Phantom

January 13, 1945

I’m in so much trouble.

The front door slams, and I wince. Dread weighs down my bones as Ronaldo storms into the room, fury in his eyes and his fists clenched.

He’s livid.

It’s the first time I’ve truly seen him look at me with anything other than love and affection.

I realize now I’ve been spoiled, having gone this long escaping his ire.

“Why did you let him kiss you?” he asks quietly, his tone rough.

“I didn’t let him. He took me by surprise!” I defend, my hackles rising.

Ronaldo was hiding within the tree line this morning when John and Sera left for a day trip to a few markets. I was standing at the door, calling out to Sera to behave today when John swooped in and stole a kiss. He caught me off guard, and I couldn’t react quick enough.

John was halfway to the car before I realized what had happened.

And the first thing I felt was shame. I hated how he did that. I knew it was wrong to feel so disturbed by a kiss from my husband, yet it felt like he took something from me without permission all over again. A pit had formed in my stomach almost instantly, and I had hoped Ronaldo didn’t see.

“Have you been kissing him all this time?”

“No!” I shout, my nails forming crescent moons in my palms. “I haven’t let him kiss me since—” My throat closes, but I force the words out anyway. “Since before what he did last June. We’ve hardly touched since you started coming around. That’s why I wasn’t expecting it, Ronaldo.”

His chest deflates, but the anger clings to him. And truthfully, I can’t even blame him. It’s not hard to imagine a woman kissing him, and the burning anger that accompanies that image is undeniable.

I understand his wrath, but what would he have me do? Divorcing John when we have a kid together . . . that’s almost unheard of.

As if sensing my thoughts, he swings his thin gaze toward me. “I could kill him,” he growls. “I would have no qualms ending his pathetic life, Genevieve.” He takes a step toward me. “I dream about it. And the only reason I don’t is because of you.”

“Because of Sera!” I correct. “I am not like you, Ronaldo. I don’t wish harm on the man, but make no mistake, it is only Sera I think of.”

He snarls, turning away from me as he paces the checkered floor. I feel incredibly helpless. And suffocatingly trapped.

Worse yet, I can’t find it in me to regret my marriage to John. Not when Sera resulted from it. And there isn’t even the smallest part of me that could ever wish she didn’t exist.

I love Ronaldo, but my daughter will always come first.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to only love you in the dark when you deserve to be loved in the light?”

My bottom lip trembles, and tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision. My heart feels like it’s been dropped into a blender, each word slicing until there’s nothing left.

“I do know. You deserve that, too, Ronaldo,” I whisper. “I want to love you openly. I . . . I want Sera to know you exist and get a chance to love you openly, too. But what court would grant me that?”

“Have you tried? Maybe they will allow it, and you’ll only have society to deal with. But you’ve already ostracized yourself from them with this house, haven’t you? What’s one more decision to truly set you apart from the rest of them?”

He takes a step toward me, conviction shining in his eyes. “Do you understand what it’s like knowing that when I leave here, another man takes my place? Or having to wait for him to leave to take his?”

I don’t, but I can imagine, and it hurts.

“He sleeps in your bed. He is the first person who sees you when you wake and before you sleep. He—”

“But he is not the one I dream about,” I insist. “He is not the first on my mind when I wake. And it’s not he who owns my heart.”

I had hoped my declaration would placate him in some way, but he doesn’t look appeased. Torture fills his eyes, and it feels as if he stabbed my heart with a needle and injected his pain directly into it.

“Believe me, Ronaldo. You are not the only one who suffers when he is near,” I whisper, my voice as broken as a future with Ronaldo by my side.

We stare at one another silently for a few moments, both of us mourning what could be but what will likely never come.

“I am destined to love you from the shadows, mia rosa,” he says quietly. “I will never be more than your phantom.”

My chest cracks, and tears well over the rims of my eyes.

And I can see it. I can see how he stares at me with a hint of bitterness deriving from a fantasy I refuse to allow him. He wants to murder John and rid me of the man who unknowingly shackles me to a life of discontent.

It would be so simple for him, too. To hide in the shadows, wait for John to come home, then fire a single bullet into the back of his head. With the snap of his fingers, I would be free of my husband.

But how could I live with myself afterward? Lying to my daughter every day, insisting that some random criminal broke into our home and took her father’s life, when all along, I’d be sleeping next to his true killer. Slowly inviting him into our home hoping she would accept him and love him as a stepfather.

However, her heart would always have a hole in it, and her sorrow would be my sorrow. How long would she have to suffer just so I don’t have to? Only my suffering might never actually end at all if I had John’s blood forever staining my hands.

I couldn’t live with myself.

I couldn’t look her in the eyes and tell her such lies.

It’s a life that would only bring us more pain, not any relief. And I hate that Ronaldo can’t see that as I can.

Even without words, I know he thinks that time will heal our wounds, and as years pass on, Sera would find happiness again. She would all but move on from her father’s senseless death and settle into a future with Ronaldo as her father.

But it’s a farce, and he knows it, and the thought of it makes me ill.

John isn’t the greatest of men, but he doesn’t deserve to die.

Even if he did and I could live with myself, there’s another important component that is impossible for me to ignore.

“You work for one of the biggest criminals in the country, Ronaldo,” I remind him, forcing stoicism into my tone. “You are a criminal—something I’ve overlooked because I know you are also a good man. But you could not guarantee safety for my life or my daughter’s. Even if I could forgive you for taking John’s life, I would never—could never—forgive you if your crimes resulted in Sera’s death, too.”

The muscle in his jaw pulses, and I only know I’ve struck a nerve because it is a fact that he cannot defend himself from.

He knows as well as I do that if I were to have my husband killed and marry him instead, I’d be unchaining myself from a life of discontent only to chain myself to a life of terror instead.

I’d die before I could truly live because surely my heart would give out from the fear of seeing my daughter hurt or murdered.

“I would never let anything happ—”

“It is not always up to you, Ronaldo. I trust you would protect us with everything you have, but that doesn’t mean you would succeed.” The words are as sharp as a whip, but I still mean them.

He winces, feeling the sting. But is it because of what I said or because he knows it’s true?

His expression smooths into cool marble, though the muscle in his jaw still pulsates. My heart thuds heavily in my chest, a strange kind of fear arising. This conversation has been distressing for both of us, but watching him wipe his face clean of his hurt is like watching him wipe his heart clean of me. And that . . . that is simply devastating.

“Would you have me leave you alone?” he asks, his tone rough yet quiet.

Even if my words could escape me, my voice would fail. I shake my head, wanting him to stay as desperately as I need air.

“Then what do you want, Genevieve? Because whatever it is, I will grant it to you. At the cost of my heart and my sanity, I will give you whatever you ask of me.”

Another tear trails down my cheek. “I—I just want you.”

He nods slowly, his teeth clenched and his fists tightened. “So then it is your phantom I will be.”

January 14, 1945

The cold, dreary weather is putting me in a mood that rivals the ice clinging to my windows.

Frank even noticed my sour state when he stopped by today.

He tried to cheer me up with bad jokes. I’ll admit I laughed at one or two, but I can’t seem to muster much more than that.

Ronaldo and I argued yesterday.

He said he can’t stand that I’m still with John. He’s incredibly jealous, and I can’t say I entirely blame him. Not when the thought of him with another woman nearly makes me blind with rage.

But Ronaldo’s life is still far too dangerous. How could I give up stability for my daughter for a man whose life could get us killed?

I’m at a loss.