Here at Marked Inc., we specialize in making the outside of a problem look like one thing while the real things can fly under the radar. It’s why we need her here. Though more importantly, it’s one of the many reasons thatIneed her here.
I know she has tried sending her resume to many of the big newspapers and publishing houses in the city, looking for employment. Unfortunately for her, I know all of them, and they all owe me for one thing or another. I sent out a mass email that if Sienna Ricci were ever to put in an application to any of them, they were to immediately report to me. I have not been shy in making my eagerness to get closer to her known.
Alright, Carmine, this is it. Enough distraction. Seal the deal, like you know you can.
I dial the number without even looking at the paper. I have memorized every detail I can get my hands on pertaining to Ms. Ricci. Where she lives, what she drinks, her social media presence,everything.
There is nothing she can hide from me. There is nowhere she can run from me.
Anticipation and lust begin to take hold as I hear the other line begin to ring. Oh, how I crave to hear the voice of the woman that has taken hold of my damned mind, making me arguably lose it.
I clear my throat as I wait for an answer, trying to tame the mixture of emotions I am feeling inside.
Please, don’t go to voicemail.
The phone rings three times when a clicking sound suddenly breaks the robotic ringing. A mischievous grin breaks through as my nerves melt away when a subtly raspy, feminine voice echoes in my ear.
A voice that was never meant for Carmine Moretti to hear. A voice that I was told would lead to destruction. Yet all I hear is the sound of redemption. There is a debt to be paid and the golden ticket to glory has her fucking name on it.
“Hello?” she says in a deliciously nervous yet breathy tone.
“Hello, Ms. Ricci. It’s Carmine Moretti.”
Chapter5
Sienna
It’s going on an hour since I left a message with Mr. Moretti’s receptionist. I grow impatient just standing and watching the minutes tick by on the clock. So, I decide to kill some time by brewing coffee and straightening up a bit to distract myself as I wait for a call back.
I sigh as I scan the mess throughout my kitchen. My eyes are immediately drawn to the now overflowing pile of dirty dishes in the sink that I neglected yesterday before going out.
Before I head to the sink to start on the mess, I feel for the hair tie on my wrist and begin to gather my hair in a ponytail to get it out of my way. Just as the last of my hair is pulled through the loop of the elastic, the matte card stock comes back into my view. Moving past the messy sink, I walk toward the countertop; my hands graze the business card, focusing on the name centered in bold font.
“Carmine Moretti.” I say his name aloud, letting it roll off my tongue in a whisper.Carmine Moretti. His name has a familiar ring to it. It reminds me of the kind of cliché, strong Italian names you hear often in the New York “business” circles my father ran in.
I pick up the card and flip it over, curious to see if there is anything on the opposite side. Sure enough, there is. As I process the image on the back side, a rush of déjà vu begins to fill my head when I see what looks like a hand-drawn sketch of a bat with elongated wings stretched out. The face of the bat has two large black eyes with a stitched smile. The more I study the drawing, I realize just how eerily similar it is to the fresh sternum piece I just got done, minus the menacing face, that is.
Feeling flustered, I place the card back down on the countertop. The image reminds me of Leo and our shared love for all things creepy. I shake my head, as if the gesture alone can prevent my mind from going down that long, painful road. I don’t need to start rehashing the past; I need to move on. I just need to forget him,for good.
As I grab a paper towel by the sink to wipe down the countertop, I start replaying the brief conversation I had with Mr. Moretti’s receptionist in my mind. I couldn’t help but detect a venomous undertone laced within her forced pleasantries. She sounded as though she was anticipating my call and judging from the way she rushed me off the phone, she was disappointed by my follow-through.
I was barely able to get a word in when she interrupted me abruptly, saying that Mr. Moretti will call me back “when it suits him.” That was it, and she hung up the phone before I could say anything else.
This whole thing feels strange, even down to when exactly this envelope was delivered. I don’t understand how the motion sensor by the front door didn’t pick up any movement whatsoever. Usually even the slightest breeze sets off the sensor. Yet, an entire envelope was slipped between the storm and front door completely undetected.
I pulled up the activity log on the doorbell shortly after getting off the phone with Mr. Moretti’s receptionist to see if maybe I missed a motion notification, but there was nothing. The last motion detected was Eric leaving, and before that, Eric and me coming back to the house last night. I know for a fact the letter wasn’t there when we got back home. I doubt Eric slipped it in the door when we got back, because he looked genuinely surprised someone from Marked Inc. reached out to me.
I have applied to almost every major publishing house and paper in the city without so much as one response. So, I guess whatever Mr. Moretti wants me to do is better than waiting on the countless ignored applications. Especially since I am planning on moving to the city, anyway. At least this way, if it all works out with this interview, I will hopefully have some steady work to help pay the bills, instead of running my savings dry.
The majority of what is in my savings is left over from the inheritance I received when Mama and Papa died. Along with this house, they left me a decent chunk of money that I have been slowly taking from to supplement my sporadic pay. It always amazed me how lucrative Papa’s business was.
My father would always attempt to leave his business dealings at the office, but the late-night guests and shady demeanor that followed him home never fooled me. I fed into the illusion of a perfect family, not for his sake, but for Mama’s. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, despite trying her best to disguise them. Sadly, there is no shade of foundation or hue of lipstick that can cover the scars we wear internally; they eventually come to the surface.
We all played our roles well. Papa provided a privileged existence for us. Lavish vacations, this huge house that I am standing in now, private school, the works. Mama played the role of the doting housewife, PTA mom, and philanthropist. While I pretended to be the blissfully ignorant daughter, who was fully aware of the smoke and mirrors, but never asked any questions, or even cared to. We appeared happy, despite the cracks in our foundation and to us that was somehow enough, deceptive as it was.
I finish straightening up the kitchen just as the coffee machine beeps to signal it’s done brewing. I pour my coffee from the pot and don’t wait for it to cool down before taking a long gulp, hoping the caffeine will help my hangover and my nerves. I walk over to the dining room off the kitchen and see the silhouette of that damn woman, Miranda, peering out the window again. I don’t get what her deal is. She just stands there, as if she is on a watch shift. I swear it doesn’t look like she even blinks.
I inch closer to the window to try to get a better look at her. Taking a sip of my coffee, I peer back at her, when suddenly, she raises her hand to her ear, revealing a phone in hand. She moves her lips, speaking into the mouthpiece before stepping back to draw the curtains closed. What is this woman’s freaking deal?
