Ghost of my Mafia Lover

Chapter 7

In a way, going to Owen’s place is the safest option. If I get there, and he’s happy to invite me, I’ll be safer with him than going back home.

That smiling Italian is certainly the one that shot Marc. And he had the audacity to call me, “Sweetheart."

Marcus used to say that to me because I was his one and only sweetheart. It became a running joke because he never used sweet words… no… not that much, except when he called me Sweetheart. I knew that he loved me when he said it… I just felt my skin crawl when that guy said it. I just know that he’s the one that killed Marcus.

The funny thing is I don’t remember his face at all. I don’t know what he would have against Marcus.

I take another turn and pull out the map. The rainy streets are quiet with a few townspeople going on their way. I’m imagining growing wings. I need to get there fast.

I turn the corner and go past the Spicy Dragon. I remember that night I tried their hotpot. That was the night I let go of myself and now… I’ve put his life in danger…

Now I’m on the way to possibly save a man that I’m falling in love with… in the rain. I’ve started to love him. But in the process of that, I need to come clean to him and tell him everything so that we can get out of this…

I make another turn, determined with each step that I have made up my mind to tell him the truth. I’m finally going to let him into my life.

I don’t have a choice anymore. If he loves me, we can make anything work. I’m going to tell Owen everything. I can’t keep on living a lie. I make it my marching song as I stomp through the rain.

The rain is falling a bit harder. I grip my umbrella, but the raindrops are cutting through the sides and making the old map fragile with every drop.

I walk faster hoping my presence at his place will be what’s needed. There’s even more urgency as the rain begins to pick up. It’s pattering harder. The quiet streets are almost empty as I take another turn hoping the direction of the map is correct.

This is strange to me because I’m going further into a place where there are no houses. It takes me to the back of the town where there are storage facilities and warehouses.

I get to the place that’s supposed to be Owen’s house. It’s a warehouse with a huge door that opens by sliding the chains on the side.

I dutifully push, pull and tug, but it’s not budging. I try knocking, perhaps he can hear me.

The rain is falling harder and a loud crackle of thunder jolts me to action. I walk around the building trying to find a place to hide from the rain. At the side of the building, there’s an open door and a light is coming out.

I rush inside and instantly, I smell the scent that I remember. It’s like a delicate infusion of all the smells I love packaged in his strong musk. I can feel him in the air, but he’s nowhere in sight.

“Hello… Owen…?” I say it louder this time. “Owen, are you here?” The sound fills up the whole space. My echoing voice gives me a better understanding of the vast space I’m in. It’s so quiet, empty and bare…

That’s when your heart skips a beat… this place isn’t right… There’s something out of place. The image of Owen that I had constructed in my head doesn’t fit here; it’s like I’m in someone else’s house.

The warehouse has a space with a lot of screens and an office chair facing those screens. It looks like a Wall Street trading desk or a serious gamer’s paradise, but I don’t focus on that.

I can see a bed, some books on psychology, game-theory and cryptography. The only book on woodwork is the last book he took from the library.

I can’t believe it. I jump when I see what's on his nightstand. There is a grey pistol resting near a pack of condoms.

I realize that I don’t know this person at all, and this place, whatever it is, is what he’s been hiding from me.

He’s not who he said he was. He has been lying to me the whole time.

He’s not a carpenter. I’m looking around to see anything to do with his passion.

The large space is bare and empty: no saws, no workbenches, no woody smell — nothing that belongs to the stories I’d built in my head.

I move forward to a table laden with sleek, black electronic equipment in front of a sleek office chair.

What is this?

I tap the space bar and the CPU hums to life. It awakes from hibernation, casting a blue light.

My face stares back at me on the screen — my real face from a life I thought I’d lost: Sofia Tassoni.

And next to it, text.

SUBJECT: TASSONI, Sofia (Clara Evans)

HANDLER: Corbin, O.

STATUS: Compliant. Unaware.

LATEST ENTRY: Emotional connection remains stable.

My skin grows cold, my heart is racing.

The world tilts; my knees go weak. I stumble, my hand slapping over my mouth as if I can hold the voice in.

The dates. The walks. The kiss in the rain. It was all a lie.