Ghost of my Mafia Lover

Chapter 8

My first instinct is pure animal flight. I’ve got to get out of this bland cage, back to my own four walls, and lock the world away.

But I look at the high, rain-soaked windows of the warehouse. It’s a downpour out there, I can’t get back easily. At that moment, leaving isn't a real possibility. I’m trapped by the weather and by the truth.

I’m thinking of what to do. I’m considering the best options. It’s this moment when I feel I have to make a choice, but I don’t know what to do.. My mind is whirling in place.

I hear boots marching from outside. Too late.

Owen appears in the doorway, a dark shape against the gloom. He’s breathing hard. His eyes go from me, standing frozen in the center of the room, to the monitor behind me, where my face—Sofia’s face—still glows beside his damning words.

His own expression shatters, the careful, gentle mask he always wore crumbling into pure, unguarded dread.

“What’s going on?” My voice is a thread, tight with a fury I don’t yet feel. “What is all this, Owen?”

He doesn’t try to deny it. He doesn’t even look at the screen again because he knows his indiscretions. I’m livid, I can’t believe he’d do this to me.

His eyes lock on mine, and they pierce my soul. They’re looking deeply inside of me. Sharper. Older. Haunted. He moves toward me with his arm raised to touch my shoulder and says:

“Clara…”

I raise my hand to stop his words.

“Sofia,” I spit.

He flinches. “Sofia. I know how this looks. I can’t explain everything right now. But you have to believe me, I am here to keep you safe.”

He takes a step forward, but I step back, hitting the edge of the desk. “I just came from your house. The mug was one thing, but they’ve been inside again. I thought they’d gotten to you already. They’re going to be here any minute.”

“Who? What are you talking about?” The words are automatic. I’m not listening to his new story. I’m watching the old one decompose in front of me.

He was playing me the whole time, and now I’m not going to be fooled any more by him. He thinks I was his stupid dud, but I’m not going to let him take advantage of me ever again.

It feels like I’m spiraling. My fists are clenched, and my feet are ready for combat. I feel like punching something, my knuckles are just itching for it.

He runs a hand over his face, and in the stark light from the monitor, I see it. He cups his wrist and squeezes his chin searching for an answer.

When he raises his hand to his face, I take a closer look at his hand. His knuckles are split, raw. I take a closer look at his body. A dark, blooming stain is spreading through the fabric near his ribs.

I feel my heart yearning to give him a tender touch, but my fury is still kindled toward him. How could he betray me so easily? I gave him everything. Why did he choose to take my love for granted?

“Why did you try to make me fall in love with you?” The question tears out of me, pathetic and essential. I need to hear him say it. I need the final nail.

His gaze drops. “It wasn’t the intention,” he says, his voice rough. “It became… an operational complication. I thought I could manage it. I was wrong.”

He moves past me, not to touch me, but to a metal locker. He pulls out a weathered duffel bag. “I will tell you everything. But we have to get out of this building. Now.”

As he turns, packing things with a brutal efficiency—a handgun, boxes of ammo, stacks of cash, passports—the movement pulls his shirt tight. The stain is larger. It’s fresh.

“You’re bleeding,” I say through the shock.

“It’s nothing. I’ll deal with it when we’re clear.”

“You’ll bleed out before you’re clear.” The words are flat. I’m not doing this for him. I’m doing it because a wounded animal is slower, and I am, inexplicably, still in this with him. “Do you have a bandage? Anything?”

He pauses, then nods toward the locker. His breathing is deeper, he’s more relaxed and more accepting of this foreign touch. He appreciates every moment of it. It’s a rarity for him to ever feel weak or that he needs someone, but tonight, he needs me, and I'm here for him.

He says, “First aid kit is on the top shelf.”

He looks at me and the stare lingers in the room as the rain patterns on the high roofs. It’s like we're contained in a room of endless capacity.

I break the staring contest. I guess he wins for now. I walk to the top shelf and find the medical aid and get it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, wincing as he peels the blood-soaked fabric away from his side of his body.

It’s filled with blood.

As for the cut; it’s a clean slice, deep but not gushing, that’s good for saving him but bed for the amount of bandages we’re gong to need to stitch him up.

I don’t ask.

I clean his wound in silence, with antiseptic wipes. My hands steady even though my insides are shaking.

I play nurse and do my best to pierce his skin, loop it, tighten it and do it again until he’s patched up.

I put the purple solution on his body that seems to stop the blood.

He doesn’t make a sound.

The only noise is our breathing and the drumming rain.

I wrap him up and he’s back to swinging his arm around again.

This is the most intimate we have ever been, and it is built on a foundation of lies and blood.

—-

I lace him up. It’s a silent moment. The rain is still falling hard outside.

“We need to move.” He puts on a clean shirt over the bandage.

“I heard you met the Italians… Is that who did this to you?” I ask, holding my breath for an answer I already know.

He never seems to give a straight answer.

Everything is because of something else. He says:

“They wanted to get to you. They think we’re dating.” He continues,

“They say you have something that belongs to them.”

At that moment, I realize that the numbers on the bookmark are what they’re after. I don’t say it.

If they’re willing to kill for it, then it might be my way to stay alive.

I look at the yellow bookmark, it’s still there in my bag right next to the old map.

“I guess we better get going,” I say, as my hand touches my chin.

I say, “I have no idea where we could go from here, Aldin Town is the safest place I know.”

Owen walks to the computer and taps some keys to wipe out the memory.

It goes blank and he puts a small explosive on the processor.

“So do you?” He says and looks at me with true concern in his eyes.

“Do I what?” I say, genuinely confused.

“Do you have something that belongs to them?” he says.

I take a moment to gather my thoughts.

I’ve never revealed the secret about the bookmark to anyone.

Should I really trust Owen?

Before I can speak, a headlight sweeps across the warehouse windows.

The car approaches as he puts as many supplies as he can fit.

A car door slams.

Then another.

Alex whips his head around. All the softness changes into an efficient, calm demeanor.

He moves to the window and locks the door.

“They’re here, let’s go” he says, his voice cutting the tension into thin slices like a quiet blade.

He takes the gun from the nightstand, c***s it, and weaves it with artful precision. This is the real him. “We have to go through the back. Now.”

He looks at me, his eyes pleading, desperate. “Do you trust me?”

I look at him in the dim lights.

The man who kissed me in the rain has transformed into a fierce protector.

He’s a phoenix risen from the ashes, my defender.

There’s nobody that has made me feel this way.

There’s a spark in him that I can’t ignore.

When I see Owen, I see a real gentleman, a true lover who gives me care, love and attention.

He comes to see me at the Bookstore. He spends a lot of time listening to all my stories about all the books I read. He teaches me about woodwork…and so much more.

But now that I know all of it is fake, what can I trust from him?

I was also fake to him too. Does that really make a difference?

But when it comes to me, I was only doing it so that I could survive, but his lies were so that he could spy on me.

If anyone is a better liar… it’s not him.

And as for me, the ghost of Sofia Tassoni resurrects inside the husk of Clara Evans, the librarian. I can’t run away from myself after all, it seems.

I take a shaky breath and look at him. I have nothing to lose. The only reason I came to Aldin Town was so that I could get away from the people who killed my husband. They’re after me, so why should I hang around?

I look at Owen and say, “What’s the plan?”

A cute smile curves on his mouth as we open the locked door. He says, “We'll disappear. For real this time. Together.”

He presses the detonator to destroy the computer, and it starts ticking down.

He grabs my hand and folds my fingers in his; sure, strong and inseparable. He drags me toward the back door.

I’ve put my heart in Owen’s hands. What will he do to show his love to me? Have I made the right decision, or should I take a moment to think about it?