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Willow,
Thank you so much for finding a way to contact me. It means more than you can know.
That party last night wasn’t in my honour, but yes, the cake was a birthday cake for me. It may be hard to believe, but I’m safe. Elio is taking care of me.
I stop typing, chewing on my lip, hating the words I’ve just written and yet not entirely feeling like they’re a lie, either. Elio has trapped me, but he’s also showered me in luxury even my father’s stolen money couldn’t buy. Not that Dad spent much of it on me, I think sourly. Elio’s kept me fed, clothed me in finery, ordered me the most amazing birthday cake a bakery could possibly produce, and…
Licked my clit until I came.
He also spanked me, I hiss furiously inside my own head. He told me he owns every part of me. Is heaping more and more debt on top of me with interest rates he could slash but won’t.
I want to tell Willow everything. To spill my guts to her, let her find a way to fix this. But I can’t. Because Willow actually would try to fix it, and I don’t want her to be the object of Darragh’s ire. Or Elio’s. So I grit my teeth and keep on typing.
My dad completely fucked me over. He borrowed millions from Sev Serpico and Elio to cover up what he stole from Darragh and then he didn’t pay it back. That’s why New Year’s went down the way it did (is Mr Byrne OK???)
Elio paid off my father’s debt to the Camorra and is letting me work off the money Dad owes him. For some reason he likes the way I play violin. So I’m doing that for him and slowly paying everything back that way. It’s going to take a while, so don’t expect me to resurface anytime soon.
Not that I can resurface at all if Darragh still wants to get his hands on me. I swallow hard, realizing for the first time that the debt might not be the only thing standing between freedom and me. Even if I pay back every cent, even if Elio lets me go, Darragh will be waiting for me. Unless he finds my father first, but I don’t want that, either. Even after everything that’s happened and everything he’s done, I don’t want Dad getting murdered over this. I lost one parent and never truly recovered. I can’t handle losing another one.
Though haven’t I already lost him in a way?
I might never see my father, my only living parent, again.
I focus on finishing my message to Willow so that I don’t completely fall apart.
I’m safe, I type out again. I’m making this work. You don’t need to do anything for me right now. Actually, no – the number one thing you can do for me is to keep yourself safe. Nobody will take kindly to you trying to interact with me now. The last thing I want is you getting hurt over this.
Stay safe, Willow. I love you so much.
Dee
Just as I send the message, I hear the familiar sound of a cart being pushed into the room. My head snaps up to see Rosa bringing breakfast in – a tray laden with pastries and fresh fruit and…
“Is that a pot of tea?” I ask, almost wondering if all the unshed tears are making me see things.
“Sì, sì. Tea. The boss tell me make, so I make.”
The boss…
That has to be Elio.
I stare at the small glass teapot like it’s something fantastical, like a unicorn that shouldn’t exist but somehow does. Elio told her to bring me tea. Because that’s what I like…
I’m almost scared to drink it. Scared of what it means. Is this kindness? Some small comfort meant to make me happy? Or is it some kind of trap?
I decide that I don’t care. I’ve been dying for a cup of tea since yesterday, and as soon as Rosa brings the cart to a stop beside the bed, I thank her profusely and pour myself a steaming cup.
The scent hits me, and my eyes flutter shut for a moment as I simply inhale. This must be the best scent in the whole world. It’s pure, visceral comfort, and my gratitude towards Elio in this moment is so overwhelming I want to cry all over again. God, this must be Stockholm Syndrome, wanting to thank my captor for a simple cup of tea.
But I can’t help it. Tea isn’t just tea to me. It’s family and blooming warmth and memories. It’s quiet, early mornings in the kitchen before school with my mom, pouring each other cups from her beautiful vintage teapot as I filled her in on homework and teachers and boys. It’s the drink she made to soothe my tender heart when the boy I adored in grade nine told everyone he’d never date someone with hair the colour of an orange highlighter. It’s Christmas and Sunday afternoons and soft murmurs and laughter. I always imagined that, the morning of my wedding, Mom and I wouldn’t be drinking champagne as we got ready together, but sweet, strong cups of tea.
Sometimes, when I smell it, I can almost feel her with me. She didn’t have a signature perfume, my mom. This – the fragrant waft of Irish breakfast tea – was the scent of her.
If Rosa is wondering why I’ve pressed the heated cup to my forehead like it’s some kind of holy relic to be worshipped instead of something to drink, she doesn’t say it aloud. Instead, she goes marching into the bathroom, attacking every surface with spray bottles and polishing rags. Soon, the cup is too hot to keep against my skin, and I lower it, staring into the dark, reflective surface of the drink before I take a sip.
It's good tea, though not as strong as I would have liked. I like tea that’s been brewed long enough to really stand up to the milk and sugar I usually add. That’s how Mom always made it.
But for now, this is good enough. I add less milk and sugar than I normally would so I don’t overwhelm the flavour, and, throat aching with tears, I chug it like it’s water in the desert. It scalds my throat, but the heat of it feels cleansing, and I keep going until I can’t anymore, taking a wet and choking breath. I pick away at the food, then scarf it down, realizing that only charcuterie and a bit of birthday cake for the past day wasn’t anywhere near enough sustenance.
