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“Whiskey,” she replies.
I kiss her forehead, then leave to organize a drink for her.
When I come back through, she is in the bedroom, lying in bed, with the covers pulled over her naked body. The towel is lying on the floor, and her wet hair is spread over the pillow. I pick up the towel, put her drink on the bedside table, and sit on the bed next to her.
I wrap the towel around the sections of her hair, squeezing some of the water out of it.
After some time, she sits up, taking the drink in her hand; she tilts the glass back and swallows all of it in one go.
“Would you like another one?” I ask, with no judgment.
She shakes her head and lays back down.
She closes her eyes, and I lay down behind her, wrapping my arm around her waist.
“I’m right here, my love.”
She doesn’t respond.
I lay with her until she falls asleep, then I get up to change into something more comfortable and climb back into bed, holding her again.
In the morning, she is still distant, and her eyes look lost and far away from me.
“Would you like to go out today? We can do something special, see something. I'll arrange it for us.”
She shakes her head. “No, thank you.”
She is sitting on the sofa with her legs curled against her chest, staring out of the balcony window at nothing in particular.
“Can I get you anything at all? You didn’t eat last night. Let me make you some food.”
“No, thank you.”
I clench my jaw. I don’t know what to do for her. All I want to do is see her smile.
But I also understand that the conversation she had with her father must have been very intense and emotional.
I pace around the hotel, feeling useless and lost.
When I see she has fallen asleep again, I decide I have to do something. I can’t just sit here and wait for her to feel ok again. I have to solve this for her.
I write a note, telling her I won’t be gone long, and that I didn’t want to wake her. I tell her to message me as soon as she wakes up.
Then I get into my car and drive toward her father’s house. I need to know what happened. I need to know if he said anything else to her that might cause deeper issues than I can understand.
I knock on his front door, half expecting him to come outside with a shotgun and blow my head off.
He opens the door, his face swollen and blue.
“Yes?” he says, not looking at all bothered to see a stranger on his doorstep, even after the last strangers who arrived here kidnapped and beat him.
“Marcus, my name is Antonio.”
“Antonio. You are the man who had me taken yesterday; they told me your name. They said you are the new boss.”
“That is correct. And you don’t look bothered to see me?”
“Why would I be bothered? I thought you were going to have me killed yesterday. I was hoping you would come back today to finish the job.” He turns away from me and walks into his home.
