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But he knows that’s not true. “Liar. I left you alone yesterday because you asked me to, but it’s been two days since you ran out on me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Instinctively, I guard the truth of the deepening bruise and lingering swelling. While the latter gradually recedes, it will require a formidable amount of makeup to mask the repulsive shade of purple blossoming across my face. I’m hoping that some of it will have faded by tomorrow so I can return to class without too many questions.
“I just don’t feel well, Nic. I’ll be back in class on Wednesday, okay?”
The sound of shattering glass breaks the silence like a gunshot, echoing off the walls of Niccolo’s classroom and vibrating through the phone. “I need to see you, Christine,” he begins with desperation creeping into his tone. “You ran away so quickly the other day. I need to know that you’re okay.”
Am I okay? My heart pounds in my chest like a drumbeat, the weight of my future now tied to a man responsible for the untimely deaths of three women. And if I were to do a little digging, I have no doubt that I would uncover a trail of bodies left behind by Rocco Castiglione. The thought alone is enough to send fear shivering down my spine and make my skin crawl. “Physically, I’m fine, Nic. It was just a little slap.”
An unspoken truth hangs heavily in the silence, its burden shared between us. If I amphysicallyfine, then it logically follows that my mental state remains anything but.
My stepfather knows what I mean without me having to say it, and I’m thankful that he doesn’t force me to talk. Instead, he clears his throat and says, “We should discuss what happened before you make any decisions. I know it might look like you don’t have options, but I told you the other night that I would take care of you. It wasn’t just pillow talk, Christine; I was serious.”
I know what he’s going to say, or at least the gist of it, and I’m not in the mood to hear it yet. He’ll wax poetically about how much he loves me and cares for me and how he’ll save me from this nightmare of our own making. But I’m wallowing in self-pity, and I feel terrible despite the pain meds and ice packs. I need another day to feel this way before I let Niccolo come up with a solution.
“I’ll swing by your classroom tomorrow,” I offer. Technically, my class schedule dictates that I see him on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, but I can carve out some time in my day tomorrow. “I have a free hour around 2:00. Would that work?”
“Of course,” he reassures me. “I’ll clear my schedule.”
When I hang up the phone, a wave of relief washes over me. I expected my stepfather to push back against my suggestion, but he caught me off guard by accepting it instead.
It just gives him more time to plot,the little voice in my head says.
Two days ago, Niccolo thought that my giving myself to him would change everything, but neither of us expected Giovanni to show up and ruin it all.
My stepfather won’t take kindly to his plans being changed. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was passively giving me another day to myself because he needs it to plot his revenge.
Chapter 28
Niccolo
Christine shows up at my lecture hall on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon just as my last class for the day is about to begin. Following our call yesterday, I immediately sent out an email to the 2:00 pm students canceling the lecture.
No one is around when she walks in and thank God for that. The mere sight of Christine’s face seizes my breath, encasing my lungs in a suffocating grip.
“It looks worse than it feels,” she says, her voice tinged with a mix of weariness and defiance as I rise from my chair.
“Porca puttana. Giuro su Dio che ucciderò quel cazzo di tuo zio.” I walk over to her and we meet in the middle.
Christine heaves a sigh, her shoulders slumping. “You’re not going to kill my uncle,” she argues, her voice holding a note of resignation.
Running my thumb across her cheek, a thin layer of powdered makeup appears on my pad. “It’s worse than it looks,” I glare. “It already looks bad, but you covered it up.”
“Of course I did,” she retorts, pushing my arm away. “I don’t need people asking questions. If they do, I can just say I got in a bar fight this weekend. It worked on the cop.”
The lump that forms in my throat feels like it’s the size of Texas. “You spoke to the cops?”
Christine dismisses my worries with a wave of her hand. “No, not like that,” she groans, frustration evident in her voice. “Kaye got pulled over when she was picking me up, and the cop saw my face. He asked what happened and I told him I got into a fight with some girl at the bar. It’s fine, Nic.”
Confusion washes over me, leaving me adrift in a sea of untold secrets. There’s more to this story, I sense it, but I don’t know where to begin probing.
“Anyway, we should talk,” Christine shifts gears, her tone tempered with a mix of determination and trepidation. She grabs a seat in the front row and settles down. “I think what happened between us the other night was a mistake.”
“No,” my response spills forth instinctively, thudding between us with an unwelcome weight. “What happenedafterwardwith Giovanni was a mistake, but what happened between us was meant to be.Weare meant to be, Christine.”
She remains resolute, unfazed by my insistence. Our eyes lock, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t detect the expected blend of desire and anger in her gaze. Instead, a steadfast confidence shines through. “I’m going to figure out what to do about Giovanni and this forced marriage they’re imposing on me,” she declares. “But in the meantime, this thing between us has to end.”
Enraged, I reach for the nearest item on my desk and hurl it across the room. The stapler explodes upon impact, scattering staples and mechanical fragments into a chaotic display.
