Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

“Believe me,” I say, leaning against my desk, crossing one loafer over the
other, “I’m never eager to do anything regarding that she-devil.”
He makes a grunting sound. “In any case, I didn’t call to talk about
Carmen.”
Of course, he didn’t, because any conversation about her inevitably ends
in admitting defeat where she’s concerned. She’s a lost cause, drifting out to
sea while everyone chooses to look on.
“How’s my daughter?”
A laugh tickles the back of my throat, but I swallow over it, aware that I
need to navigate whatever it is he’s about to say carefully. “You mean after
you deliberately had her attacked? She’s as well as can be expected.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention the tight warmth I’ve buried
myself in twice now since yesterday, but I bite down on the urge, not wanting
to fan the flames just yet.
“I can assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rafe replies,
and I can imagine him fingering the edge of his massive thumb ring, staring
down at the same insignia that was etched into the card left at the bus station.
“It’s just been a while since she answered her mother’s texts, and we were
starting to get worried.”
“Maybe don’t spread lies about the way her marriage started, and she’d
be more inclined to speak to you.”
“What were the lies exactly, Kal?” He pauses as if waiting for my answer,
but barrels on before I can say anything. “Did you not murder her fiancé
while he dressed for his wedding? Force me to bear witness to the ceremony
where you stole my little girl’s hand, after already stealing her virtue?”
“I forced you to do nothing. I presented the situation and gave you the
opportunity to make a decision. You chose safety over the contract she had
with those media vultures.”
He sniffles, and I blink into the empty office. Is he crying? “The fact of
the matter is, Dr. Anderson, that we want our Elena brought home. I don’t
care what we have to do to get her back, but please, stop keeping her captive.
She’s my... bambina.”
His voice breaks on the last two words, the Italian thrown in dramatically,
and a thought snaps into place in my brain, pushing me into a standing
position as anger grows sour in my gut.
“What are you doing, Rafe?” I ask slowly, glaring at the only framed
picture I own; it’s one of a sixteen-year-old me, sandwiched between Rafe