by Mia Luxe
I hope it doesn’t become a reminder of my lies.
If only she knew the guilt eating me up inside.
You should have told her, dammit. You should have told her about the money…
Our next stop is a little coffee shop that screams hipster, all unfinished wood and mustachioed baristas.
“I’m getting so sophisticated,” Willow says over her latte, her hand gently grazing the cherry blossom print.
Why did I yell at her? How could I lose my temper with such a sweet, perfect thing?
“You’ll always be my little Willow,” I say, looking at her and feeling warmth.
I can be honest with her, almost 100%, I just can’t tell her that one thing. I trust her with my life, but there’s some secrets that aren’t only mine.
We finish our coffee and head back to the car to drop off the painting in the trunk before I lead her into the heart of Portland. She gawks at the huge line for voodoo donuts.
“Are they really that good?”
I laugh. “Part of the experience is waiting in line and finding out for yourself. When you spend twenty minutes to get them, the anticipation makes them even better.”
She leans closer and kisses me tenderly on my cheek. I’m overwhelmed by feelings of love and protection for her.
“I’m already anticipating tonight,” she whispers, and I feel a melancholy as I look at her. This should be an incredible weekend together, and no matter how close I am to her on the surface my secret is keeping us apart.
You answered her questions last night. You didn’t lie… technically. She won’t ask again, not when you were so harsh with her. Just keep it together, Connor. You spent two years undercover, you can hide this one part of yourself from her.
Dinner is tasteless, and back in the mansion we make love distantly, our bodies intertwining but my mind so far away.
We lay on the bed, spent, and she stares deep into me.
“Connor, how did you do it? How did you survive those two years undercover?”
She speaks softly, as if she’s scared I’ll be angry with her again.
“You just have to separate it from your life.”
“But… when you were undercover, weren’t you always working? Did you even have a life other than that?”
"Yeah," I say, and I hear the grimness in my voice. When you spend all your time in one part of your mind, you start to think that part of you is all that exists.
"One slip up, one change of frame... and you're dead. I miss the job sometimes, but I sure as hell don't miss being undercover. Willow, tomorrow’s talk is going to help real FBI agents stop real crimes. But… it’s not going to be the whole truth.”
Her eyes widen. “What do you mean, Connor?”
“I broke laws when I was undercover. I did things I can’t admit to."
Her brows furrow. “Like what?”
“I want to tell you it all. I’ve never told anyone the whole story, but I need to tell you. It’s going to sound different in parts to the version I tell tomorrow, and I need you to know the truth.”
I walk her through it all.
The people I hurt. The laws I broke.
Her eyes widen at parts, and in the worst ones… she can’t meet my eyes.
I tell her everything I can, wanting her to trust me, and when I’m finished, she doesn’t know what to say.
“That… that was a lot to hear,” she says. “Everything seemed so simple this morning. Now… Goodnight Connor, I hope you sleep well.”
“Goodnight Willow,” and though I’ve opened myself up to her, I don’t feel closer.
Because I still can’t tell her everything. Not that one thing. I can’t tell her I emptied the safe, that I took the 15 million…
And where it ended up.
Washed
Willow - Sunday, November 9th
The daunting Portland FBI building had tight security, but now I’m in the front row of the lecture hall waiting for Connor to appear. I feel out of place among the agents, but my presence is accepted.
They must assume I’m a grad student here for the lecture.
Connor takes the stage like he owns it. If he’s nervous about presenting to a room packed full of serious FBI agents, he doesn’t show it.
I’m only ten feet away from him, but it feels like miles.
My stomach roils as I remember every brutal detail of last night. I wanted to know what it takes to pass undercover in a brutal crime family.
Now I know.
“Welcome everyone. Thank you for coming in on a Sunday. It’s been five years since I was in the force, and my time undercover was one of the most successful examples of what solo, long-term undercover work can do. You’re all here for one reason. You’re here because I managed to conceal myself, blending into a renowned crime family. You all want to know how.”
He stands in the middle of the stage in a suit and tie. Some of the agents are twenty years his senior, but they all stare in rapt attention. I can feel their respect directed at him.
“We’re going to talk about one main thing today. How to become a chameleon.”
The room is totally focused, all eyes on Connor. He clicks the remote in his hand, and the screen behind him is plastered with a mugshot of an old man. Wrinkled skin clings to his skull, graying wisps of hair askew on his head. His eyes don’t look old. They look like pure hatred. His clear gaze stares out, promising vengeance to whoever did this to him.
“Stefano Maturi. The Don. Head of the Maturi crime family for over forty years.”
He was almost seventy when he was arrested. After hearing Connor’s tales about him last night, I’m relieved to know he’ll be in prison for the rest of his life.
Connor clicks the remote. The image on the screen makes me crawl back in my seat, and I wish I wasn’t in the front row. I want to be farther away from that face. Cold sweat forms under my armpits and I shift uneasily in my chair.
“Joe Maturi. Merciless Maturi.”
Thirty-five years old when he was arrested. Built like a boar. His cheeks are thick and fleshy, his small eyes beady and staring out. He must weigh close to 300 pounds of fat covered muscle.
Connor clicks the remote again.
“Greg Plats. The Hitman.”
Greg Plats eyes make me go cold. When I saw Stefano Maturi’s eyes in his mugshot, they were filled with rage and pride. Joe Maturi was brutish violence incarnate.
Greg Plats stares back in the mugshot like he’s bored.
He was forty when he was caught.
I never knew what the expression “dead eyes” meant until now. Greg Plats looks like he could be doing his grocery shopping or killing a man. He looks like he could put you in a ditch and never think of you again.
I know Connor did some horrible things… but wasn’t it worth it? To put these three behind bars?
"Three men. The core of the Maturi crime family. They controlled a large share of the prostitution, illegal gambling, and to a lesser extent, the drug scene in northern Washington, including Seattle. Tight-knit. I spent two years of my life gaining their trust before they even slipped up enough to get anything on tape. We caught them in the act and brought them to justice. Today’s lecture covers how I gained their trust. Who I became to join this violent, cruel group of individuals."
The room is too cold, and I clutch my sweater closer around me.
Why did I come here? Why did I want to hear this?
“The techniques you learn today won’t only help you to work undercover. I became the person that I needed to be for two whole years to get the Maturi family to trust me. You might be asked to play a role for half an hour while you interrogate a subject. Who will your subject open up to? Who is he scared of? When you need to take a witness statement, who is your witness most likely to want to talk to? Be that person.”
He clicks the remote again, and the screen goes black. All eyes return to Connor.
“I was picked for undercover work straight out of the academy. For two
reasons. The Maturi family had eyes on cops, and I was an unknown at this point. The second reason was my background in boxing. I was a fighter.”
The scratching of a pen on paper to my right makes my skin crawl. A black-haired man is taking diligent notes. Connor might have as well have forgotten where he is. His eyes are so far away. I know he’s back, years ago, reliving the moments that brought us inexorably to this point.
Connor presses the remote. The screen shows an old building. He presses the button again, and we are taken inside.
The photo is labeled “The Iron Ring.”
“My commanding officer saw a way into the Maturi family. That way was the Iron Ring. The Maturi family recruited Joe Maturi’s former bodyguard, Bob Hunter, from these same fighting pits. The family ran the matches, controlled the illegal sports-betting, and sold drugs through the building.”
I can’t hear this again. What he did to that poor man…
“I stepped into that ring. I fought four matches in four weeks. My last fight I could barely see through the blood – these weren’t fights like you see on TV, where it gets stopped when someone’s injured. You go till one of the fighters bow out. I was bloody and hurt, but I triumphed.”
You were so bloody you could barely see, and your opponent ended up in the hospital for a week with a broken jaw.
Connor’s jaw clenches tight.
“Greg Plats approached me after the fight. The Hitman himself. He offered me cocaine for the pain. I refused. This lecture is about being a chameleon. You might be thinking – why didn’t I take the drugs? Wouldn’t it help me hide the fact that I was working undercover?”
He presses the remote, and the screen flicks to Bob Hunter, the former bodyguard. His eyes look frightened in the mug shot.
“Bob Hunter. The former bodyguard who I hoped to replace. We took him down in a bust after he bought a kilo from an undercover cop. The Maturi family ran their business efficiently and professionally. They compartmentalized. Bob Hunter had a spotless record. That is, until he starting using dope and eventually had to start dealing – without the Maturi’s permission – to make enough money for his coke habit.”
The next slide shows Bob Hunter in a body bag.
He was right to have scared eyes in his mugshot. When you cross the Maturi’s they always get revenge.
“He lasted two months in prison before he was found dead in the showers. A revenge hit by the Maturi’s for dealing without their permission and putting their operation at risk. At least, that’s my theory, but we couldn’t prove anything. The Maturi’s were looking for someone reliable. My cover was that I came from a poor family and worked at the dockyard while fighting on the weekends to get an extra buck. I didn't drink, I didn't do drugs, and I was spotless."
You pretended to be someone you weren’t, and they ate it up like fools. Are you doing the same to me, Connor? When I looked into your eyes last night I still saw secrets deep inside of you. You’re so good at pretending. What if I’m falling for a man who’s hiding his true self?
“They didn’t put me on as a bodyguard at the start. I was a glorified errand boy for that year and a half. I drove people and packages from place to place. I collected debts. My reputation from the Iron Ring allowed me to collect from guys who were months behind. In those moments I played up the intimidation. I punched a hole through drywall once when a guy claimed he couldn't hand over a grand to cover that month's payment on a blackjack debt. There may be times in your career when you need to be intimidating. When you need a suspect to know that whatever he's scared of, you are much worse."
Except you didn't just scare them, did you Connor? When he still claimed he didn’t have the cash, you pushed him against the wall until he begged for mercy and pointed you to a secret stash of dirty dollar bills under his sofa. A gambling addict who got evicted because he spent his rent on blackjack in a casino controlled by the very monsters you worked for. You intimidated him in front of Greg Plats to prove how brutal you could be.
I’m hyperventilating and slow my breathing consciously. The black-haired man to my right gives me a quick, evaluating glance, then his gaze shifts back to Connor.
Hearing him give the clean, washed version of the story makes my body feel cold. I've never felt so far away from Connor.
I should have left in the dead of the night. I should have left and never came back.
"Everything changed when a man lost his life savings in one of the underground casinos where Joe Maturi happened to be drinking. That man charged Joe with a knife. I protected him, and I've got the scars to prove it. I saved Joe's life, and then I was in."
Terry Watcher. But you can’t say his name, can you Connor? That was your test. They told you to put a bullet in his head. You drove him to the river and held the gun to his head, and told him if he didn’t move to the East Coast he was a dead man. You might not have killed him, but he never got his old life back.
It's too much. I get to my feet and a wave of dizziness hits me. I fight it off and rush down the aisle. The auditorium feels like it’s devoid of oxygen, every breath leaving me gasping.
"Let's take a quick break and meet back in 15," says Connor to the packed auditorium as I burst out into the main hallways of the building. I get almost to the front doors when Connor catches up to me.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm leaving! I'm going to find my own way home. Connor, I don't know what I was thinking. I thought..."
His eyes grow cold. "You thought I was someone different."
"No... it's just... Connor, you did some terrible things, but you saved lives. I just... I don't know if I have the whole story. I know you’re hiding something from me, Connor. I know you’re lying to me."
“Willow, you have the whole story.” He speaks in a hushed whisper, conscious of the fact that we are in an FBI building. “I couldn’t put everything in the report, but I told you everything. Everything.”
Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my surroundings.
“What really happened to the 15 million?”
I try to keep my voice low, but I sound hysterical.
People are looking at us. A security guard gives us a calculating look then starts walking towards us.
He has no answer.
The seconds drag on, and I know he will never be able to give me an honest answer.
“Willow… I…”
“Connor, what kind of monster are you?”
I break free from him, almost running as I go through the security gates and burst out the front door.
Nausea grips me so hard I bend over to retch, but nothing comes out. I breathe in and out, controlling myself.
I don’t look back.
Every step I take I expect to feel his hand on my shoulder.
It never comes.
Lone
Connor - Sunday, November 9th
I stand in the entrance hall of the FBI building, watching the door shut behind Willow, feeling my heart wrench.
She saw my true self, and she left.
I told her everything last night. Every brutal detail of my two years undercover, except the one thing I can’t. She can’t know where the three duffel bags full of cash ended up. She thinks I stole that money and used it to enrich myself, to buy extravagant houses and to fill offshore accounts. She thinks I’m dirty, like her father.
If I could only tell her…
My jaw clenches. It isn’t just my life that’s affected by that secret.
I can’t be so selfish.
She’s gone. I knew it from the start that if she ever saw me for who I am, she would disappear. You don’t do the things I did and get a happy ever after. I was her dark fantasy, and nothing more.
I’ll be a shadow in her memory.
I walk back into the auditorium. I have a job to do. If my lecture helps just one of these agents get that crucial piece of information from a suspect, I’ve done what I came to do. I’m here for one reason. To teach others how to take down criminals. I’m
not here to save my own life.
My scars twinge as I enter the lecture hall again and finish the presentation.
I leave the building and the rain pours down against me, erupting from the pregnant clouds. It batters down against my windshield as the wipers try valiantly to clear the deluge. I pull up to the driveway. I put my key into the door, but it opens before I can unlock it.
Willow’s key is on the kitchen table. I walk up the room, and her suitcase is gone. The house feels empty. My fist clenches.
There is no punching bag for me to work my anger out on. The rain pounds against the windows.
I pull myself up the stairs and into the bedroom where we made love just a night ago.
I sit on the bed, and I can smell her scent. It makes my blood boil with need.
I can’t have her.
I let myself get soft. I let myself feel things I never should have. I let myself imagine getting down on my knee for her, wedding her, raising children with her. It can’t happen. Not now that -
Bing!
I sit up, the sound from my phone making me wrench upwards. It’s the same sound I have set-up on my laptop. It means one thing, and one thing only. With Joe Maturi’s parole date next Friday, I can feel the hairs raising on my shoulders.
I open my laptop and click the link to the article.
His face looks back at me.
Joe Maturi.
He’s still big, over 6 feet tall and at least 300, but his face looks leaner. His beady eyes have sharpened.
He looks like a man who has been planning.
For years.
Killer moved into solitary for duration of life sentence
A former hitman for the Maturi crime family pleaded guilty to three counts of murder within the penitentiary. Greg Plats was the top contract killer for the Maturi Crime family before being brought down along with Stefano Maturi and Joe Maturi.
Authorities confronted Greg Plats after a tip from former crime boss Joe Maturi. This shows a rift in the family, which stuck to a strict code of silence after their arrests.
