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Cerberus disappears into the kitchen as Cristiano returns to the table. He eyes my dish.
“You eat a lot.”
“I was on a hunger strike.” And I have to admit, I may have overdone it tonight. I put my hand on my full belly.
“Why?” he asks.
“To protest my wedding.”
“A hunger strike is ineffective unless your life holds some value. It only weakens you.”
“Sometimes whether or not you eat is the only thing you have control over. I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that since you’re probably usually the one on the other side of things.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” He watches me for a long minute. “What did you hope to achieve?”
“Nothing, actually. I knew it wouldn’t achieve anything. Wouldn’t change anything. I know my brothers,” I pause, remembering. “Knew them.”
“Mm.”
“I sat and I ate. Can I see Noah now?” I ask, taking care not to sound like I’m making a demand.
“Finish your wine.” He finished his and two more glasses as we ate. I’ve only sipped mine.
I pick up my glass and drain it. He raises his eyebrows as I set my glass down and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
Cristiano shakes his head at my bad manners, stands and pulls my chair out. I find this strange because I didn’t think he had any manners himself.
I stand and follow him to a bathroom. He holds the door open and switches on the light. It’s beautiful inside, like the rest of what I’ve seen of the house. Italian style with elaborately painted walls, some with frescoes depicting scenes from Greek mythology. It all looks like it’s been touched up recently. Even this tiny bathroom has a vaulted ceiling, similar to the rest of the first floor.
“You eat like an animal,” he says. “Wash your hands.”
“I only mimicked my host.”
“If I’m your host you imply you’re my guest.”
I wash my hands and switch off the water before grabbing a towel and turning to him. “Your captive then. Is that better? Call a spade a spade, a devil a devil.”
“You come from a family of devils.”
He’s right. I do. So, I don’t answer. Instead, I follow him through the large, open living room with its elegant, Venetian style furnishings and glance at all of the paintings we pass. I notice his eyes linger on one in particular. A woman in her late twenties. She’s beautiful.
“Who is that?”
“My mother,” he says without turning around.
His mother.
She was executed with the rest of his family by my brothers. By the man I was to marry.
I shudder with a sudden chill. If he notices he doesn’t say anything as we proceed into the decidedly cooler and darker corridor, the smell of must already present here. It’s the one that leads to the cells. I remember being dragged up here.
I make a mental note that we’ve only passed one soldier inside the house.
“Hold on to the handrail,” Cristiano tells me. He walks ahead of me like he can see in the dark.
“There aren’t any lights?”
“No.”
“Are you keeping Noah in the dark?”
He turns and I can just make out his eyes from the little bit of light coming from the house. “Better than six feet under, isn’t it?”
I swallow. Yes, I guess it is.
I miss the next step, gasping as I stumble forward. Cristiano catches me, steadies me, then wraps my hand around the handrail, his hand covering mine entirely, the skin rough but the act gentle. He keeps it like that, holding mine for a moment too long and I still have to look up at him even though he’s standing on the lower step.
“Hold on to the handrail,” he repeats.
I nod, breaking eye contact.
We walk on. Once we take the next turn on the curving stone staircase, I see light. I don’t wait for Cristiano to step aside or lead me to it, but rush there myself.
“Noah!” I close my hands around the bars and see my brother sitting on a cot eating the last of his meal. The source of the light, a flashlight beside him.
“Scarlett!” He rushes to me, hugs me through the bars. “How did you get away from him?”
“She didn’t,” Comes Cristiano’s voice. He takes up space at my back, too close, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end.
Noah looks up at Cristiano who has a good six inches on him and about seventy-five pounds.
“You ate?” Cristiano asks as I look my brother over. He doesn’t seem to have any new bruises, no broken bones that I can see.
“Yes, sir,” Noah says.
I can tell Cristiano likes this. “Have you been beaten?” he asks.
“What?” Noah asks.
“Beaten. Did anyone abuse you?”
“No. No, sir.”
Cristiano nods and turns to me looking at me with a ‘told you so’ expression on his smug face. But then he takes my arm and turns me away.
