My Mother's Boyfriend

My entire world is covered in el pecado (sin)- twenty-seven years of it. Lord of the underworld, cold, heartless, hatred ingrained in my soul. For I was born into it. Yet, at this moment, from as far back as I can remember in my adult years, I feel a bit warm as I stare into her brown eyes. Those same eyes that always captivated me in the past now fill me with disgust. She truly is a prostituta. (w***e) It’s the admiration for the woman who captivated me when I was a teenager that halts me from getting up and leaving now. I respect who she used to be- the woman I have held above all others. Anger surges through my veins at the thought that she would stoop this low. Yet, this is how my corrupted mind works; here I am, with her, unyielding, although I am trying to sober her up, my pants crutch is having another reaction. Disgusted but excited, nonetheless. Uma is considered an elder to me and used to be my teacher in mid-school, and also whom I used to have a major crush on. Heck, I was nearly in love with her. Years back, one morning she came to school with a scarf around her neck- not that that was unusual for her. Uma always dressed modestly. Long shirts and dresses that almost touched the floor and from elbow to wrist sleeves. Her hair was always in a neat bun, her face was almost void of makeup. But on that particular day, I noticed a mark- a purplish bruise, partially showing. I faked a headache, and she walked me up to the nurse's office, taking her time to not walk so swiftly as to increase my 'headache' as I fake moaned in agony. The nurse wasn’t there and knowing it was something she would not appreciate, I tugged her scarf off. A huge handprint. Miss Uma had been choked. She did not have tears in her eyes nor were they reddish from previous tears. It's like, unlike women in her situation, she did not pity herself. She had accepted it. She grabbed the material with a slight furrow between her light brown-coloured eyes and scolded me for not respecting women. Recognizing the mark of the bruising instantly because I had seen it many times before, I ignored her. I am from the Genovese family- mafia, so I knew fingers imprinted on flesh when I see them. Just as I knew it was her husband’s doing. At fifteen, I had sworn to make him pay for it, when she wrapped the soft material back around her neck to conceal what I revealed. But Uma laughed lightly at me. She always had this little playful laugh. Not because she thought I was joking, but because she knew who my family was, and so Uma knew I was not playing around with my words. She laughed because of my bravery for my age. She said I was the most courageous boy she had ever met. Boy. That word hurt my teenage heart. Then she made me promise not to say a word to anyone and to not do a thing about it. It’s something between husbands and wives, she’d said. Sometimes bad things take place in between the good, she'd said. And when I grew up, I would understand them, then. "If I was your husband, Uma, there would never be bad days," I had made my quick reply, and she grinned widely, patting my shoulder as she gently pushed me back, to lay down on the patient's small bed, in the big office. "I'm sure you will be a good husband someday, Noimichael," she muttered as she handed me the painkillers. “And it's Miss Uma, to you." She was always quick to correct me when I used her given name. I tried to show her what a man I could be several weeks later and again she laughed. I had bought groceries for her to prove that I could provide for her and her daughter if she would let me. Despite her insulting me with mere laughter at my actions, I loved the sound. Then she sat me down and explained some things about herself. And why she would never leave the man she married. Also directing me to a rundown house a few houses from hers where I could leave the groceries that she refused to accept. Now, here we are, almost ten years later, and she is offering herself to me. To say I am excited is an understatement, but my mind is also confuffled at the same time. Why is this decent woman doing this? Sitting across the table from her in the coffee shop, I loosen my tie, my heart thumping against my chest and I finish my coffee, signalling for another. “How old are you now?” I ask her, a frown on my forehead. “Christ, Alejandro, don’t ask me that. Either you want to or not,” her red lips move, and I stare. Lips that used to be so full and luscious with bare lip gloss alone. Her entire face is barely recognizable now as she has on a full mask of makeup, with blush on her cheeks or whatever. Even her eyelashes looked fake as the black smudge of mascara messed up her eyes. Her thick long hair which I only saw loose once, is still beautiful and rich as it hangs around her shoulders now. She called me by my first name. Grown man that I am, my stomach did a flip. My cousin Brando runs a strip club and just a few days ago we were leaving its premises when I spotted her outside. I’d said to Brando, “Hey, she looks like my teacher.” To which Brando replied, “Nah. Can’t be. She works the streets.” Wrong person, I had figured, but tonight I spotted her again and when I slowed down, she propositioned me. I’d taken her here and it took a couple of minutes for her to figure out who I was. The young boy I used to be would have danced at the joy of doing what she wanted to right now, and truthfully, I was a bit tempted, but it’s Uma, so I won’t. My childish love for her prohibited me from doing so even though whroes were my thing. Emptying my wallet, I gave her the cash inside and her smile grew but she didn’t grab it up off the table like the other strippers normally would. I take pride in her for that. My mind is comforted by the silly notion of her not being a ‘complete whroe’. Our coffees arrives and I stir a cube of sugar in, slowly. “How’s your daughter?” I ask her out of mere formality and her eyes light up. It was then I spotted a trace of wrinkles at the side of her eyes but no grey hairs. Still so beautiful even though she is nearly forty now. Thirty-seven, to be exact. Uma had an arranged marriage as soon as she was eighteen, producing her firstborn soon after. Her husband, whom she always spoke highly of, had allowed her to finish her education and become a teacher, unlike most marriages, she had told me. “He’s unique,” she had bragged years ago. “Unlike my father and the others. I am lucky. Maya is lucky to have a father like him. To live here in the land of opportunities.” Maya, her daughter, was about six back then. I saw her once and the little girl did not like me. Proudly, she answers with a twinkle almost in her eyes now. “Maya is great. She’s seventeen now, getting ready for upper level now.” If I had done the calculations correctly, I would have noted her daughter’s age without asking, but I did not. My only concern is Uma. Uma tucked her straight, thick loose black hair behind her ears and took a bite from the muffin in front of her. “And Tony is almost half your age when I first met you!” Tony? This must be another kid she had because I only knew of the girl. I feel my heart sink at that new revelation. “And you?” She goes on chatting away, but her eyes are moving cautiously behind me as she is facing the inside of the coffee shop while I am facing the outside on the street but paying no mind to its pedestrians. “Well, I’m partnering with a company now- Uvas Borrachas Winery,” I give her my card, and she laughs- a seemingly mocking one, but I love the sound of it. "Tipsy Grapes," I translated to her. Language she would never have used in the past escaped her mouth and my furrow deepened. "You're sihtting me, right?” she holds the card and reads it, flipping it over to the other side then her beautiful doe eyes soften. Sucking in a breath, I ignore the dislike I have of how she speaks now. Uma used to be so proper in her language. So, poised...so lady-like. Inhaling deeply, I concealed my disappointment in her now and nodded my head. “Wine, yes. I intend to have my very own brand of wine one day,” I reveal wondering if she remembered her long-ago dream. “A vintner, huh?" she mutters. This time, she nods and gazes into the distance, lost in some faraway memory of herself. Given her youthful demeanor, I figured she did. She once confided in me that she had dreams of owning a winery, during a conversation about whether I wanted to pursue anything beyond the family business. It came up as a school topic. Our entire neighborhood knew about my family- what we did and who we were. The influence of the Italian mob. My family. My mother's side hails from Venezuela and might suspect what we do, but they aren’t like us. They are honest farmers. My brothers and I were born and raised on this Chicago soil, and since my Italian father's side had a stronger presence than my mother’s family, mafioso runs in my blood. Still, my influence has grown beyond my parents and reached overseas as well. Right now, my brother Angelo and Robert, one of our associates, are in Mexico, managing a deal gone wrong, while my mother, God bless her, is in Sicily taking care of an issue with counterfeit money that she assured me she would handle. Peter, one of my two right-hand men, is accompanying her since Ramon, her partner, is attending his daughter's graduation. The first time it was a mistake, but a second time occurrence? No. Not a mistake. Mama knows I would k!ll if I reached there, so she convinced me to keep my other brother, Thomas, who is a little more trigger-happy than me, away from the airports until she calls us tomorrow. Uma is drugged up. I can see the needle points in her bruised flesh. What had become of her? “Leave him,” I say quietly, taking her hand in between mine, over the table and she gives me the same stern look she had twelve years ago, but she does not laugh this time. I saw a wary expression coming across her face, but I ignored it. She pulls her hand away- ironic I think, considering she wants me to pay her to fcuk her. Not giving way to my surface male thinking, I go on with my deeper consciousness instead. “I will find an apartment for you. Warm clothes and food, Uma. I will take care of you, I promise.” "My children," her voice is almost a whisper. "Maya-" Her broken voice tugs at my chest. "Trust me Uma, te entendi. I got you." ***A/N Is the word dead censored off? Murder etc?