“It’s like she’s doing all this on purpose to enact some kind of revenge plot over the fact that I left in the first place.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Yes, exactly.”
Dante carries on his tirade for at least an hour, giving me plenty of time to practice my ever-growing list of insults. At one point,he stops waxing lyrical about the dangers of ballroom dancing to correct my pronunciation so that I might insult him properly.
By the time he leaves, there’s an odd warmth in my chest that has been absent since I was able to pull one over on that Max guy back in Brooklyn.
As I stare up at the renovated dungeon ceiling from my bed, I turn over every new piece of information I’ve managed to extract from Dante’s ramblings, searching for anything that might help me in my escape.
His disdain for his mother. His anxiousness to be back in Brooklyn. Is there a reason he despises social gatherings? Does he have any allies here? Friends? Family beyond Evelina Grasso?
I fall asleep with questions that I ponder most of the following day. Some of the answers arrive sometime after my third meal, along with Dante and another tirade. This time, it’s about traveling to Modena to get things done.
Dante’s visits became a pattern in the following week. Each evening presents a fresh irritation for him to lament, sprinkled with just enough important information for me to pay attention.
Which is theonlyreason that I pay attention.
“Do you think we’re all destined to become our parents?”
Dante has taken to sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the bars. I’ve taken to mirroring him, slightly to the side. If I crane my neck to the left, I can make out his sharp profile.
“I think I’d look pretty ridiculous with a beard.”
The problem is, when Dante laughs, I stop thinking about paying attention for a moment. I just listen to the warmth of the tone, the freedom of it, the satisfaction of knowing that I caused it.
It’s a similar feeling that has begun to arise every time the door down the corridor opens for the fourth time every day. The warmth of settling into a routine with someone who seems just as trapped as I am.
There’s an odd sense of camaraderie in it.
“If anyone could pull it off, I would think you could,” Dante replies with a half smile.
He’s quieter and softer today. He came earlier and stayed far longer than he usually does.
Something’s clearly bothering him. But I don’t care to ask.
Only…
For the sake of my quest to gather information…
“What’s up with you today?”
His head turns to look at me. “Who said there was anything wrong?”
“You’ve not corrected my pronunciation once.”
“Well, you’re getting surprisingly good.”
I bite at my lower lip, considering how far I can push him. With a sigh, I lean back against the bars and close my eyes. “For the record, I don’t care. It’s just this is the only real conversation I get all day, and it sucks when you’re all mopey.”
“I’m sorry, princess. I’ll do my best to be happier for you.” The sarcasm doesn’t seem to bite as hard as it used to.
“Much appreciated.”
He sighs good-naturedly, and we sit in silence for a moment. I know better than to push him when he’s like this, and eventually, my patience is rewarded.
“My mother wants me married.”
