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To my surprise, sleep does come for me that night. I don’t know when or how, only that in the morning, I’m startled awake by the sharp rapping on my door.
I bolt upright, my heart pounding as sweat trickles down my brow. My hand reaches for the knife beneath the pillow when the door swings open, and Alessio appears. His eyes move over me, his features tightening when he sees the shoes on my feet. I try to cover them with the comforter, but it’s too late. Shame and humiliation wash over me as I realize he already thinks I’m insane. Of course, he’s wearing a perfectly pressed suit, ready to greet the day at six am.
“I’ll need you earlier than I anticipated,” he clips out. “Something has come up that I need to attend to. Can you be ready in thirty minutes?”
I nod, and he lingers near the door, his eyes moving back to my neck. It’s impossible to miss the irritation on his face.
“Do you always wear a scarf?”
It’s slower this time, but again, I nod. His eyes lock with mine, and I have the oddest sensation that he’s stealing my breath from my lungs. I wonder if he can feel this strange tension between us too. Is it just an adrenaline response?
“We’ll be waiting for you in the dining room,” he says abruptly, and before I can respond, he’s gone.
I drag myself out of bed and hurry along to the closet, grabbing my clothes for the day. My nerves feel like they are unraveling as I go through the routine of showering, brushing my teeth, and applying a light touch of mascara and powder. When I glance at my reflection in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize myself. In some ways, it feels like no time has passed because my life came to an abrupt halt when I was only twenty years old. Back then, I had a short hairstyle. I spent time on my makeup, carefully choosing colors that complimented my skin tone. I wore clothes that made me feel cute or pretty. I was introverted but didn’t mind the occasional attention. I could still smile, laugh, and go on with my day, knowing that there was pain in the world but never truly aware of the depths of it. Not until the devil himself came to my door.
A solitary tear slides down my cheek, and I swipe it away, squaring my shoulders and blowing out a breath. None of that matters. I’m here now. I’ve made it this far. Everything is going to be okay.
I leave my room and head downstairs. Upon entering the kitchen, I wince a little when I see Angelina at the counter, but my attention drifts from her completely when I hear a child’s voice in the dining room. Ignoring her gaze on me, I move toward the sound of conversation and turn the corner to find Alessio sitting at the head of the table while the boy is to his left. From my viewpoint, I can only see a head of brown hair and a downcast gaze as he stares at his plate of food. He appears to be upset, but I can’t be sure until I glance at Alessio, who also seems to be equally annoyed.
He stands up and gestures for the boy. “Nino, come here. It’s time to meet Miss Cabrera.”
My breath catches in my throat as the small boy turns to look at me, and I’m met with the sweetest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. He sniffles, wiping away tears as he tries to hold back his shuttered breaths. His distress pains me, and I find myself angry with Alessio, even though I don’t know what the issue is.
I kneel to Nino’s level, pointing at my phone screen and writing out a short greeting that the app reads to him.
Hello, Nino. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Natalia.
He peeks up at me from beneath his long dark lashes, and then he looks to Alessio for approval.
“He can be … a bit shy,” Alessio says.
I swallow the lump in my throat and write a new message, this time flashing it toward the man in question.
Is everything okay?
“It’s fine,” he answers dismissively. “Breakfast is always a battle. The chef prepared him an omelet. He doesn’t want to eat it.”
I glance at Nino’s full plate. There’s enough food on there to feed a grown man. It appears to be some sort of truffle omelet with fresh herbs. On the side, there are segments of grapefruit and a slice of rye toast. I glance at the spread in the center of the table and then at Alessio’s plate, where there are fresh pastries, fruit, and eggs.
May I ask why he’s not eating what you’re eating?
He frowns as if the thought never occurred to him. “Angelina says this is what children should eat. It’s healthy.”
