I gape at Massimo as he strides across the room, his long steps eating the distance between us way too fast. And once again I find myself battling temporal quicksand. Held captive by my fate but unable to accept it. Years of wanting to be with this man does not mean I’m ready to face him now. I should be used to this feeling. After all, when I went to see him in prison, it took me three hours to psych myself up before I was able to walk through that door.
He stops just in front of me and lifts his hand, then lightly brushes my cheek with his knuckles. “Hello, Zahara.”
A shiver runs down my spine. It’s as if I’m trapped in a time warp and the scene at my father’s funeral is repeating. He is real.
“How?” I choke out.
“Salvatore Ajello,” he says. “I don’t know how that motherfucker manage
