“As in, as soon as we make it to the airport and the jet takes off. Yes. That’s what I mean.”
Italy. I’m going to Italy. “I don’t have my passport.”
He laughs for the first time in days, and it’s not exactly a warm or friendly sound. “You have a lot to learn,Alicia.” He says it like it’s a curse, a condemnation, instead of my actual name. He might as well call me bitch instead. It would have the same effect.
Italy. So this is it. Even the slightest semblance of my old life is gone, forgotten. Nobody asked me. Never once was my opinion sought out. I just have to go along with it. He’s taking me across an ocean to another continent, and still calling me his bride. I mean, I am, but hearing him say it is so strange.
This airport is a lot different than the one we visited during that disastrous meeting. For starters, it’s still in use and well-maintained. There’s a plane sitting there, and I guess it’s ours. Or rather, his. It’s amazing to think his family has that kind of wealth. Who needs to buy plane tickets when you have your own plane?
We’re close to the plane when I notice another car already waiting, and the most startling thing happens before we come to a stop. A man who looks exactly like Enzo steps out, followed by a pretty girl who takes his hand and holds it while they wait for us to reach them.
“My brother, Christian. His wife, Siân,” Enzo explains before putting the car in park and killing the engine. I search my memory but can’t recall this person. He’s got a twin brother? There are two of them in the world? Now I have to wonder what this guy’s story is and why Enzo never brought him up. The way he made it sound, it was only him and his grandfather. What’s the story there? I know better than to think I’ll ever get it, or at least that I’ll get it anytime soon. Eventually, he might warm up to me again, but that’s going to take a while.
Enzo opens my door, and I step out, wrapping my arms around myself and following him to where he shakes hands with his brother. “Christian,” Enzo murmurs.
Christian nods. “I wanted to pay my respects before you leave.”
“That’s good of you. I know he would appreciate it.” Enzo then nods in acknowledgment of Siân, and she offers a faint smile that I guess is supposed to be friendly or encouraging or maybe offered in sympathy. What’s her deal, I wonder. Wouldn’t it be funny if she came into Christian’s life in the same messed up way I entered Enzo’s? But no, I’m sure the odds of that verge on the impossible.
I certainly can’t ask for clarification. That much is clear. All I can do is watch as the casket is unloaded from the hearse. It’s very nice, as far as caskets go, snowy white. It gleams like a pearl as the men load it onto a wheeled cart which they then roll over to the plane. I sneak a quick look at Enzo from the corner of my eye and see he’s struggling, his jaw is tight, and his throat is working like he’s trying to swallow back emotion.
Even now, when he’s treated me so brutally, I want to reach out and comfort him. At least Christian has Siân’s hand to hold, but Enzo might as well be alone. He would probably slap my hand away if I tried to touch him right now. It hurts to think of him suffering through this alone, silently. I wish there was something I could do.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmurs to Christian, then nods to Siân. “And be sure to take care of yourself. You’re carrying my niece or nephew. Precious cargo and all that.” The three of them share a soft laugh while I merely wait, silent and trembling, to be told what to do next.
As it turns out, Enzo tells me nothing, only climbing steps up into the cabin without bothering to check whether I’m following him. Christian and Siân head back to their car—hardly acknowledging me.
I guess this is it. I’m about to step into my new life in a country I’ve never visited, in a world, I know very little about.
I touch my foot to the first step, take a deep breath, and continue to climb.
4
ENZO
Isuppose this house is mine now, and the land upon which it sits. I suppose all of this is mine. I should feel something, anything, but I don’t. The best I can do now is drag myself through the halls upon returning from the funeral. Eventually, I might be able to process the implications of all of this. The fact that I’m now head of the family and it all falls upon my shoulders.
Instead of coming to terms with my new reality, too much of my bandwidth is caught up in hating myself. I’m unable to process what I just went through today, watching Grandfather’s coffin being lowered into the ground, and so I must turn to what’s been at the forefront of my consciousness all this time.
How I’m the one who did this. How all of this started because of one stupid, reckless decision on my part. I could hardly bring myself to greet the many mourners who shook my hand today, all of whom pledged loyalty to the family and expressed their deepest sympathy for the loss of a great man. All the while, through all of their weak attempts at bringing comfort, all I could do was blame myself. I came close to telling them more than once that it was me, that I was the reason the man is now in the ground, that all of this is the result of a rash decision.
No, that would be childish, not to mention foolish. Nobody needs to know. I’m sure they all have their theories on what might have happened, though I’ve been tight-lipped on the subject. Suffice it to say, one of our enemies got to him, and they’re going to pay. In our world, discretion is key. They respect that, I’m glad to say.
My footfalls echo in the large, otherwise silent house. I’m drawn to the first stash of alcohol my gaze lands upon like a moth to a flame. The first gulp of whiskey burns its way through my chest, and I savor the sensation, relish it. It does nothing to lessen the much more potent fire blazing away there, but then I doubt the entire bottle would have such an effect.
If only, if only.The words run through my head as I go to the window, gazing out upon the gardens Grandfather so enjoyed strolling through during his rare moments of peace. He always said he did his best thinking out there, but he could not have named a single one of the flowers now in bloom. He appreciated beauty, even if he could not understand it.
If only I hadn’t fucked up and taken her. If only I had questioned the logic of the situation. Why would Alvarez have his own daughter waiting at the warehouse? Surely, he would not have sent her as a liaison; there was no reason for a member of his own family to have his prized product hidden in her bag when it was so clear she was on her way out. She’d been trying to get away when Prince and I caught her. She wasn’t leaving the drugs for someone; she was sneaking off with them. Now, why would a member of that family do such a thing?
My hand tightens around the glass until I’m afraid I might shatter it, but then I would deserve the injury. I deserve much worse than that. So fucking stupid. And I’m supposed to lead this family now? When I so blindly, so carelessly, led us to this point?
If only I hadn’t taken her. Brought her home. Kept her locked away. What did I think I was doing? Scoring points for us? How pathetic.
And she’s here, locked in this house, in a room far grander than the one she was given back in Miami. She’s scarcely left it since we arrived, and I’ve only set eyes upon her when necessary. This morning, for instance, when I entered the room just long enough to inform her, I’d be leaving for the funeral. She was smart enough not to say a word. A part of me expected her to offer condolences, which might have finally been what broke my resolve and pushed me to break her.
I pour another drink after draining the glass, wandering out of the parlor and up the stairs. There’s no question where I’m heading. She’s the only thing on my brain, the image of her face permanently etched at the forefront of my mind’s eye. No amount of drinking could erase her, no more than it could erase the bitter, burning sense of betrayal. The rage.
I unlock the door and swing it open slowly, not saying a word, wondering what I’ll catch her doing. There’s nothing in here she can use against me—I’ve already searched thoroughly—but she’s a clever one. Cunning. How else could she have pulled the proverbial wool over my eyes all this time?