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Damn him for telling me to be ready when he gets back. Damn my body for obeying. My skin feels heated, overly sensitive, as the anticipation for his touch grows.
I shower, then sit by the window for a long while. Waiting. Wondering when Luca will decide to grace me with his presence.
But as time goes by and darkness descends, I begin to grow weary of the wait. If I stay in here much longer, I’ll go crazy. Not to mention, I’ll probably starve.
Even though Luca said I might not find any staff, I go to the drawer I found boxer shorts in earlier. I slip into black ones and a blue hoodie from the closet, that conceals my braless chest.
When I feel decent enough, I step out into the dimly lit hall. “Hello? Nan?”
I look left and right, listening intently for any indication that there’s someone around. But except for the low hum of the air conditioner, the house is quiet. I’m not sure if this provides me with relief or apprehension.
Maybe a little of each. But more than that, I’m curious.
Moving over the thick rug that covers most of the old wood-plank flooring, I go from room to room, peeking in.
Before Momma’s accident, she would take Alma and me to tour historic homes, specifically the ones from the Gilded Age. They always seemed so grand and lavish. Everything handcrafted, walls covered in silk and velvet, exotic wood paneling and ceilings painted with real gold.
Briar House would give some of those homes a run for their money. It’s rich, no expense spared. It makes me wonder why Luca would have left this luxury. Would have run from it, in fact. He abandoned what most of us covet to live the life of an orphan. Was it truly so bad here?
I flick the light on to the room I assume is where Sofia stays. A delicate crystal chandelier hangs above an antique pink-velvet upholstered Louis XV bed. A plush pink and ivory chaise is is sitting on an elegant rug, and across from that is a lovely armoire with tiny flowers painted on the door panels.
But it’s not the femininity of the room that makes me think it’s hers. It’s the single wall that’s been painted black, a harsh and rebellious contrast to the rest of the room that screams Sofia.
There are several guest suites that are just as lovely but devoid of any personal touches. I peek inside quickly, taking little interest in those.
It’s when I come to the first room at the top of the stairs that I pause. This one is much larger than any of the others, even Luca’s. It’s a perfect blend of soft and hard touches, dark woods and delicate crystals. Rich blues and pale lavender. The sort of suite a married couple might be comfortable in. I bet this was once Nico and Gemma’s room.
But when I take a step inside to get a better look, it’s Tony’s portrait that hangs above a white marble mantel. Moving closer, I study his face. He’s just as I remember him from the last time he came to my house. There was always a gentle aura that surrounded him, and it’s evident in this picture.
However, he was a criminal and my words weren’t kind, and he knew I was tired of dealing with their shit.
“If I ever see you here again, Tony, I’ll make sure you rot in jail.”
So he never returned. Instead, he sent his brother to deal with me.
“You got me good, Tony,” I whisper. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”
Suddenly, a chill crawls up my spine, and the eyes on the portrait seem to glitter. And when the room doesn’t feel so empty anymore, I bolt from there and slam the door shut behind me.
My mother was a strong believer of an afterlife. Ghosts. It wasn’t until she died that I began to think maybe there was some truth to it. Or maybe I was going crazy. But I’d like to think it’s really been her I’ve caught out of the corner of my eye when I least expect. That she’s really visited my dreams, embracing me.
So if she’s come to me when I needed her, is it so far-fetched an idea that Tony might be lingering around Briar House?
I shiver again. God, if he is, I hope he stays in his room. Otherwise, he’s going to be sorely disappointed in his brother.
Downstairs, I luckily stumble into the large chef’s kitchen with white marble counters and heavy-duty stainless steel appliances. Not that I would use any of that. Working at two different restaurants has cured me of any desire to coo…
“Shit.” In all the commotion, I forgot to call in to work. What the hell would I say anyway? “Sorry, I married a gangster and am being held captive until further notice?”
No point in worrying about it now. I’ve probably already been fired anyway.
After cramming down a bowl of cereal, all while I tried to find a silver lining to my losses, I go back out to explore.
There are as many rooms downstairs as there are up. Parlors meant for ladies and one where men can smoke and a breakfast room where the walls are made of mostly windows. Off the foyer is a dining room as grand as the rest of the house, where two brass chandeliers hang over a long cherrywood table that seats eighteen. I imagine dinner parties were held here in the past. Not now, though. Now it probably goes months without being used.
Across the way, there’s a beautiful office. No, not an office. That’s much too informal a word for a place like this. A better name is a study. It’s one of those spaces where the master of the house would meet with others of his class to discuss business with a glass of expensive brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other.
The scent is faint, but I can definitely detect the smell of tobacco and spices. Probably something that’s lingered for years in the fibers of the blue damask wallpaper. Or even in the dark wooden shelves and the old books.
