𝗔𝗰𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀

Six.

Rebecca Caruso

I began to experience hindsight regrets as Marco pardoned himself to maneuver away and 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 Ted 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 noted in a nervous swoop while waving my phone in mid-air.

"Oh," Marco was caught in shock.

"Look, you gotta look at it from my perspective." I assured him of the truth, "I'm going on a car ride with an acquaintance I know absolutely nothing about."

"No, no, I completely understand." Marco expressed, as he pulled out his clip wallet. "You're playing it safe. That's smart," his ID was lodged in the front fold behind a faded AmEx card.

"Here you go," he added.

"Thanks." I opened up the viewfinder and quickly snapped a photo of the item: Montanari, Marco; 5320 South University Avenue; 185 lbs; 6 feet 0 inches.

I promptly sent the no-content image to my brother. Of course, I'd probably hear from it in the morning; but at least Rafael I can trust.

"Am I being too clingy?" Concern filled his voice as he quickly added, "If I'm overstepping any boundaries here, Rebecca, please let me know."

His worry wasn't for himself, but for me.

"Don't worry, you're good," I reassured him, rising from the barstool and putting my phone away. "To be honest, if you were too pushy, I would have ghosted you a long time ago," I teased, pretending to create an elaborate bathroom scene.

Relief washed over his face, a subtle smile forming as his eyebrows raised with amusement. "That's good to hear. I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Wait!" I blurted out, a sudden realization hitting me just as he began to walk away. "Hey, aren't you going to take a picture of my ID?"

"Why would I do that?" he leaned in, realizing the distance between us.

"I don't know, maybe because, like, what if I'm one of those dangerous women who target vulnerable drunk men?"

"With the people I've encountered?" He chuckled briefly. "I'm surprised I'm still alive." Marco gently grabbed onto my elbow, his leather jacket brushing against my bare skin.

"You mean your exes?" I asked, fully aware of how cruel and ruthless women can be when they're motivated enough.

"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...

An unexpected force yanked my shoulder back, wrapping an arm around my neck and locking me in an unforeseen chokehold. My initial attempts to break free proved futile, the grip only tightening. Tilting my head upward, I noticed the bartender, Frank, aiming a gun at Marco.

"Frank!" Marco shouted.

"Listen up, you bastard," he brazenly declared. "I only take orders from one Montanari, and--"

I seized Frank's arm with both hands, swiftly tucking in my chin. Utilizing his own momentum, I managed to pivot to the left, creating space and providing a momentary distraction to deliver a powerful blow to my assailant's groin.

"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 stared at me in astonishment, struggling to find the right words.

"Fuck, we should probably call the cops." At that moment, I felt a surge of empowerment, almost like being back on duty.

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