He wants it all

by Marilena Barbagallo

  “You’ll have all the time you want to look at the artwork of the Temple,” he keeps on reading my thoughts. His hand rests on my back and the low neckline doesn’t prevent me from feeling his icy touch. I jump up and he immediately moves his hand before I can insult him for daring to touch me. “This way,” he says defeated.

  We disappear among the guests. There are many people and they are all stylish. I don’t waste time on the people’s faces, I am charmed by the paintings, the glittering chandeliers, the banquet where champagne is served.

  Soon I realize that Krum and I are attracting the attention of everyone and I am really embarrassed. I look down and he, as he often does, answers as if he knew what I'm thinking.

  “They've never seen you here, that's why they’re looking at you.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “They are politicians, entrepreneurs, and Leonardo’s customers.”

  I see a man who fixes me more than necessary, I look down again, and I try to move to Krum so that he can’t see me. I feel uncomfortable, probably it’s the beautiful dress whose color cannot go unnoticed.

  “Something wrong?” he asks. His tone is confusing me, it’s too caring.

  “It’s annoying the way they look at me.”

  “Is it other people’s fault now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The annoying thing is not that people look at you,” he says abruptly. “The annoying thing is you're too beautiful.” And he disappears behind my shoulders.

  I am stunned. He’s just made a compliment by insulting me. It's incredible! I turn around to stay by his side again, I have no intention of staying alone.

  “Where's Leonardo?” I ask.

  He puffs, as if I'm really annoying him. I start thinking I am. In a rude tone he calls a waiter who serves two glasses of champagne. He keeps one for himself and gives me the other.

  Politeness suggests to me to thank him, but I bite my tongue.

  “Leonardo is down there,” he points to a group of men in ties. “He's busy right now, when he’s free, you’re going to meet him.”

  I bring the cup to my lips and sip a bit of champagne, as I carefully gaze at the famous Leonardo. I thought he was an old man, but he shouldn’t be older than fifty. He looks good for his age, he’s tall, well built, slightly grey hair, but only at the sides, a bit curly and brown. He has two penetrating blue eyes, yes, penetrating because he’s just intercepted my eyes so deeply to make me jolt.

  “He's a handsome man,” I say.

  “He's also very intelligent.”

  “If he had been smarter, he wouldn’t have asked you to kidnap me.”

  “Do you always have to put me in the middle?”

  His voice now has a weird tone. I look at him and try to shut him up with a glance. He caresses his chin and pulls out the tip of his tongue, his eyes are incredibly fixed on my lips that are imitating his gestures.

  I mumble and shake my head, drinking my champagne and staring at the Father who is staring at me from head to toe.

  “He's coming,” I say anxiously. “Are you staying with me?” I ask Krum, while Leonardo is stopped halfway by an old lady.

  He looks surprised by my request and actually I am too.

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  Do I want it? I don’t have time to answer either myself or him, when I hear a voice behind me.

  “Miss Livori.” I turn and smile politely. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

  “I'm not yet able to say if it’s a pleasure for me to meet you, too,” I reply.

  Krum kills me with a glance. Leonardo takes my hand and traps it between his.

  “Pungent tongue,” he replies, bringing my hand to his lips, “inebriating scent,” kissing my hand, “rare beauty,” and leaves my hand. He looks at Krum and says: “These are the most dangerous women.”

  “I agree,” he replies.

  “Can we talk informally?” he asks. I cannot identify this man. He looks kind, polite, but at the same time mysterious and disturbing.

  “As you prefer.”

  “Are you ok in the Temple?”

  “Apart from him, yes,” I say, clearly pointing to Krum who winces his eyes.

  Leonardo laughs a fake laugh and pats Krum’s shoulder.

  “Don’t you like your guardian?”

  “Absolutely not.” I look at Krum, whose look doesn’t seem to be disturbed by my reply.

  Leonardo forces a new laugh. I don’t think I’m faking and my face remains unchanged. I see Krum is watching him scrupulously, as he’s talking about the party, his guests and the importance of the people around. He tells me he is a business man who has several companies all over the world. He talks about his political life and informs me that he is going to be a candidate for mayor in the next elections.

  “It's a big deal,” I say.

  “Yeah, it's my greatest goal and I want to reach it.”

  “Everything is very interesting, but…” A quick sip of champagne and then, without so many words, I ask: “What do I have to do with this?”

  “Oh, you have nothing to do with it. You're here for the something else.” The mystery that lies around this handsome man starts to bother me. “Tonight I’d just like to meet you. There will be time to talk about your role in the Temple. Krum may tell you what's necessary for you to know. Now I only want you realize that this place is safe and that you are not in danger. That's what is pressing me the most. I know Krum's methods are really extreme and they can confuse you, but you don’t have to be afraid of anything; be calm and make conversation with the who you prefer.”

  “If this is a safe place, why am I forced to be locked in a room and I'm prevented from talking to my mother? She doesn’t know where I am. She will be extremely worried.”

  “Clara knows where you are. I informed her. She knows about your stay here.”

  My mouth drops open and my legs almost give in. I'm breathless, I need air, I need to breathe, I'm choking. I massage my neck and swallow thorns. Did my mother know this too? Does she know this place? Why hasn’t she ever told me anything?

  “Are you ok?” Krum asks me. I almost don’t even hear him.

  “No, I'm not.” Leonardo stiffens, I guess he's afraid I'll get really angry and ruin his dinner. “I cannot understand why I'm here and why my mother has never said anything.”

  “It's part of the rules,” Leonardo informs me. “Ambra, it’s not the right moment to deepen the discussion, but be sure you’ll soon understand and you’ll realize that what is happening to you is not absurd.”

  I'm going to bombard him with questions, what I'm expecting is quite obvious and I'm no longer sure I want to be subjected to these rules.

  “My dad?” I syllable. “What does my father have to do with?”

  “Ambra…” I wish he didn’t pronounce my name, I’d prefer Krum's voice at this time. “Your father and I have created the Temple.” He lowers his voice and approaches my ear. “This is a Sect. Your father and I have founded a secret society.”

  I open my mouth wide and Krum looks at me, as if he wanted to support me silently. I feel him close and I’m not alone in this absurd situation.

  “But, but…” I say. “Is it legal?”

  Krum snorts a smile and Leonardo does the same, alluding: “Ambra, how do you think your family has made money?”

  My stomach contorts. I feel like throwing up. I don’t want to stay amongst these people a minute more. I put my glass on the table behind my shoulders, step in the middle of them, pushing them and run toward the opening from where I can see the garden.

  I'm outside, I smell fresh air, but I totally lost any certainty.

  I raise my eyes to heaven and the stars tell me about my father, a man I don't know anymore. They shine, but they have lost their light.

  I cover my face with my trembling hands, and soon tears wet my skin. I feel lost, until I feel a touch on my head. It’s sweet, caring, delicate, incredibly comforting. I look up an
d see him.

  It's Krum.

  15

  KRUM

  I put my hand on her head. Her hair is silky for my destructive hands. I caress it, slowly. I think that’s what you should do trying to console someone. That’s how I imagine consolation: a caress suggested by your heart. But I lack heart. My organ is trapped in an ice cube whose cracks are not breaking.

  My wrist moves directing the palm along her golden curls. Everything is happening with extraordinary naturalness. If I stop to think, I'm sure my hand would burn this young disappointed angel. And if she, too, paused to realize that I was touching her, she’d reject me as you do with insects.

  I enjoy the moment. She looks at me with those eyes that have the color of her name: Ambra. Her irises are vibrating, veiled with a sheet of tears. Something inside me vibrates and recognizes a terrible vision in what she's seeing.

  I don’t want her to suffer.

  I twist a finger in a lock hanging on her shoulder. She bows her head and watches the movement. I expect that from one moment to the next she’ll insult me. I withdraw my hand and hide it in my pocket.

  “I knew you’d sooner or later collapse. It was just a matter of time.”

  She takes a deep breath, and her eyes – at my words – get back that lost strength. I like to know that I encourage her to be strong. Isn’t it a positive thing?

  “I bet you're delighted in seeing me in tears,” she says angrily.

  She puts her small fingers under her eyes and dries her tears. She’s excessively elegant, she is devastatingly and annoyingly beautiful. She shouldn’t be so beautiful, Damn. I grin and answer her back.

  “It doesn't make me happy to see you cry in these circumstances. If I had caused your tears, I would have been more than happy.”

  “Now do you want to be in all my tears?”

  I squint and move toward her, making her bump the stone wall.

  “I,” I lean toward her, “want to be,” I push her chin up and force her to look at me, “All.”

  Her open lips are emitting that sigh that has become my favorite answer.

  She opens her mouth, but doesn’t speak. Seeing that I was able to shut her up once, puts the control back in my hands again. My body rests on hers, in a gesture promoted by an uncontrolled impulse, and she sighs again. Her breast rises, her eyes light up, she bites her lower lip that has become the subject of the worst tortures my mind can reproduce.

  I feel the warmth of her body overcome the barrier of her clothes and overwhelm with the same temperature I recognize in a desperate need to possess her.

  Possess what?

  Her.

  “K… please,” she was about to pronounce my name. “Let me breathe.”

  Her palms are on my chest. Her hands are not made of skin, they are small flames trying to burn me. She turn her head looking elsewhere, I lost her visual contact and I already miss it.

  “Do I take your breath away?” I reply without controlling my malicious tone.

  My body does whatever the fuck it likes and it's still pressed on her, that burns up vividly.

  “You're on me!” she scolds me.

  “So? You like it!”

  “Don’t say nonsense.”

  I grab her hips and I pull her more to me, to feel her and to make me feel her. It's hard, fucking bitch!

  “No, no…” she complains. The fact she cannot look at me, that she is unable to push me away, makes me realize that she doesn’t want me to stop, that she’s staying under me because she cannot help it. I lie down in search of her ear and whisper in it: “You can go if you want. You don’t have to stay with me.”

  “Of course not!” Sharp tongue, as usual. She traps my wrists with her hands, if she tries to push me away I'll force her to stay here. The skin of her palms adheres to mine, but in a gentle touch, not in protest. “Once,” she has an imploring tone, “try not to hurt me.” The statement makes me mad.

  “I'm not hurting you!”

  Now her hands clasp my wrists with force, trying to remove them from her hips. I won't move from here, I'm perfectly fine, I like being on her, I like to feel her so hot.

  “Yes, you are. You don’t realize it, but you're hurting me.”

  I just felt something in my chest go "crack". There is another crack in my heart. I loosen the hold on her hips and her face relaxes evidently.

  “Why do you think I should always hurt you?” This question is in my head since I went to get her.

  “Because that's what you are: evil. You can only hurt people. You're my evil.”

  She keeps her eyes glued to my eyes, without fear, without fear that I can tear off a lock. I'd like to do it, oh yes, I would like to. She is just an asshole, nothing else!

  I'm pushing harder and harder on her, in an exasperated move. I press my cock on her, that wants to burst into her.

  I go close to her lips and whisper with anger: “Mrazya te!”

  I free her, continuing to look at her with contempt. She is still gasping and when I turn my face, she screams:

  “What did you say?”

  “I hate you.”

  I go inside without worrying about her reaction. She's a hateful woman. She just keeps on ruining everything. I try to be kind to her and I only get insults. I know I'm not a good man, I’ve never thought I could be and I'm not going to be, that's for sure. But gosh! I’ve tried to cure her bruises in a clear gesture of kindness, I’ve prepared her breakfast, bought her gifts - which I have never done in my life - I have shown her I can be a caring man, even though the idea disturbs me and makes me feel like an idiot, and she always has a fucking sentence to destabilize me.

  She let me caress her. I hate this woman!

  I go to the counter where they serve to drink, the waiter immediately gets a bottle of champagne and I kill him with a glance.

  “I want something strong, don’t give me stuff for girls!”

  “Do you prefer a Chivas Regal?”

  “Yes.”

  “How would you like it?”

  What a nuisance!

  “Straight!”

  The waiter pours me to drink and I grab the glass to drown those eyes in the alcohol that, damnation, have the same color of the liqueur.

  While waiting for the whiskey to give the desired effect, here's Manuel to pour salt onto the wound.

  “Hi Brother,” he begins. He, too, is very elegant, I just hope he doesn’t try to do what I'm sure he will try to do. I don’t even want to think it in my mind.

  “Brother?” I reply. He hasn’t called me that way in seven years.

  “Technically we are.” It’s true, the Father, after having bought us, has adopted us legally.

  “What do you want?”

  “Nothing, I am joining you in your lonely drink,” he says, sipping his drink. Suddenly she comes to our vision. The red dress stands out among the dark ones of the other guests, her hair looks like a cascade of golden threads. It’s impossible to avoid looking at her, that dress puts every present man to the test. I think that whatever this girl wears, becomes beauty automatically.

  “Damn!” Manuel mumbles. If he dares… “She's more beautiful than ever. Do you remember her when she was a young girl? She was beautiful, but now she is…”

  “Keep your considerations to yourself,” I block him, before my neurons explode and send good manners to the hell.

  “Did you already fuck her?”

  I gulp down the liquor. It almost goes down the wrong pipe. I turn to him and I try to answer him with my eyes, but Manuel always needs to hear threats before stopping to provoke.

  “Try to say another word about her and I'll smash this glass on your head.” I'm calm beyond any definition. Only my tone is showing that anger ready to explode. Externally we look like two gentlemen talking about this and that, instead we are two antagonists talking about my girlfriend.

  “You can’t stop me from looking at her,” he continues to provoke as his eyes are searching for her, who is completely unaware
about who Manuel is.

  The bitch, on her part, is fueling that anger that will soon kick off against someone. She cannot know and it’s better this way. But the lady must hurt me at all times, and I see she is exchanging mischievous looks with the jerk to my side.

  “I'm sorry for you, Krum, but she is looking at me as if she wants to suck my cock.”

  Fuck you!

  I unbutton my jacket, because suddenly it’s stifling hot, I finish all my drink and calmly rest the glass on the table behind my shoulders. I use the calmest tone of voice I have and I say to him:

  “Can you follow me for a moment?”

  “Where?”

  “Come with me.”

  Manuel finishes his liqueur and leaves the glass. He follows me unaware, we cross the whole room and I realize that Ambra’s eyes are following our escape. We go down the corridors and lead him into a room I know for sure to be empty. He goes in, switches on the light, I close the door behind me, and without giving him time to say or do something, I punch his face. I hold my fist in one hand. I hit his teeth and my knuckles cracked. I’m bleeding. He yells from the floor:

  “What the hell are you doing?” He holds his face. If there is a positive thing in this piece of shit, it’s that he is more calm than the average man. Before he reacts, it always takes time. “What's wrong with you?”

  When he gets up, I stiffen, ready to increase the dose, and point a finger against him.

  “I’ve warned you not to look at her.” I know that I have the devil's eyes. I know I'm possessed. I know.

  “Are you talking about our bitch?”

  What did he say?

  His sentence is worse than a series of punches to the stomach. I grab him by the collar and push him to the wall.

  “She's not yours, fucker!” I shout at him.

  “Not even yours,” he provokes.

  Yes she is, mother fucker!

  I pull on him and push him away, hoping not to have to hit him again, because my knuckles are hurting and I don’t want to get stained with blood.

  “You're losing your head,” he snorts, showing an ugly grin. “You don’t know how much I’m enjoying it.”