Rebecca Caruso

I began to experience hindsight regrets as Marco pardoned himself to call his driver.

"What are you doing, Rebecca?" I could hear my logical consciousness screaming from the back of my imagination. "Jesus, call Chris to pick you up if you don't feel safe. You don't know this guy--you literally just met him three hours ago. He could be another pretty boy Bundy for all you know."

Marco peered back, checking up on me all while giving a polite smile. I followed with a half-motioned wave.

"You have a loyal, devoted, and kind boyfriend at home waiting for you." Great, now Mr.Guilt decided to join the tag team. "He's been nothing but good and patient. Yes, happiness does come at a cost--but at least Chris IS TRYING, unlike most of the men out there today."

What was I doing?

Once he turned away, I promptly pulled out my phone, ready to send a text to Christopher. But then there it was, the same two brightly lit voicemail notifications from Robert, ignored and unchecked.

It was too loud in The Alcove to actually listen to what Robert might have said, but I was certain it would be on the strand of utter disappointments, remorseful guilt-tripping, and then a mention of doing his best in there somewhere.

The first voicemail being anger-fulled, while the other played as-fabricated sympathy. He's done this before, not specifically with my relationships, but with life in general. I was exhausted with my father, exhausted with being a Caruso altogether. So much weight, so much pressure—At least Rafael got out...

"See that," my conscious agreed. "This is why you're here, Rebecca Caruso; be selfish and foolish for once in your God-given life. Have fucking fun. You deserve it."

"Sorry it took a while," Marco expressed as he sat on the stool beside mine. "I didn't realize how hard it is to take phone calls on the main floor. The office is normally quieter."

"It's all right." The abrupt thought of my older brother, Rafael, provided me with a tangent-fueled idea. "Hey, mind if I take a quick picture of your ID and send it to a friend?" I asked with a nervous laugh, waving my phone slightly in the air. It felt awkward but necessary—after all, what was I really doing here?

Marco blinked, caught off guard. "Oh," he murmured, clearly surprised.

I gave a half-hearted smile, trying to explain my reasoning even though I wasn't entirely sure myself why it felt so important. "Look, I'm about to get into a car with an acquaintance I know literally nothing about."

He paused for a moment, then his face softened with understanding. "No, no, I get it," he said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. "You're playing it safe, being smart." As he fumbled with the clip wallet, I noticed a faded AmEx card tucked behind his ID, which he quickly handed over.

"Here you go."

I took the ID and snapped a quick picture: Montanari, Marco; 5320 South University Avenue; 185 lbs; 6 feet 0 inches. Born February 14, 1985. A Valentine's baby—go figure. I quickly sent the photo to my brother Rafael. I'd probably hear about it in the morning, but I could trust him to follow up if needed. At least it gave me a bit of peace.

"February 14th, huh? Let me guess—discounted heart-shaped birthday cakes every year?"

Marco smirked, rolling his eyes. "Yup, and I think I'm still allergic to pink frosting."

I burst out laughing. "At least you can always say you're a hopeless romantic by birth," I teased, handing back his ID. "Though you've got a solid four years on me."

"Great," he groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. "Now I feel ancient."

"Embrace it, Grandpa," I quipped, grinning as he took the ID, dramatically hunching over as if age was catching up to him.

But just as quickly as the playful moment had come, Marco's expression shifted. His smirk faded, replaced by something more serious. "Am I being too clingy?" he asked, his voice softening with concern. "If I'm overstepping any boundaries, just let me know."

I glanced at him, catching the genuine worry in his eyes. It wasn't for himself—it was for me. The shift made me pause. Why was he suddenly so concerned? 

"You're fine," I reassured him, smiling. "If you were overstepping, believe me, I would've ghosted you by now."

Relief flashed across his face as his eyebrows raised with amusement. "Good to know."

Just as he turned to step away, a sudden thought hit me. "Wait!" I blurted out, stopping him in his tracks. "Aren't you going to take a picture of my ID?"

He leaned in, genuinely curious. "Why?"

I shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. "I don't know, maybe because... what if I'm one of those dangerous women who target vulnerable drunk men?"

Marco laughed, shaking his head. "With the people I've dealt with? I'm surprised I'm still alive."

He gently grabbed my elbow, the cool leather of his jacket brushing against my bare arm.

I smirked. "You mean your exes?"

"I don't exactly leave the best first impression. People are so touchy these days," he confessed as we started walking up the staircase, heading towards the street level.

"Being a distraught drunk doesn't help the cause," I jokingly pointed out as Marco held the club door open for me.

"You're right," he agreed as I walked passed him onto the street. "But it sure does make things hurt a whole lot less."

Downtown Chicago was an entirely different character at night; Mr. Hyde personified, some have said. Distraught, first-time, tourists huddling underneath streetlamp halos as they wait for their taxi cabs; shivering in the cold night winds brought in by the lake.

The homeless are scurrying within the shadows, lifting every public corner garbage bin for scraps and necessities.  Individualized groups cluster underground, tagging subway walls with urban ciphers all while seeking easy prey.  Police sirens are constantly heard, fueling our city with an echo of reminders...

Out of nowhere, an arm yanked my shoulder back, cutting off my breath as it snaked around my neck in a brutal chokehold. My body stiffened in shock. Panic surged through me as I clawed at the arm, but the grip only tightened, the pressure building against my throat.

"Marco," I tried to shout, but my voice was a choked rasp.

Through my blurred vision, I caught sight of the bartender—Frank—his eyes wild and unhinged as he leveled a gun at Marco. The barrel gleamed under the dim lights, and my heart lurched.

"Frank!" Marco's voice cracked with disbelief.

"Shut up, you bastard," Frank spat, his voice trembling with rage. "I only take orders from one Montanari, and it sure as hell isn't you!"

Everything slowed. My mind, my body, instinct took over. I braced myself, digging my nails into Frank's forearm. Then, with all the strength I had, I tucked my chin and shifted my weight, pivoting sharply to the left. The move created just enough space to give me leverage, and without hesitation, I slammed my knee into his groin.

Frank's grip faltered. He grunted in pain, his body curling forward as he staggered back, the gun slipping momentarily in his hand. "You son of a bitch!" he cried, doubling over in agony, clutching his bruised balls.

Fuelled by rage, I unleashed three, perhaps four, knee strikes to his face. Blood trickled from Frank's battered body as he collapsed, unconscious, onto the ground.

Marco stood frozen, eyes wide with shock, his mouth half-open like he was trying to say something, but no words came out. 

I wiped the sweat from my brow, adrenaline still surging through me, but underneath that buzz, there was a familiar sense of control—a sharp, focused calm that reminded me of being back on duty. That precise moment when training kicks in and the rest of the world fades away. It was the same clarity I used to rely on in the field, the same cool detachment that got me through dangerous situations unscathed.

I looked down at Frank's limp form, his chest still. The sight of him, bloody and unconscious, hit me like a reality check. My mind raced—did I go too hard? Did I kill him?

I felt Marco's eyes on me, on my ruin.

"We should call the cops," I muttered, the decision settling over me as I reached for my phone.

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