Page 79 of Craving Chaos
Her answering smile is radiant.
“Can I have a hug before I go?” I ask hesitantly.
“Of course.” She opens her arms, and I wrap her in an embrace, making sure to snake my hand stealthfully into her open boho tote purse.
My plan is to take her wallet and see what I might find, but when my hand unexpectedly connects with the distinct feel of a passport booklet, I nab that instead. It’s too unusual to ignore. Who carries a passport around in their purse?
She said she’d been out of town, but it still seems strange. Plus, I know she doesn’t drive, so she probably doesn’t have a driver’s license in her wallet. This is my best bet for getting information.
I slide the booklet up the sleeve of my jacket and squeeze her arms affectionately as I pull away. “It really is great to see you. Maybe we can do lunch this week?”
Happiness shines in her eyes. “Yeah, I’d love that. Definitely.”
“I’ll give you a text tomorrow.”
We give one last goodbye and part ways from the coffee shop, going in opposite directions. I force myself to wait until I’m a full city block away before I slip into an alley and examine my find. It’s a US passport, the edges worn from regular activity as though she keeps it in her purse often. Inside, I find her photo and the name Marsela Kola, not Mari Cola.
Such a small distinction, but it makes all the difference in the world because the Italian girl I thought I knew is actually Albanian.
It can’t be a coincidence.
No matter how convincing she may have been, Mari is somehow linked to the men who took us and that airstrip in Quebec. I flip through the pages and see multiple stamps for Canada. None for Albania, but that doesn’t mean anything. I consider myself Irish American, but I’ve never actually been to Ireland.
The woman I screwed for six fucking months is a fraud. She fed her family information about our guns that she somehow skimmed from me. I was the source. Everything that happened was because of me.
Renzo was right. It was all my fault.
My rage and frustration consume me with such ferocity that I struggle to breathe.
I try so fucking hard to prove myself worthy of the Byrne name and the respect it deserves. I strive every single day to show that women are equally as capable as men, especially in criminal pursuits where violence, strength, and bravery are essential to success. And I didn’t even abide by my own lessons. I never considered Mari to be a threat because she’s a woman.
What a fucking hypocrite I’ve been.
And blind. So fucking blind.
Now, I have to go to my family—to Renzo and his family—and tell them that it was all my fault. I inadvertently leaked the information that almost got us killed. Am I supposed to do that at my brother’s wedding? Because there’s no way I can go and pretend to be fine. They’ll know something’s wrong and demand the truth.
I’d rather miss his wedding than have my shame broadcast to the entire family at the event. I’m not proud of how I feel, but it is what it is.
Now, I have an inkling of how Oran must have felt when he learned his wife was responsible for the betrayal that led to our dad’s death. I thought he’d taken it hard at the time, but now I see the incredible fortitude he must have had to keep from falling apart.
The guilt and shame. It’s sickening.
I literally have to choke back my self-disgust as it rises in the back of my throat. I definitely can’t go to the wedding. Not now. I consider going after Mari right now and force her to confess everything. The intensity of my need to follow her is what stops me. I’m a little scared of what I might do to her. I shouldn’t be. She probably doesn’t deserve my grace, but I decide not to act while I’m still overcome with such extreme emotions.
Instead, I start to walk with no destination in mind. I just walk.
I’m embarrassed and ashamed and so fucking furious with myself and with her. The emotions claw at my heels, spurring me on faster while tear-filled eyes blur my vision and slow me down—pushed and pulled by opposing forces that keep me perpetually frustrated. My life is no different. I have to be tough but sensitive. Cautious yet bold. And above all, flawless.
As a woman in a man’s world, I am absolutely not allowed to show weakness because it will be weaponized and used against me without fail.
I do my best every day not to let the double standards get to me. I know my worth. I also know that not everyone will see it. Little setbacks rarely faze me.
This is different. A crack in the foundation I’ve stood upon for years. I start to wonder if stepping down wouldn’t be best for my family, whether I do it for Renzo or not. My confidence is so profoundly shaken that I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how to process it, so I do the only thing I can and move forward.
I walk for what feels like ages, though I don’t know for sure because I refuse to look at my phone. I walk until the sky is dark, and my feet take me home of their own volition.
I numbly jab the elevator call button when I reach the lobby of my building. The light dings, announcing its arrival. I lean forward, my weight shifted in anticipation of escaping upstairs, only the universe isn’t done toying with me yet. When the doors open, Renzo Donati stands on the other side.