24
Mia
The room, even in the state it’s in—with a broken chair in the corner, the table upside down, sheets torn from the bed and scattered, and dents in the door from the heel of my foot—doesn’t compare at all to the dismay I had, nor to the sadness I felt inside me when Antonio’s obscure visit last night hinted toward a possibility where I’m never going to see my father again. I woke up huddled on the naked bed, surprised to find Lea curled up against me again. She has a way of coming and going as she pleases, and it’s a small bit of welcomed consolation for my aching heart today.
Now, I’m looking out onto the courtyard, where the life for all the people involved within this savage family continues as normal. Men smoke and go about their business with little notice of my presence up here in the room. Fiona appears and catches my glances down, giving me a small, secret wave. She’s undoubtedly beautiful, but she has a face that makes you feel like she’s carrying a purse full of sadness everywhere she goes. She’s got an attitude too as she starts to shove one of the smoking men, gesturing her hand in a way that conveys aggression. Before she disappears beyond my view, she makes an effort to look at me again, and this time I even think there’s a hint of empathy in the way she curves her lips toward me. My thoughts are interrupted when the handle to the door turns with a click of the lock. There’s no avoiding whoever it is, so I stand there with an expressionless stare. I don’t give a shit anymore, leaning against the window with my arms crossed.
“My goodness,” Sophia’s voice says as she enters. She lifts the table and does a quick job of picking up the sheets from the floor. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Okay, that’s good. I brought you breakfast.” She smiles at me, giving me a somber look as though she sympathizes with me. I wonder if maybe she was married to a mafia man. Maybe she knows what women go through with such authoritative, ruthless males in their lives. She finds nothing to say though– it is what it is–and then leaves the room, locking the door behind her.
How far would I have gotten if I pushed her aside and bolted for the door? I entertain the afterthought, wondering what Antonio would actually do if I just walked on out of here. Would anyone stop me? Shoot me? Lock me up in a store cupboard with no windows? I mean, what else is left? As interesting of a thought it is, I find myself so deflated from the events of last night that any such ambitions of escape quickly get tossed aside.
The bacon, eggs, and toasted rye bread scent the room, but my appetite is nonexistent, as is any incline toward my future here. I hover over the food for a minute, wondering if I’m actually going to eat anything, but those aspirations, too, are dropped. I’m in no mood for eating, not now. Instead, I just return to my place by the window. Looking out onto the world of the Moretti courtyard, and how unusual all of this is, it increasingly makes me feel like I’ve developed a jaded view of my surroundings.
Last night, Antonio practically told me that he killed my father. Isn’t that what he said? He confirmed that he went there, had talked to him. He even had himself a roam of the house, going in my room, going through my things—and he did say that the debt had been resolved. So, if that’s the case, what could he possibly still want from me? Unless I’m just a loose end because if it’s anything else than that, any kind of attempt to have us continue down this… this shit show of a relationship, then I’d rather he put a bullet in my head too because it would be impossible to ignore my father’s blood dripping from his hands.
As if conjuring him up with all my ill thoughts of him, Antonio walks out into the courtyard. I raise my head and become acutely aware that this window has become an obscure addiction for me. No wonder so many old ladies glue their chairs in front of the window as they observe their neighbors. I even feel a sense of anticipation when I see Huxley joining Antonio’s side, a new character to judge. They’re smoking and talking about something. Impossible to tell from up here, but whatever it is, it seems serious as both men hold stern expressions, straight backs. It’s only when Huxley returns inside, that Antonio turns to face me, knowing that I would be watching. I hate that. After all he’s done, even now, it feels like his control over me is inescapable. He pauses, looks straight at me then throws his cigarette to the ground and marches inside.
* * *
It’s after lunch.I know that because I had another encounter with Sophia, that time leaving the small talk aside, but she did offer me another plate of food which unfortunately, like the breakfast, is now going cold. It’s standard spaghetti and meatballs. I turned my nose up at it because my stomach is over encumbered already. Since the morning, it’s been pretty quiet, no out of the ordinary behavior apart from my mind, that is. My temperament swings between worry and anger, though it’s the way my anger rises that starts to scare me the most, causing me to question myself.
At one point, I was entirely lost in a daydream that re-enacted the scene from the restaurant. However, it wasn’t Antonio stomping down on the guy, but myself, and the guy wasn’t just that guy, but an accumulation of all the men who have pissed me off in my life. Stomp, stomp on the guy that pinched my ass last time I went to a bar, to every guy who has ever catcalled me on the street. Stomp on Chad’s kneecaps for assuming that I was the lucky one, that I should have been forever grateful to him for even having an interest in me. Then I punch down on Antonio, not because he snatched me from my life, or locked me in this room, or even for harming my father, but because even now I want to be in his arms. Visions of myself shouting at my father also rise to the forefront of my sick daydreams. I blame him for lying to me, for leaving me.
Before my thoughts of wicked acts take every inch of my sensibility, a knock on the door startles me, more so because I already know who it is—Sophia never knocks, she just enters.
I face the door, lifting my chin.
“Mia, I’m coming in.” I watch as Antonio Moretti walks in and clears his throat. His eyes are stained a tired red by last night’s intoxication. He stands there for a moment, attempting to sense my mood in a way that’s overly obvious, at least for me, but I don’t turn away. I look him straight in the eyes and maintain my anger toward him. He points to the one chair left in the room. “Take a seat.”
“I don’t think so,” I answer, crossing my arms and step back a few steps.
“Okay, suit yourself,” he says. His hair is rough and his skin tired. The dark hairs of his stubble match the circles around his eyes. “Listen, I was pretty out of it last night.”
“Yeah? And why’s that?” I realize that this visit of his has come with a blank face. No regret, no anger, just trepidation.
He doesn’t remember what he said to me, does he? Or at least not in its entirety.
He ignores my question. “I woke up outside your door, and I remember talking to you from the hallway.”
“Maybe you were just dreaming?”
“So we didn’t talk?” He’s hungover and what I guess to be a general annoyance is making each of his words a certain kind of snap.
“We did,” I answer, “and what? You’re here to apologize?”
I dismiss him and everything he’s done by walking into the bathroom, turning on the faucet, splashing my face. But My attempt in making him feel uncomfortable appears to have fallen flat, for he comes to the bathroom doorway and leans against the frame, watching me dry my hands.
“I can’t remember everything I said to you,” he admits.
I barge past, and return to my place by the window. Fiona’s there again out in the courtyard, this time she’s on a cell phone. I feel Antonio approach my back and look over my shoulder.
“My sister’s pissed at me and my brother because we ordered her to have a few of my men follow her each time she heads out.”
I guess I’m not the only woman Antonio is trying to control.