That was the summer they passed books back and forth between them. They shared the same passion for literature and ripped through a dozen books that summer: Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, Tolkien’s The Hobbit, Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, Milan Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being, and The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov.
When they read Down and Out in Paris and London, by George Orwell, they fell in love with the artist lifestyle and made plans to move to Paris when they finished school.
But Timothy’s favorite was a book of poetry by Dylan Thomas. His favorite poem by Thomas wasn’t the “Do not go gentle into the good night” but one of the more obscure ones. They spent long hours arguing about poetry.
Rose said it all sounded like nonsense to her.
He would laugh and try to convince her of its beauty. She would roll her eyes.
“Just listen,” he said and read it out loud to her as they sat by her fireplace on a cold night. When he finished, he looked up at her and said, “How can that not make your heart ache?”
She shook her head. The words had left her cold. But watching Timothy read? That had been mesmerizing. “It’s cool,” she said and shrugged. “It’s just not my favorite thing to read.”
“I swear, one of these days, you will come around,” he said and laughed.
“I doubt it.”
Remembering how they had dreamed of a lifetime together felt like a brick crushing her ribcage as Rose lay in her bed now. At the time, they had spoken of doing it as best friends, but now she knew they would have done it as lovers—as partners for life. Maybe as husband and wife. Maybe even as parents.
But now that entire imagined and dreamed about future together was gone.
Her entire life had vanished in an instant. In a matter of hours.
In fact, the chance at a life like that for Rose was over.
No husband. No kids. No domestic life.
Timothy had been her one shot at that life.
Now it was gone.
The day before the funeral, the doorbell rang early. Rose ignored it, but Shaniqua came into the bedroom and yawned.
“Timothy’s father is here.”
Rose sat up, wild-eyed. “Where? Where is he?”
“In the living room.”
“Oh my God.” Rose jumped out of bed and threw on some shorts. The T-shirt she was wearing, an old one from the Camilla Cabello concert was ripped, but it would have to do.
Timothy’s father stood in a corner of the living room, holding his hands in front of him.
“Mr. Rocco. Please sit down,” Rose said. “Let me make you some coffee.”
He sat down on the edge of the sofa, and Rose rushed into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, she came out with espressos for both of them and sat down.
“I have come to tell you that I do not blame you,” he said.
Tears sprung to Rose’s eyes. She closed her eyelids tightly, fighting against them.
“But my wife…” he said and trailed off.
“If you don’t want me to go to the funeral, I understand,” Rose said quickly. It had been all she’d thought about since Gia had told her the time and location.
He frowned. “No, I think you should be there. Timothy would have wanted it.”
Rose swallowed.
There was an awkward silence and then Mr. Rocco cleared his throat.
“I am sorry that my wife is treating you this way,” he said. “That is why I am here.”
Rose stood. “You don’t owe me an apology. She has every right to feel that way.”
“She is crazy with grief,” he said. “It is not your fault that Timothy is dead.”
Rose shook her head and pressed her lips tightly together.
“No,” she said. “It is my fault.”
“I am Italian,” Mr. Rocco said. “I know about vendettas. I know about murder. I left that world behind a long time ago, but I know enough to say you are not to blame. I’m sure it is the same in Mexico as it is in Italy.”
Rose thought about that for a few seconds. He didn’t know that Timothy’s murder was directly related to Rose and her actions in Italy. He thought it tied back to Nico as a former head of the cartel.
After downing her espresso, Rose came and sat across from Mr. Rocco again.
“My father is Nico Morales,” she said, knowing that saying his name alone was enough.
Mr. Rocco nodded. “I know this.”
Rose was surprised but continued.
“Even though he no longer runs a cartel, he does still have many enemies to this day. Luckily, we’ve been able to maintain our privacy and remain in hiding here.”
“As I said, I am Italian. I may still have some connections.”
“What did you do? Have a dossier made up on me when I became friends with Timothy?”
He laughed and it made Rose so happy she wanted to cry.
“The first time I picked Timothy up from your apartment and met Nico, he looked familiar to me, so I asked some old friends.”
“Did Timothy know?” Rose asked. “About my dad? All of that?”
Mr. Rocco nodded. “Yes. Always. We told him that being around you came with some risks.”
“Oh my God.” Rose was stunned. She’d had no idea.
“It had to be said. He had to be aware.”
Rose exhaled loudly. He knew her. All of her. And still he loved her. She knew she’d never find that again.
“Back to what I was saying,” she said. “The person I believe did this to Timothy…” she closed her eyes tightly as she said his name then opened them as she continued, “The person who did this was after me. She is punishing me.”
“She?”
Rose nodded. “Yes. A woman from my past. I will take care of her.”
“I can have it handled. Give me her name.”
“With all due respect, I need to do it myself.”
He stared at her for a long moment and then nodded.
He stood and looked at her as if he was about to say something else, then turned and walked out without another word.
The day of the funeral, Rose refused to get out of bed.
After Gia tried and failed to coax her, Eva came in to try.
She stood in the doorway.
Rose opened one eye and mumbled. “I’m not going. They are calling it a celebration of life. That’s bullshit. I can’t go. I can’t see him. I can’t see his mother. I can’t see his family. Lane killed him because of me, Eva. Because of me. Do you understand?”
As soon as she’d said the words, she winced.
Of course Eva understood. A killer had slaughtered Eva’s husband and children to wreak revenge on her.
Eva crossed her arms and leaned on the doorjamb and told Rose a story from long ago, when Eva was about her age. Her half-brothers had turned on her and kidnapped her, killing all the men who had been guarding her and leaving her bound in a boat to die. She’d escaped. Just barely. Then she remembered that the man she was going to marry, Giacomo, was home alone, waiting for her.
Fear zipped through her. Giacomo.
He’d remained at the villa to prepare for her return.
Freeing her bound hands, she stumbled to a road and flagged down a driver. She ordered the man to speed to her villa, but she knew deep down she’d be too late.
She found his body in the cold light of dawn.
She crawled into the bed beside him, eyes dry, heart barely beating, numb. A buzzing in her ear would not cease.
She lay beside the body until late morning when the tears finally came. She jumped out of bed, weeping and thrashing, yanking out her hair in clumps, rubbing her eyes.
Then, in the clear light of a brilliant, sunny afternoon, she stripped off her clothes, covered in Giacomo’s dried blood, and got into the shower.
She scrubbed her body until it was red and raw. Without looking at Giacomo’s body in her bed, she put on tight black riding pants and a long-sleeve black T-shirt. Rum
maging in her drawer, she unearthed a black mask she’d worn at a carnival party. Then, reaching into her closet, she withdrew her swords and scabbard and strapped them on.
She took a red lipstick tube and drew it across her lips. Pressing them together, she looked in the mirror, avoiding the reflection of her bed behind her.
When her lipstick was applied evenly, she nodded at herself. That would do. Reaching into the jewelry box on her dresser next to her perfume bottles and makeup, she took out a crisp Queen of Spades playing card and stuck it in her front pocket.
Only when she was about to leave did she turn toward the bed. She’d covered Giacomo’s face when she got out of the bed. Now, it seemed wrong.
Pulling down the sheet, she gave her lover one last kiss on the brow. “We shall meet again in the afterlife, mi amore.”
Casting one last look around her bedroom, she took it all in. She wouldn’t be coming back. Ever.
She would go straight to the prison and seek her father’s counsel. Seek his permission to kill her own flesh and blood.
“Giacomo was my first and greatest love,” Eva said as she finished telling her story. “I had no choice but to avenge him by killing my own half-brother.”
Rose sat up, drawing her knees to her chest under the covers.
“That’s why you had to leave Sicily?” Rose said.
Eva nodded. “The other mob bosses put out an order for my life. But it got worse,” she said. Eva had moved over to the bed and was gripping the bedpost so tightly her knuckles were white.
“You mean your family in LA?”
“Even before that,” Eva said. “My best friend, Tomas, was a priest. He hid me and got me on the airplane to America.”
Here Eva paused and stared off into the distance.
“He knew it was risky and he didn’t care,” Eva said. “Once we were in the air, I got a text on my phone.”
Eva’s hand slipped down the post, and she sunk onto the bed.
“It was a picture.”
“Oh my God,” Rose said.
Eva nodded solemnly. “They killed Tomas for helping me.”
Rose swallowed. Eva turned to meet her eyes. “I know how you feel. I also know how you will feel for the rest of your life if you don’t show up today.”
“Timothy would understand if I didn’t go,” Rose said.
“There’s something else you must know. Tomas was my best and oldest friend. He was also my first lover. He died. Because of me.”
Rose thought about that for a few seconds. Just like Timothy for her.
“I thought you said he was a priest?” she finally said.
Eva gave her a small smile. “This was before he took the vows.”
“Well, I’m sorry I can’t go.”
“You must show up today. For you, Rose,” Eva said. “Not for Timothy. Not for me or Gia. Not for anyone except you.”
Rose pushed the covers away and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
A black dress hung over a chair by her vanity. Gia. She knew Rose refused to wear black and therefore owned nothing to wear to the funeral.
Eva stood and headed toward the door.
“Eva?”
Pausing, Eva turned back around.
“I don’t understand something,” Rose said.
“What is that?” Eva said, raising an eyebrow.
“How could you have gone through all of that, so much more than one person can bear, and still smile and laugh and have a boyfriend now?” Rose asked. “You seem so serene.”
Eva opened her mouth to speak but then closed it again and walked out.
22
Rose stumbled as she walked into the church.
The funeral wasn’t at any of Timothy’s beloved cathedrals. It was held at a small church on the outskirts of town. It was a Catholic church where his family were parishioners.
The pews were packed in the tiny space. The day was overcast. As it should be, Rose thought when she got out of the limousine that Gia had hired.
Gia and Eva were on either side of her, and she clung to them as she walked down the aisle.
Shaniqua and the others were right behind them.
As she walked, Rose couldn’t take her eyes off the black casket on the altar. It was heaped with red roses.
Timothy’s family sat in the first pew. Her eyes traveled from the back of Mr. Rocco’s head, his hair neatly combed, to Mrs. Rocco’s tidy bun. They both sat ramrod straight.
Rose sat down in a pew several rows behind them next to Shaniqua.
The mass began. Rose was in a daze through it all. Stand. Sit. People singing. The priest speaking. Incense. The church organ.
Before leaving the church, Rose turned to look at the casket again.
Timothy’s mother was kneeling before it as everyone else filed out of the church.
Rose froze. She was unable to draw her eyes away from the sight.
Eva took her arm. “Come on now,” she said.
Rose shook Eva’s hand away but followed everyone else out of the church.
The procession to the cemetery was long and slow. Other cars pulled over to let them pass. Pedestrians and shopkeepers on sidewalks stopped to stare.
The car parked at the cemetery, on a lush green hillside dotted with ancient tombstones. Everyone got out except Rose. Eva leaned in. Rose shook her head when Eva asked if she was going to attend the graveside mass.
“Do you want me to stay here with you?” Shaniqua asked.
Rose shook her head again.
The three women left and headed across the grass toward the small group forming a circle around Timothy’s plot. Gia glanced back at Rose with her eyes wide with worry, but Rose turned away.
Rose stared straight ahead, determined not to look at the big hole in the ground again. Instead, she stared at the other cars parked in front of theirs.
The hearse was parked several cars in front of theirs. She watched as Paolo and Timothy’s father and some other men lifted the black, shiny casket out of the hearse. She didn’t turn her head to watch the procession as it made its way further into the graveyard.
There was a knock on the window.
She jumped.
Paolo.
He opened the door and reached for her hand. She took it. He pulled her out of the car and then put his arms around her.
Leaning on him, she let him lead her to the grave.
They stood in the very back, and murmuring of the priest filtered back to them as a rhythmic droning. Suddenly, her mind was taken back to the Sultan’s palace, and the flock of believers were chanting and calling for blood.
And then a memory she didn’t know she had came to her with a jolt.
It was her mother’s graveside service. She was dressed in a light blue dress. She could see it vividly in her imagination. She wore black, shiny shoes and white socks with little blue flowers on them. She remembered touching the silky blue ribbon in her hair. She was holding someone’s hand while she stared at the plain wood casket. There were only a few people at the service. People that she couldn’t recognize now. A man. Some boys. The person holding her hand was an old, old woman. She remembered that. Her hand was wrinkled, gnarled. And she was squeezing Rose’s hand so tightly that she nearly cried out in pain. She looked up at the old woman and started to cry. Then she said, “Mama?” And the old woman slapped her across the face.
When she began to wail, the woman picked her up and carried her away from the grave.
Once they were away, the woman kneeled down in front of her and said, “Your mama is dead. In the ground. Because she was a bad woman. Now you be a good girl or you are going to be put in the ground too.”
From that moment on, Rose, who was called Rosalie then, kept her mouth shut and tried to be a good girl, whatever that meant.
The shrieking and wailing of Timothy’s mother shook Rose out of her memories, and she clung to Paolo’s forearm, digging her nails into his flesh.
He patted her hand as if it was n
othing, even though she’d drawn blood.
Then it was over and he walked her back to the car, putting her inside and shutting the door behind her.
They hadn’t spoken the entire time.
Again, she stared ahead. She couldn’t look at the grave. Even though she knew she should, it seemed like it would take super human strength simply to turn her head in that direction. She felt numb—as if she were underwater.
It seemed like both an instant and several years before Eva, Gia, and Shaniqua returned and climbed into the car. Shaniqua reached for Rose’s hand and squeezed it as they drove away. No one spoke.
When they came to a fork in the road, Eva came to a stop. Gia turned around to look at Rose lifting an eyebrow.
“I don’t want to go to his house for the wake,” Rose said.
Eva swung the wheel to the left, and they headed home.
Once there, Rose crawled into bed, still wearing the black dress.
Eva handed her some pills and a glass of water while Gia drew the blackout curtains.
“What are these?” Rose asked as she put them in her mouth and swallowed.
Nobody answered.
Both women took turns leaning down to kiss her forehead and then they left, gently closing the door behind them. Rose started to feel warm and relaxed. She leaned her head back onto the soft pillows and closed her eyes, grateful to escape into unconsciousness.
Sometime in the night, Gia woke Rose from a dreamless slumber.
Gia lifted her head up from the pillows and held a glass to her lips.
“Drink this so you don’t get dehydrated.”
Rose sipped at the sweetish mixture obediently.
“Now go back to sleep,” Gia said.
As soon as Rose leaned back, she fell back into the welcome dreamless darkness.
Rose woke the next afternoon, disoriented. The blackout curtains were still drawn and the bedroom was dark. She vaguely remembered Gia and Eva waking her a few more times over the intervening twenty-four hours and making her drink. She wondered if there were more pills too.
Blood & Roses (Vigilante Crime Series) Page 10