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“But one night, I couldn’t sleep because Papa and Momma were arguing again, and this time it was really loud. I could hear her screaming and Papa yelling right back, and I heard some thumping and stomping. To this day I’m not sure what they were arguing over or if he was hitting her, but their tone was awful and I couldn’t just stay in bed listening, so I decided to go to the library and read. But as I walked down the hall, the fighting only got louder—I didn’t realize where the sounds were coming from until it was too late. When I got to the door, Momma’s angry shouting was replaced by… something else.”
I squeeze my eyes tighter. I can still hear that noise—guttural, animalistic, gagging, choking, struggling. An angry grunt.
“I made it to the doorway and looked inside. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t stop myself. Papa was kneeling on Momma’s chest with his hands wrapped around her throat and she was fighting him, punching him, trying to get him to stop but she wasn’t strong enough. Papa was red, bright red and sweating, and his eyes were bulging and his lips were pulled back over his teeth, and Momma’s face was turning blue and purple, her lips swollen and pulled back, and she was staring up at him like she was begging him to stop, but he wouldn’t stop, he only strained harder, and slowly she stopped fighting. Slowly her arms fell to the floor, and Papa kept on choking her until she was limp and for a little while after that, until I took a step inside and started to cry.
“I’ve been dreaming about that moment my whole life. I don’t know what happened next, if Papa said something to me or what. He must’ve said something, right? He didn’t hurt me, I know that for sure. My next memory is from a year later and it’s not really important. I have a big gap of time in my skull and I don’t understand why I didn’t tell anyone, but I couldn’t have. Papa killed my mother, he strangled her to death, and I saw him do it. Nobody else in our family knows it happened, they all think Momma died in an assassination attempt, but that’s not true, it’s not true at all, but everyone believed it because it was easier. I think I wanted to believe it too.”
Tears stream down my face. I can’t look at Nico—I can’t handle the expression on his face right now. I don’t want his pity or his longing. I don’t want anything except for the truth right now. I need to know if I can trust my dreams, my memory, if I can really believe that what I saw was real and not some figment of my damaged, twisted, traumatized mind.
Elise wipes tears away and nods. “Yes, sweetie, your father killed your mother.”
I let out a soft sob like someone punched me in the chest. Hearing those words hurts so goddamn badly the way a sudden breath after holding it for a long time can burn.
“I knew it. Oh, god, I knew it.”
“I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know you saw it. God, he never told me that. I am so sorry, Karah.” She leans toward me and takes my hand, squeezing it hard. I squeeze back and fight to get myself under control.
“How do you know?” I finally manage to ask. “How are you sure?”
“He told me.” She gives me a smile and shakes her head. “You know how we were back then, or maybe you don’t, you were so little. A day after it happened, he told me everything. He said he told her about me, and that he planned on keeping me as his mistress, and your mother lost her mind. He said they fought and it was bad, really bad, and she hit him and told him she wanted to divorce him and that she’d do everything she could to ruin him, so he went insane with anger and knocked her over and strangled her until she was dead. He told me like he thought it would impress me, and I didn’t believe him at first, I didn’t want to believe him, I told myself it was just some macho mafia thing and that the story about the assassination attempt was the real truth, at least until I started catching glimpses of his temper in the years after.”
She smiles and wipes at her eyes. “God, I didn’t want to start crying this much.”
“So it’s really true. He killed my mother.” I stare at my wine glass and I feel a million questions swirling in my mind, but I only have one. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“I think for the same reason you didn’t, darling. I was terrified of him. There’s a reason I spent most of my time out here in Tuscany. I was safe from him here, or at least as safe as I could be. I kept busy, jumped around the world, made a lot of friends, all so I could have a plausible reason to never go back to that house and be anywhere near your father. I could never leave, because he’d kill me if I tried just like he killed your mother for trying to get away, so I built defenses. I wrapped myself in clothes and luxury and excess and pretended to be a stupid, shallow girl. I suppose I am somewhat shallow, but I played it up. I did it to stay away as much as I could. And now he’s gone, and it’s like I’m free to be myself again, but I don’t even know who I am anymore, darling. That’s the horrible part, isn’t it? I don’t remember what it’s like to be a person without the specter of him haunting me.”
