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WHO ARE YOU?
CRISTINA
At this time of day, only a few tourists attend church. I sit in the very back and fold my hands in my lap, allowing the peace and quiet to wash over me. There have been so many changes in my life in such a short period of time that I haven’t been to church in a while.
I’d forgotten how helpful just sitting here quietly can be. Thoughts don’t swirl in my head like a jumbled mess, but peacefully present themselves as facts for me to unpack.
Severio wants to marry me.
He seemed genuine, but one never knows with Severio. Although, an alternative motive he could have for wanting to marry me seems unlikely because I have nothing he wants. Since he’s a man who has everything, I can’t imagine he’d want anything from me.
Not to mention, he’s taken my properties, my money, and even the house that Mom and I tried salvaging in the aftermath of my dad’s death.
Severio also owns my heart, which is stupid and naive and, well, as inexperienced as my body was before, he took that too. He really owns me and anything that has to do with me.
Thinking about him and his body and how he stroked my clit, how he sucked my nipples, how he kissed and fucked like a man obsessed, makes me flush with heat. I straighten my dress a few times. It’s not wrinkled, but the movement helps distract me from my naughty thoughts in church.
I’m being a bad girl again. Why is this so exciting?
A man walks up next to me.
I cross a leg over my knee, sending a subtle signal I don’t want to move from my aisle seat. He can slide into another empty bench. There are many available.
But he remains standing there, a little too close for comfort, his jeans almost brushing my elbow.
I uncross my legs and slide away from the aisle.
He sits down in my place.
I slide over some more, my gaze on my breasts, making sure the black scarf I’m wearing covers the modest cleavage the dress allows.
“Issi, don’t run,” a man’s voice behind me says.
My back locks, my hands fist in my lap. “Dear Lord,” I whisper. “This cannot be.” I squint my eyes, willing the voice to be a fragment of my deep thinking or stress or anything besides real.
“Issi, my baby girl.”
He’s touching my hair! I cannot move.I cannot move. “D…Daddy?”
“It is me, darling.” The man beside me slides out, and another man slides in. I presume it’s my daddy, but I keep my head down, hands clutched in my lap. I’m not prepared to look at him yet. Or at least not fully.
I glance at him, terrified of what I’ll see. He appears younger, different, so I look up.
A blond man’s face with Daddy’s green eyes meets my gaze. The voice is the same, and nobody calls me Issi besides my dad.
“Who are you?” I ask, just to be sure I’m not imagining things.
“It’s me, Issi. I had facial reconstructive surgery.”
“Oh God, Daddy.” My gut starts to rise. “I think I’m going to be sick.” I cover my mouth with my hand and swallow hard.
He tries to hug me, but I slide away. I want to hug my dad, but he’s also been dead for over a year, and now this man with this face and this voice wants to touch me. No. I can’t.
My father shakes his head disapprovingly.
I huff out a breath. What did he expect?
“We don’t have a lot of time, so please listen to me.” He looks around nervously, as if someone’s about to grab him.
