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I move closer. "Ella," I murmur, a gentle attempt to break the silence that envelops her. She doesn't respond. The pocket knife, covered in blood, glints in her hand.
It's not just the blood that covers her. It's the aftermath of a moment where lines between survival and morality blur—a choice that challenges the very core of who we are in this world. I remember the feeling when I first killed someone.
"Ella," I repeat, urgency in my voice. Finally, her gaze shifts from Mauro's lifeless form to mine. Her eyes, which held a spark of triumph moments ago, now reflect a mix of shock and vulnerability.
The silence persists, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the club’s music. I reach out, placing a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Her skin is cool to the touch, and I sense the tension coursing through her. I rub her cheek.
"We need to leave," I say, holding her hand and taking the knife from her gently. At my touch, she presses herself against my chest. She instantly jolts back after seeing the blood staining my shirt but I pull her closer.
“I’m here.”
As we move towards the exit, I cover Ella with my jacket so that nobody notices the blood.
Chapter Thirty-Three
ELLA
The night air feels cool and foreign against my skin as we step out of the club, leaving behind the haunting remnants of this night. Tommaso's hand guides me across the street, and I follow, my legs still shaking. I try not to look at the blood on us, but it’s everywhere.
The city's distant lights cast an eerie glow on us, emphasizing the quiet of the night. In the car, I sit beside Tommaso. His presence offers warmth and comfort, a respite from the shock of what I just saw. Of what I just did.
As the engine hums to life, I can't shake the images that replay in my mind—the blood, the knife, and the lifeless body. Tommaso's hand finds mine, and he moves closer to me. His thumb gently rubs circles on my palm and he pecks a kiss on it. I cling to him, my fingers intertwined with his, seeking some solace in the warmth of his touch.
The garage door rumbles closed behind us, sealing us in the quiet shelter of Tommaso’s home again. I can smell the blood on me. I gag. Tommaso, without a word, scoops me up into his arms, my feet barely touching the ground.
The elevator doors open, revealing the sanctuary of his home. The soft glow of ambient lighting creates a calming atmosphere, offering solace after the intensity of the night. In his sturdy arms, I feel a sense of security that defies the chaos inside me right now.
We enter his bedroom, and Tommaso sets me down on the edge of the bed. The room is dimly lit, the big lamps casting a warm hue on the furniture and grey tones of the bedding. The ticking of a clock on the bedside table is the only sound in the quiet that settles between us. Tommaso smiles faintly and heads to the bathroom.
I sit alone on the bed, waiting for him. My gaze wanders around his room, taking in the details that surround me—the framed photographs on the walls, the color of the decor, and the softness of the bed. I suddenly feel out of place. Why am I even here? I was just a girl doing her job. How did I end up in this dark world?
As Tommaso busies himself in the bathroom, I'm left with my thoughts. The events of the night replay in my mind, each etched with a visceral intensity. The bloodstains, the struggle, and the stark reality of me getting caught in all this gnaws at the corners of my mind. Suddenly, the weight of my choices comes crashing down on me.
My head starts to spin—have I given up too much for Tommaso? I find myself questioning every step that led me here, examining the shadows I've willingly encountered. I shift on the bed, and my body feels lifeless. Every small move takes a ton of energy.
I keep tugging at my dress as if to clean the blood off, but only get more of it on my hands. I feel the sweat on my back and my body starts to get cold. I'm alone with my thoughts. The bloodstains on my clothes seem to taunt me. My trembling hands reach out to touch the fabric, the sticky warmth beneath my fingertips sending a shiver down my spine.
Unable to tear my eyes away from the crimson stains, I'm drawn to my own reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back at me is a stranger, her eyes wide. Is that me? No.
The room is filled with the comforting scent of soap and steam, yet the blood on my hands seems an indelible mark of darkness. Am I a killer now? The door to the bathroom opens.
Tommaso steps in, and coughs to get my attention, and my eyes immediately shift away from the mirror. His gaze locks onto mine, a silent understanding passing between us. Without a word, he strides toward me, his gaze on the blood-stained hands that I can't seem to free myself from.
"Ella," his voice is a gentle command, stopping me in my tracks. "Trust me. It’ll be fine."
I nod, unable to form words, grateful for the anchor he provides. His hands reach for mine, firm yet tender, as he gently pulls them away from the bloodied fabric. There's a quiet insistence in his touch, a plea to release the hold that my actions have on me.
"Close your eyes," he says politely, and I obey without hesitation. The darkness behind my eyelids brings a strange comfort. I know he’s there and it’s enough. The sound of running water fills the room, and I feel his arms taking me toward the shower. The warmth of the water surrounds us, and it smells like lavender and coconut.
Tommaso takes my dress off, gently kissing my back. He detangles my hair with his fingers. He is gentle as he takes me with him under the running shower.
My senses are heightened, attuned to the sensations of Tommaso's hands, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin as he starts to cleanse away the stains. I like the feeling of the warm water on me. Tommaso whispers gently as he washes me and it calms me down.
"You were brave," he murmurs, his voice deep and firm. "Stronger than you know." The words wrap around me like a comforting embrace. In the quiet of the shower, I love the sound of his voice. I don’t want him to stop talking. I don’t want him to stop touching me. For a second, I feel like crying out, holding him. Crying all my fear and love to him.
As he continues to wash me, I feel a sense of surrender, a willingness to let go and allow him to guide me through the aftermath of what I did. I feel his hands going over my navel and I shiver. "Can I open my eyes now?" The desire to see him, to look into his eyes overwhelms me.
"Not yet," he replies, his voice carrying a hint of playfulness. Instead, his hands shift, now working the soap onto me into a lather.
