33
TESSA
The night after we burned old Lyle’s place down—I discovered making a gangster cry is a solemn experience.
We were home after the stone cold silent ninety-minute drive back to Bonita, and my husband poured me a generous scotch on ice.
“Thank you, Enzo, but I don’t drink the stuff.”
“Trust me on this one. You’re going to need it.”
I’d never seen him like this, lifting his gigantic shoulders as if to hide his neck, dragging his enormous feet across the floor.
“Sit down, Tessa.” He gripped my elbow and pulled me to the sofa, sitting down beside me.
“What is it, Enzo? You’re scaring me.” I said, reaching forward to stroke his cheek. He leaned into my palm, like a family pet seeking affection, and I felt the distinct splash of warm tears pelt my hand.
“I can’t Tessa. I can’t t
