what men do--even good men.
"Stop." The word leaves my mouth as something between a command and a panicked shout.
"You're going to pay for that."
I put up shaking hands and take a deep breath. I say it again when he doesn't listen, but my voice breaks under the effort. My hands clench into balls at my sides as my lungs strain for breath. Jim's black hair lightens to the darkest brown I've ever seen. It's no longer a windswept mess around his face and is slicked back with an expensive mouse that keeps it set. His pale skin darkens and takes on an olive complexion that is purely Mediterranean. Gray eyes darken to a deep brown and the man before me grows a few inches. It's no longer Jim Stone, my infuriating friend, who stood before me moments ago is no longer. In his place, is Carlo Mancuso. Mike when I knew him. And his lip is curled, his voice spitting venom, and he's holding my six-year-old son to him with a knife to my boy's throat. I try to shake it away, knowing it's just an illusion, but it feels so real. Short pulls of breath are all I can take in, they're not nearly enough to keep the pressure from swimming in my head. My eyes fall closed as I try to regain control of my mind and body. I can barely think clearly enough to suck what little air I can into my lungs. It's just... my throat is so tight. This doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense.
Jim says my name, but it sounds like he's far away, and his voice still carries a thick New York accent. I reach out, but lose my balance. No sooner than I'm falling forward is Jim catching me in his arms. He cradles me against his hard chest, soft murmurs of words I don't understand. I suck in a deep breath, knowing it's Jim and not Mike. The anger that flowed through my veins is gone now, and all that's left in its wake is a sorrow I don't understand. Jim isn't Mike and I know that, but the fear still lingers.
A subtle tingle starts in my toes and works its way up through my legs to my torso and finally my arms. As it travels, it feels less like a tingle and more like a buzzing, but then a heaviness takes over me and it feels so right and perfect that I welcome it. Mike's image slowly fades from my mind, but before it disappears completely, I relive the worst moment of my entire life as Mike's blade pierces Ian's flesh. Blood spills from his small, frightened face, mixing with tears that stream his cheeks. Not my boy. Not Ian.
"No, Mike. No," I whisper to myself, knowing Jim can hear me and he's going to ask questions. I just can't stop myself. This moment still haunts me, despite the passage of time, it doesn't cease to hurt.
"Who the fuck is Mike and what did he do to you?"
When the fog lifts and it's just me and Jim once again, I stiffen in his arms. He's asking questions and demanding answers. Answers I don't want to give, moments I don't want to relive. But I have to. Because Jim doesn't want me and the only way to convince him of that is to tell him the truth about the woman he calls his girl.
"Won't ask again, babe."
"No," I say firmly. Once I tell him, this is all over, and he doesn't get to dictate my pain. "I'll tell you when I'm ready and I'm not ready now. You don't have to like it, but you do have to deal with it."
"Just tell me," he says softly and it breaks down my walls just a bit. "I want to know you. Every broken little part of you."
"Why?" I can't think of a single reason.
"I can't put you back together if I don't know where you're broken."
Sucking in a deep breath, I force myself to speak the words I never have before. Not to anyone.
CHAPTER 11
Mike Mancuso
Brooklyn, New York
November 12, 1994
There are some things no mother should ever have to experience, and the loss of her child is right there at the fucking top. If I'm not careful, my self-loathing is going to shine through my carefully crafted demeanor. There's still time to back out , I tell myself. But one look to my right, at my wife, and I know that the only
"Stop." The word leaves my mouth as something between a command and a panicked shout.
"You're going to pay for that."
I put up shaking hands and take a deep breath. I say it again when he doesn't listen, but my voice breaks under the effort. My hands clench into balls at my sides as my lungs strain for breath. Jim's black hair lightens to the darkest brown I've ever seen. It's no longer a windswept mess around his face and is slicked back with an expensive mouse that keeps it set. His pale skin darkens and takes on an olive complexion that is purely Mediterranean. Gray eyes darken to a deep brown and the man before me grows a few inches. It's no longer Jim Stone, my infuriating friend, who stood before me moments ago is no longer. In his place, is Carlo Mancuso. Mike when I knew him. And his lip is curled, his voice spitting venom, and he's holding my six-year-old son to him with a knife to my boy's throat. I try to shake it away, knowing it's just an illusion, but it feels so real. Short pulls of breath are all I can take in, they're not nearly enough to keep the pressure from swimming in my head. My eyes fall closed as I try to regain control of my mind and body. I can barely think clearly enough to suck what little air I can into my lungs. It's just... my throat is so tight. This doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense.
Jim says my name, but it sounds like he's far away, and his voice still carries a thick New York accent. I reach out, but lose my balance. No sooner than I'm falling forward is Jim catching me in his arms. He cradles me against his hard chest, soft murmurs of words I don't understand. I suck in a deep breath, knowing it's Jim and not Mike. The anger that flowed through my veins is gone now, and all that's left in its wake is a sorrow I don't understand. Jim isn't Mike and I know that, but the fear still lingers.
A subtle tingle starts in my toes and works its way up through my legs to my torso and finally my arms. As it travels, it feels less like a tingle and more like a buzzing, but then a heaviness takes over me and it feels so right and perfect that I welcome it. Mike's image slowly fades from my mind, but before it disappears completely, I relive the worst moment of my entire life as Mike's blade pierces Ian's flesh. Blood spills from his small, frightened face, mixing with tears that stream his cheeks. Not my boy. Not Ian.
"No, Mike. No," I whisper to myself, knowing Jim can hear me and he's going to ask questions. I just can't stop myself. This moment still haunts me, despite the passage of time, it doesn't cease to hurt.
"Who the fuck is Mike and what did he do to you?"
When the fog lifts and it's just me and Jim once again, I stiffen in his arms. He's asking questions and demanding answers. Answers I don't want to give, moments I don't want to relive. But I have to. Because Jim doesn't want me and the only way to convince him of that is to tell him the truth about the woman he calls his girl.
"Won't ask again, babe."
"No," I say firmly. Once I tell him, this is all over, and he doesn't get to dictate my pain. "I'll tell you when I'm ready and I'm not ready now. You don't have to like it, but you do have to deal with it."
"Just tell me," he says softly and it breaks down my walls just a bit. "I want to know you. Every broken little part of you."
"Why?" I can't think of a single reason.
"I can't put you back together if I don't know where you're broken."
Sucking in a deep breath, I force myself to speak the words I never have before. Not to anyone.
CHAPTER 11
Mike Mancuso
Brooklyn, New York
November 12, 1994
There are some things no mother should ever have to experience, and the loss of her child is right there at the fucking top. If I'm not careful, my self-loathing is going to shine through my carefully crafted demeanor. There's still time to back out , I tell myself. But one look to my right, at my wife, and I know that the only
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