bring it to me, please.

So I did. I ran upstairs to our bedroom, got down on my stomach, and reached my hand underneath the antique. Despite Enzo's extravagant lifestyle, I expected to find some kind of old shoe box. Instead I found a very sturdy, silver safe. It was heavy, but I managed to lug it downstairs and place it in front of him on his desk.

06240913. He said, still not opening his eyes.

Our wedding anniversary and my birthday.

I quickly punched in the code and opened the box to find bottles and bottles of pills. Enzo picked up an orange bottle and popped two of them into his mouth, swallowing them without water or anything. I'll be fine. He said again, and sure enough, he was.

Well now I wanted to be fine. I needed to be fine at least for a little while because it was hurting me. The fear, the stress, the anxiety, the grief. It hurt my head and my chest and my arms and my stomach and my back. Everything hurt me, so I ran upstairs and searched desperately for his safe.

I was afraid that during the raid, the cops might've taken it, but no. It was still there, just where I had seen it last. I paused for a moment though, not to think about what I was about to do, but to wonder if they had actually taken anything or if Anthony had stopped them in time, because to my eyes, everything looked the same.

It was a useless thought though. Most likely I'd never know and even if I did find out, it wouldn't change anything about my life, so I forgot about it and swallowed only one pill, afraid that I wouldn't be able to tolerate the two of them like he could.

The tension in my muscles slowly released and my brain began to fog up, making it difficult to hold on to any one thought for too long. "Thank God," I sighed, laying down on the floor beside his grandmother's ottoman.