I married him for Christ’s sake!
Azmir opens my door and reaches for me. I freeze in place. He grabs my hand and gently pulls on me to come out of the truck and my body thaws instantly. I’m so confused. A minute ago I thought my life was over and now his familiar touch has returned.
“Azmir, what’s going on? Where am I?” I beg. “What are you doing?”
“Rayna,” he delicately reproves as he wears an expression of concern for me. It’s the old Azmir again.
What in the hell is going on?
I get out of the car, but don’t take his hand. My face is wet, stinging, and itchy from tears running down and snot dripping from my nose. I don’t have control of my lungs. Azmir motions for me to start walking. Following a brief pause, I begin taking timorous steps.
After walking for a few moments in obscure silence, he exhales. “Rayna, I don’t know where to begin other than saying I’m sorry,” his voice is hoarse and his approach regretful. “I haven’t been totally transparent with you about who I am. And that’s because we happened so fast and unexpectedly.” Although Azmir maintains equanimity, he’s very much restless. His beautiful nostrils flare in frustration. He can’t stop brushing his face with his hand. He’s afraid.
How did we get here?
He continues, “I’ve never been the type to show all my cards, you know? That was how I was built. I was taught to never let your left hand know what your right is holding. And when it comes to your woman, you never expose her to your business because she’s the weaker species…almost substandard…too emotionally vulnerable…a risk. Love was only an accessory to life, not an essential and significant part of your existence—”
“Cut the bullshit!” I scream, emboldened by the ease in his execution of words. “You are a deceitful, manipulative, and narcissistic bastard and I can’t believe that I…I believed you!” My emotions are pouring out faster than my thoughts are being formed. “What do you do for a living? How is it that you are able to afford…the Bentley, the Porsche, Wrangler, the Benzes or the Range Rover that just drove us here, the driver who’s over there waiting, the posh apartment we live in? How were you able to fund the rec…come up with the money for the clubs, beauty salons, rental properties, movie theaters, restaurants and other businesses you have? The trips you’ve donned on me…the boat...our wedding...the gifts you’ve lavished me with? Explain that—you know what,” I quickly think. “…don’t! I don’t want to know anything more. I’m not trying to be an accessory to crime!” I lose my breath.
“Wait, Rayna!” he inches toward me. “I’m not this hardened criminal you’re accusing me of being!”
“Oh, no? Well, why is a FBI agent following me around and telling me you’re under investigation for being at the helm of a major drug trafficking and distribution organization? What elaborate explanation do you have for that?” I hiss sardonically.
“Rayna!” he roars before quickly reeling in his exasperation, bringing his fist to his mouth. “That wasn’t a FBI agent. He’s a just a detective and is stirring the pot. Lombardi decided to rattle your nerves to get to me. It was his final attempt at bringing me to my knees when he couldn’t legally,” he provides. “And I’ll be damned if he didn’t get the last fucking laugh.” He turns and kicks the air.
I’m now even more confused. “Couldn’t legally? Either you’re a hustler or you’re not, Azmir! Point-blank-period! What is it? Are you a drug dealer?” I demand.
He turns to me and gives the longest and most piercing regard deep into my eyes. He breaks it with a painful grimace etching across his dark, handsome face as he stares into the distance. Azmir exhales deeply before uttering, “Rayna, I haven’t been a criminal-act-free type of guy. I’ve done some things that are…illegal, but that’s not the man I am shaping up to be—”
“Don’t give me a pity dissertation! Drug dealers don’t get to fluently articulate their indiscretions!” I cut him off, not wanting him to manipulate his way out of this with his expansive and lucid manner of speaking. We are not in his boardroom. I am not one of his subordinates.
“And you think you’re better than me?” he howls as his gaze turns dark. “You, the one who stole money earned by a dope boy who pushed the same shit that you appear to be so revolted by. The money that allowed you to escape your personal hell. The money that afforded you a new fucking identity, leaving that poor, ghetto, uncultured, Syn-like, ‘round-the-way-girl back in those…deplorable projects in Jersey,” he sputters.
His scowl burns me. “ARE YOU ANY BETTER?” he yells directly in my face.