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“Wise choice,” she smiles some more, “You will love the view. Maria likes to have breakfast by the window close to the orchid garden.”
“Maria?” I chuckle.
“Yes, Benedetto’s mother and lady of the house,” Evelyn continues, her smile blinding.
“I know her, I was just surprised she is having breakfast with me.” Maria is the sister of Romano’s father and she is not oblivious to the underworld business.
“That's simple, you are her guest,” Evelyn shrugs and smoothes her hands over the fabric of her baby-pink apron.
Guest? Is that what they choose to call me? A guest? Something that sounds less frightening and makes me relax into their hospitality so when they strike I won’t expect it.
“I'll be down in a minute,” I exhale and walk back into the guest room that I have been given, letting my mind think of what this can mean.
I could be poisoned. A slow painful way to die, something befitting my act of infidelity. Maria seems like the perfect person to deliver that kind of death.
She cares about Romano. She no doubt saw the pictures. And the video. Everyone with access to the internet or a babbling mouth knows about it. And Maria isn't just someone who was married into the underworld business, she was born into it.
I fan myself with my hands as my sight goes dizzy from overthinking and hunger. I'm still hungover from the alcohol I consumed last night at the rave, even though the tipsy effect was washed out of my system by fear. And with hangovers comes ravenous hunger. Merge all of that with the fact that I'm a nervous eater.
I need food.
I shrug out of the robe and change back into my maroon gown, and instead of putting on my heels, I decide to walk barefoot. I'm too hungry and my feet feel like they are on fire. My legs are aching from wearing heels all night and from being scared to death.
I struggle with the zipper of my dress until I'm finally able to get it up to a decent point, which is just above my lower back. It's how far I can go without help.
Since Evelyn didn't mention Benedetto, I'm taking it that he won't be joining us.
Good riddance.
I won't lie, I was surprised to see that I hadn't been killed in my sleep or tossed out of the car to be crushed by a truck. I was even more shocked when I realized I had slept. I was trying to drive my mind to a safe place, a quiet place before the panic of getting killed by Benedetto sped up my death.
A small part of me wanted to wait it out and see what Benedetto was up to during the drive, but as I started to quiet my mind, I lost consciousness and the next thing I knew, I was in the enemy’s territory.
I take a deep breath that spirals in a nervous funnel down the pit of my stomach, brush my hair with my fingers, then open the door of my room and take the wooden-varnished stairs down.
Evocative and subtly provocative charcoal paintings line the walls. My favorite is the one of a woman with vague eyes, whose hair is the sea tides and it slithers through one of her bare breasts.
“There she is,” Maria gives a tight-lipped smile as I walk into the sitting area and beeline behind the coffee brown sofas to the dining table set beside the window Evelyn had talked about.
“Maria,” I try to give a genuine smile but my lips are twitching and I don't have the energy needed to make a smile smooth because of how famished I am.
“I know you, but I'm having a bit of a hard time trying to place it,” she pulls out a seat and sits.
What is it with everybody looking put together this morning? She looks preened and the color she chose to wear exudes power even though she is barefoot like me and her hair is in a messy bun.
“Rose, Rose Lyas,” I pull a seat out, “We met during my engagement with…” I'm about to sit.
“Yes, that's the face, Romano’s betrothed,” she chuckles, then pushes a few strands of her dark hair behind her ear.
“I was engaged to him, but not anymore,” I correct and sit. I'm observing her, deciphering her chuckle for signs of derision or her eyes for murder intent.
“You look different,” she flicks her fingers.
“I hope it's a good thing,” I chuckle nervously and blow out air quietly, turning my eyes quickly to the garden of baby blue and white flowers.
“What brings you to Boston?” She reaches for a white napkin.
“Benedetto brought me here,” I try to boycott.
