I didn’t even know how to be pissed at Spinelli. I kept redirecting the energy back at myself.
It was my fault she was in the position she was in, whatever that was, living or dead. I’d pushed her, with my distaste, toward a criminal. I’d used her to plant bad earpieces and tried to manipulate her back into my bed. But even before that, I’d set her up. I’d left her crying and broken and wondering what was wrong with her. I’d betrayed her for years behind her back. Whatever happened was my responsibility, and if she was dead or a mob wife, I had to save her to save myself.
If that meant the mayor’s office and the governor’s mansion would go to someone else, then fine. Suddenly, gaining political office and losing my soul seemed like a fool’s choice.
The seed of an idea grew in my head, watered and nourished by the reams of minutiae that came into my view over the following hours. Small things were my job. Details that fit together like a puzzle, telling a story of guilt or innocence, were how I put men in prison. And later, retelling that story to thousands of people became another part of a job I wanted and would do anything to gain.
The idea that grew, though, wasn’t the story of how the Bortolusi wedding was handled, or who shot Patalano. It wasn’t a story around how we would nail Spinelli. The story that grew was the tale of my own life being lived differently. It was a story of opportunities I had missed in choosing my life’s ambition. It was a story of freedom and, wrapped up in it, was the story of a life lived parallel to Theresa.
The story was a deal with God. If I made up for the pain I’d caused her, I would lose the election and be free of my ambition. Then what?
Who knew? Maybe a life with her. Maybe without. But a life where she was somewhere safe in the world and my responsibility for her hurt would be gone.
If she was alive. And that looked less and less likely. Her phone was dead. Her apartment hadn’t changed. Her family was dealing with their own crisis and hadn’t been able to get her on the phone.
I let everyone prove she and Spinelli were dead, and I wove the story of her life in the midst of it.
The details came in. I let my staff run in circles, because the story I built wasn’t for them. It was for me. I was a full-on fuckup no more. That was my new story.
Theresa hadn’t taken a bag with her.
The stash of cash was missing from her closet.
Years ago, the tunnel had led to a house across the street, but it was blocked by rubble and brick.
That ring. That ring that ring.
They’d split. It was so obvious to me, yet my staff was easily misguided. I told stories. It was what I did.
Did I have to save Spinelli to save Theresa? That was my only concern. I didn’t want to. I hated him. I hated him for breaking her down. But if I was going to stop bullshitting myself and do the job, I had to consider it.
I was exhausted when the manifests came across my desk.
“You have a press conference on the wedding in three minutes?” Kylie almost asked.
“Why do you look like I’m going to snap at you?”
“I was supposed to get you into makeup seven minutes ago, but these came and I forgot.”
I stood and got my jacket on in the same move. “Don’t worry about it. Looking tired’s going to help more than hurt.” I picked up the manifests and walked into the hall before I’d even gotten my arms through both sleeves.
“What the fuck, Kylie?” Gerry said, walking with a purpose, flanked by the usual team. I was sick of seeing them already.
“Leave her alone. It’s better.” I flipped through the manifests. The third set I’d seen with nothing nothing nothing… “These are incoming to LAX.” I handed them back.
But they caught my eye when I handed them over, and I saw two names right next to each other.
SPINELLI ANTONIN M 35A
SPINELLI TINA F 35B