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“I know.”
With that, I walk past her, grazing the back of her hand with mine. I don’t look back. Can’t. There’s too much of a possibility she’s watching me. If that’s the case, I’ll never want to leave.
Getting into my car, I drive off, seeing her step inside the house from my rearview mirror. I make some phone calls while I’m on the road. Things need to move faster. Much faster. Otherwise, I’ll be watching the woman I want marry the man I hate.
27
Milana
Stefano’s driver places all my bags into the room the late Mrs. Moretti occupied. It’s where all my other belongings have been placed. Salvatore used to sit with her while she was sick, reading and listening to music. I would join them occasionally. Sometimes we’d play board games or cards while she slept. It feels odd being in here without her. Without Salvatore.
“It’s time someone else occupied this room,” Stefano says.
“I don’t need something this extravagant. I’m certain your other employees don’t sleep on four-poster beds.”
“Is that how you see yourself, Milana? As an employee?”
“How should I see myself? Wait, perhaps as a slave. It’s not like I’m getting paid.”
“Enough,” he says through clenched teeth, then his tone softens, once again hiding the tyrant that he is. “Make yourself at home.”
“I’d rather be placed in another room. I’m certain this is a special place for Salvatore and I don’t want to intrude on that.”
He frowns. “Salvatore hasn’t been inside this room since his mother died.”
His tone makes him sound as though he were fond of her. All I remember is the two of them barely speaking. When she became bedridden, he avoided her as though her cancer were contagious.
“Mio caro, I will always take care of you.”
To him, that’s all that matters. To him, that is fondness. He couldn’t be more wrong. It requires so much more than material things. It takes love. And this isn’t love. Far from it.
“I’m going to go take a bath,” I say to excuse myself.
He nods. “I have some work to do. I’ll be finished by ten.”
It’s his subtle way of telling me to be waiting in his bedroom. I learned that right away. Last night, I was allowed to shower while he worked, then he had me join him in his room. At least here I can have the privilege of not sleeping by his side again.
I stare out the window a moment, considering what would happen if I pushed it open and jumped. I want to live. Not die from falling from a three-story bedroom.
Closing the door to the bathroom, I lock it behind me, although that’s probably pointless. I let the water reach a nearly scalding temperature, then put the plug in and pour some bath wash in to create bubbles.
When I sink down in the tub, I’m reminded of my conversation with Salvatore. How I told him I was naked, and he came to me. Things were simpler then. For a short time, we were all that mattered. Before I can change my mind, I grab my phone and call him.
“Milana? Are you okay?”
“I hate this.”
“Me too.”
“But you’ve accepted it,” I accuse.
He doesn’t respond to that, which makes the pain that much more unbearable.
“I thought I could do this…for my parents. But I can’t. I have to get away somehow.”
“You know that I’ll help you run if that’s what you truly want. Your father can deal with the fall out.”
He means it. He’ll help me. And if I run, my parents will most likely be killed. I can’t do that, despite their actions. There has to be another way. I have to find another way.
