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Vittoria
It was stupid taking the ring. What was I even going to do with it? I still taste soap and humiliation from the punishment he dealt and what happened before. For how my body responded when he touched me. How my stomach fluttered when he kissed me. At least he couldn’t see that.
I spend the next few hours locked in my room, staring out at the ever-darkening sky. I’m hungry. I can smell dinner, but I guess I’m not getting any. I look at the picture again. Look at Amadeo. At Angelo. Their smiles are so genuine. I haven’t seen one like that from Amadeo. I remember that scar I glimpsed. It was bad. How did it happen exactly? And how did Angelo die and he survive? Wouldn’t Angelo have been protected if he was next in line to take over the family? And now that Amadeo has, what does that say? Did he have anything to do with his cousin’s murder? What had he said about the man who’d killed him? He was dead. But that doesn’t necessarily mean Amadeo didn’t have anything to do with it.
But the way he looked at the picture, I know he didn’t. As much as I hate to admit it, I feel that truth in my stomach.
My growling stomach.
I get into bed because I’m sure no dinner is coming, but I can’t fall asleep. What is going to happen to me? What will the brothers do to me when they don’t need me anymore? And what about Emma? Am I right to bring her here? Is she truly safer here with me? How am I ever going to get us out of this?
When I finally fall asleep, it’s a restless sleep. It’s always restless this time of year. It’s when this particular dream comes. Like clockwork, it starts a few days before my birthday and lasts a few weeks after it.
High-pitched unnatural laughter drowns out the music, the rise and fall of the soprano’s lament. Faust. It’s one of my favorite operas. It was, at least. Before everything. Before I came to hate it. The room is dark, my vision obscured although not blocked completely by the blindfold, which is askew. I’m panting. Or is that him?
He opens a can of beer. Drinks it down. I hear his swallows over the music. He’s thirsty. Spent. His breathing is ragged, but he’s still watching me as he wipes his mouth and makes a satisfied sound. He’s quenched one thirst. He crushes the can, then steps toward me.
The music carries me away to a different place. A better place. My father took me to see Faust seven times because I loved it so much. I cried every time at this very scene, but I’m not crying now. Now I’m struck mute.
A flash of memory. Dad and me in our box at the Met. Me in my newest gown. Me watching him lose himself to the music.
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, princess.” Dad’s voice. I miss it.
But the memory evaporates like smoke when a dirty hand closes over my ankle, and I’m tugged back into hell.
I know it’s not real. It’s not happening. Not now. He’s dead. The man with the rank breath and sweat-soaked hair is dead. Yet as I kick and pound my fists, his breath is still on me. He’s still inside me. It’s almost over, though. I keep telling myself it’s almost over. And when he turns his face to mine, I hear it. The laughter. And then the bullet that abruptly ends it.
But this is the dream. I’m not there. Because the man who looks up at me is missing half his face. Blood and bone and brain graffiti the walls.
And I scream. I scream and scream and scream until I’m jolted out of that place, ripped out of that terrible nightmare. It’s the only way out.
I bolt upright. That scream that was so loud in my dream is nothing but a choked exhale of breath here. Sweat drips from my forehead, and I wipe it off my eyes. The room is dark. The stink of basement and sweat and filthy men lingers.
I remind myself that I’m not there. Not in any basement. But the dream has a dark power. It’s ever present, just at the edges of my consciousness. Just out of reach. The stench of that room, of sweat and beer and breath, clings to my nostrils, and I squeeze my eyes shut to remind myself it’s not real. It’s not real. It was never real.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, princess.
My father is right. I need to remember that. I’m not dead. They are.
The words make everything suddenly stop and the dream is gone. Vanished. All that’s left is the sweat coating my forehead. I open my eyes. A glance at the clock tells me it’s half past ten at night.
I look at my hands. I turn them over back and front and back and front. They look the same as ever.
A movement across the room catches my eye. My heart drops to my stomach, and I nearly scream. But then a light goes on. The reading lamp beside the cushioned chair. Ice clinks against crystal as Amadeo, eyes an almost animal silver in this light, brings the tumbler to his lips.
How long has he been in here? What did he see? Hear?
I blink, look away, wipe the sweat off my face and lick my lips. I’m thirsty. Beside me on the nightstand is a glass of water. I drink it, forcing myself to do it slowly. To breathe.
When the glass is empty, I set it down and make myself look at him again. He’s quietly watching. All-seeing. All-knowing.
No, that can’t be. He can’t see inside my head. Can’t know the void in my mind now that I’m awake. Now that I’ve escaped that place.
“Bad dream?” he asks casually.
I remember what happened earlier. I remember our kiss. The way he looked at me. And I remember his punishment.
His hungry gaze sweeps over me as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I wonder if he’s thinking about what happened earlier too. If he’s remembering the kiss.
