Free KNOX: Volume 1 by Cassia Leo

2

    “When was the last time you two went on a date?” Lita asks as we cross Vanderbilt.
    A jerk in a silver hatchback blares his horn at us. Aren’t hatchback drivers supposed to be stereotypically nice?
    Lita and I pause on the corner of 42nd and Vanderbilt, Grand Central Terminal. I make a move to hug her goodbye and she laughs.
    “Nuh-uh. Answer my question, Becky. When was the last time you and August went on a date?”
    Her light-brown hair is a bit frizzy and her top lip is sweating from the sticky night air. She still manages to look gorgeous, like she just stepped off a photo shoot at an exotic location. Like she’s been spritzed and primped to look exactly this way. Lita hates when people tell her she looks like a model. She actually thinks it’s an insult. She desperately wants to be taken seriously. She gets this from working on Wall Street where her model stature and smooth voice must command notice.
    “We’re not dating. We’re in a relationship. Date nights are for married couples trying to revive their relationship. There’s nothing wrong with August and me. We’re solid.”
    “Solid as the wall between you. When was the last time you went to his apartment?”
    I want to launch into my usual spiel, but I’m actually afraid of how many times I’ve said the words aloud.
    August and I have a comfortable relationship. We don’t need to cling to each other every second of every day to feel secure. August loves me. I know that because he remembers my birthday and my favorite ice cream flavor. He knows how many kids I want (two, he wants four). And the biggest plus of all: he’s not afraid to talk about marriage. He loves that I want a big wedding. And as soon as his blog is established enough that he can take more time off, we’re getting married.
    This is the part where you begin wondering if I’m actually this naïve. I’m not. I’m far from naïve. I may be a midtown girl now, but I was born and raised in Bensonhurst.
    Born and raised in Bensonhurst. Whenever someone hears this phrase, they automatically assume I must be related to a crime family. Some people are brazen enough to come right out and ask me – in a joking manner, as if that makes the question less inappropriate. I just chuckle and say something like, “Wouldn’t that be cool if I was?” That’s what people want to hear.
    People don’t want to know the truth. They don’t want to know that I left my entire family behind at the age of eighteen, except for the occasional phone call to my mother. They don’t want to know that I chose a job in law enforcement with the hopes of sending my family a message. That message: I want nothing more to do with them. They especially don’t want to know the things I’ve seen. Because people who idolize the mafia actually think that being the daughter of a crime boss is glamorous.
    They imagine me in my fur coat, diamond encrusted fingernails. Maybe I’m dangling a designer handbag from my arm, stuffed with an adorable teacup Chihuahua. They imagine men who aren’t afraid to get their hands bloody, coming home and using those same hands to rip off my lacy panties and claim me. They imagine a sexy, sinful cocktail of glamor spiked with a large dose of unyielding power.
    For the most part, they’re right. But they still haven’t seen what I’ve seen. And what I saw in my living room, at the tender age of thirteen, was my father strangling a man I had come to know as Uncle Frank. A crime for which he was never punished, despite the many times my father has been in and out of jail for pettier crimes. The truth is that I barely know my father. I hope that never changes.
    I look into Lita’s wide gray eyes and I lie. “I was at August’s apartment last week.” I clap her arm awkwardly. She shakes her head so I lean in to hug her goodbye. “Enjoy your trip to Poughkeepsie. I’m sure your mom will have plenty of potato salad and honey-glazed ham to fatten you up.”
    “Don’t rub it