Twisted

by Knight, Natasha

  “Isn’t that your caning hand?” I remember what she did to Helena.

  “Don’t forget you were once an accomplice.”

  “Not an accomplice.” Although I was complicit. I still regret that night. I will always regret it.

  She gives me a grimace, drinks a sip of old, cold coffee. “Minor detail. I’m sure it wouldn’t make a difference to her if she knew.”

  “The only reason I didn’t stop Helena from getting on that boat is because you said you were going to let her go.”

  She cocks her head to the side. “Come on, Gregory. Did you really believe that?”

  I remain silent because did I?

  “I didn’t know you were going to try to kill her,” I say.

  “I didn’t intend on killing her. Hurting her, yes. Scaring her, yes. But not killing her. Your brother was just too stupid to figure out where I’d put her.”

  She lights a cigarette, holds it like a joint between the thumb and forefinger of her injured hand and inhales deeply before continuing.

  “Besides,” she continues, blowing out smoke. “My plans only changed when Sebastian told me of his. Told me what he’d do to my son.”

  Ethan. She means Ethan.

  She only refers to Ethan as her son. Not me. Not Sebastian.

  She sits back, injured arm across her middle, watching me as ash collects on the tip of her cigarette. I wonder if she ever truly did have good intentions concerning Helena. I doubt it.

  “Besides, if I had let her go, maybe you would have kidnapped her for yourself the moment my back was turned,” she says.

  Well, I did. Sort of.

  I kidnapped a different Willow Girl.

  “Guilty conscience, Gregory? All of a sudden? Because you weren’t hard to convince then.” She finishes the last of the drink and I wonder if it isn’t laced with liquor. “Or is it because you lost the girl that you’re pouting now?”

  “I came to help you, Lucinda. I’m the only one still willing to help you. Remember that.”

  “Lucinda.” She snorts. “I may not be Sebastian’s mother, but I am yours.” She takes a deep inhale of her cigarette, studying me. “And this help, you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart?”

  I don’t reply.

  She smirks, like she knows the answer to that question. She gets up, goes to the cabinet, opens it and brings out a bottle of whiskey and a clean glass for me. She pours some and refills her coffee cup.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask.

  She swallows a big sip, looks away, and I see fear in her eyes, and desperation. I wonder which is more dangerous.

  She flicks ash off her cigarette onto the carpet then turns back to me. “Anyway, I heard you got your own Willow Girl after all.”

  How in hell does she know that?

  I keep my face neutral but my hands fist in my lap.

  “I tell you what, I don’t know if those Willows have gold in their cunts or what, but you boys sure fall for them left and right, don’t you? Your father did. Sebastian too. Destroyed me for his Willow whore. And now you, too?”

  Her lip curls in disgust.

  “The only one with any sense is Ethan,” she continues. “And look what your brother did to him.”

  “He did it to punish you.”

  “Are you taking his side?” Another smirk slowly forms on her lips and I wonder how there is still so much wickedness in her. “Even now, are you taking his side?”

  “There are no sides. Not with this.”

  “Considering everything he’s done to you, you would still protect him? Considering how he and that whore have made a fool out of you again.”

  “You’re talking bullshit, mother,” I stand.

  She reaches up, grips my arm. “Even now, they’re laughing at you.”

  An uneasy feeling comes over me. “What are you talking about?”

  That smirk grows more smug as she studies me.

  “Oh, my goodness. You don’t know, do you?”

  I don’t like the look on her face, and I want to change the subject and I want more than anything to get the hell out of here.

  “Stefan Sabbioni left Sicily,” I say.

  “What?” That gets her attention.

  “He’s here.”

  “He can’t leave Sicily. He’ll be arrested.”

  “Yeah, well, apparently that’s no longer the case. He came to see me. He’s looking for you.”

  Now it’s Lucinda who’s rendered mute.

  “How did you get away from him, anyway? I mean, I’d think he’d have taken all the fingers he wanted in one go.” I hear the venom in my voice. I guess I’m just as wicked as my mother.

  “I bribed one of the doctors who fixed this.” She holds up her stump.

  “Why didn’t he take them all at once?”

  “Because he needs me. This,” she starts, holding up her bandaged hand. “This is him showing me how big his balls are.”

  “What does he need from you?”

  She gets up, goes to the cabinet, opens it and takes out a small package wrapped up in a tissue. She brings it over to the table and sets it down, then resumes her seat.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  She unwraps the tissue with her damaged hand and I can’t peel my eyes away from that stump. It’s almost stranger for the two fingers he left.

  But then I see it. The thing she took.

  A ring.

  I reach over, pick it up, study it.

  “His brother’s ring.”

  “Antonio?” Antonio is the rat, the brother who betrayed the family.

  “It doesn’t belong to Stefan. It belongs to the true head of the family.”

  “What business is it of yours who the head of their family is?”

  “Stefan’s a snot-nosed brat.”

  “Who cut off your fucking fingers! Are you insane?”

  Her forehead wrinkles and she looks away, turns her attention to stubbing out her cigarette and I can see she’s scared. Really scared.

  I exhale. “Why haven’t you left the country?”

  “He has my passport and I’m waiting on my money from your brother to get a new one made. I tried to call him for an advance, but that prick wouldn’t take my call.”

  “So you took a suite at one of the most expensive hotels in the city?”

  She grits her teeth, her lips tightening.

  I stand up, ring in my hand.

  “Wait!”

  “This doesn’t belong to you,” I say.

  She knows she’s in the wrong here because she doesn’t counter.

  I slip the ring into my pocket and take out the envelope. “This should be enough to get you a new passport. An airline ticket out of here.”

  She extends her hand to take it, but I pull it away.

  “There’s a condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “You stay away from us. All of us. That includes Sebastian and Helena.”

  She cocks her head to the side, eyes narrowing, full of hatred. One corner of her mouth lifts into a cruel one-sided grin. I remember that grin from when I was little. When she scared the shit out of me.

  “Don’t tell me you still think you have a chance with her?” she asks.

  It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about Helena. “I can also just text Stefan your location,” I say with a grin that matches hers.

  “You won’t do that. I know you.”

  She’s right. I won’t.

  But I am finished here.

  I drop the envelope on the table and walk toward the door.

  “It always comes down to the Willow whores for you boys, doesn’t it?”

  “Shut up, mother.”

  “You think you’re so smooth. You think you have everything under control. You don’t. Those Willows twist your mind…”

  I open the door, wondering why I bother. Why I shouldn’t let her deal with Stefan Sabbioni. She made her bed.

  But I should have left before because it’
s when I’m out in the hallway and the door closes behind me that she does it.

  That she pulls the rug out from under me.

  I don’t look back when I hear the door open.

  “I almost forgot. Congratulations are in order,” she calls out when I push the button for the elevator.

  I know I should go. I know I shouldn’t listen. I grit my teeth and wait. The stairs are around the corner and probably faster than the rickety old elevator.

  “I hear you’re going to be an uncle,” she says.

  It takes me a minute to process, but when I do, it’s like the words have a power all their own. Sweat breaks out over my forehead and the world goes sideways for a minute, as if my brain is knocking against my skull.

  Almost in slow motion, I turn on my heel, look at her.

  She cocks her head to the side. “Oh. Didn’t you know?”

  She’s enjoying this. Loving every second of it.

  “Or I guess,” she starts, not yet finished. “You could be the father, right? I mean it’s possible, isn’t it?”

  Helena’s pregnant?

  No.

  It’s not possible.

  “I mean, I don’t know, are the brats Sebastian’s or yours? Because they don’t resemble either of you just yet. Look more like slithery little snakes. I have the pictures. You want to see?”

  I take a step toward her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ask her sister,” she says, closing the door a little.

  “What in hell are you talking about?” I roar.

  Just as I reach the room, she slams the door. I pound my fist against it.

  “Mother!”

  The lock turns.

  “Open this fucking door!”

  I pound hard, hard enough other guests peer their nosy heads out of their rooms.

  But I don’t care because I can’t think because what she’s saying, it can’t be.

  It cannot be true.

  Helena cannot be pregnant.

  18

  Amelia

  I’m dreaming again. I know it and I can’t seem to wake myself up.

  There’s something different this time though. Something urgent in the way the little girl looks at me.

  Her puppy is running and she’s chasing her, but she keeps looking back at me and it’s like she wants to be sure I’m still there, following her. She doesn’t know that I can’t change course even if I want to. It’s like my legs are moving of their own accord.

  She’s hasty on the stairs and I keep calling after her to stay toward the wall. To keep away from the edge without the banister because the house, it’s not like it was then. It’s like it is now.

  But it’s not as though she can get hurt.

  She’s already dead.

  She died the same night as her mother.

  I don’t know how I know this, but I do. And it’s like the moment that realization dawns on me, she knows I know, too and her face shifts, is more skull-like again. No longer the pretty, carefree little girl.

  A door slams and I jolt upright. Sweat drips from my forehead and I’m panting.

  I look around the dark room, exhale in relief when I realize I’m still in Gregory’s bed. Still here. I wasn’t chasing the little girl into that library. Into whatever lies beyond that door.

  A shudder runs through me and I draw in a deep, calming breath.

  It’s nothing. I’m still here. I woke up.

  I look at Gregory’s pillow, touch it. It’s cold. I push the covers off get up to go into the bathroom and wash my face.

  While I’m in there, I hear the bedroom door open, hear him enter.

  “Where were you?” I ask as I dry my hands, feeling relieved. “You never sleep.”

  I hang the towel back up and turn out the light. But when I open the door to go back into the bedroom, my smile vanishes because it’s not Gregory standing there. It’s someone else.

  “I sleep just fine,” he says with a grin as if it was him I’d asked the question to.

  It takes me a moment to act and I go to slam the door shut, but he’s too fast and the door bounces off the toe of his boot and his giant hand curls around it as he shoves it open, propelling me backward.

  I let out a scream as I look at him there, huge in the doorway in his black suit with the smell of cigarettes clinging to him.

  He looks me over and I look down and I’m wearing a tiny tank top and underwear and I grab a towel as his gaze turns predatory and one side of his mouth curls upward.

  “Stay away from me!” I yell, feeling for the drawer where the scissors are, my fingers slipping as I try to find the right one, try to open it.

  When I manage to do that, I hear another man.

  “Sorry man, had to piss,” he says as he steps into the bathroom and ogles me.

  I curl my fingers around the scissors, and I know I have one shot. I lunge at them, arm up, holding it like a dagger.

  But they’re fast and the one who just came into the room, the one closest to me jumps out of the way and I just manage to cut the other one’s hand as he raises it to defend himself.

  He mutters a curse and grabs hold of me, flinging me to the wall, slamming my hand against it so hard, I swear he breaks something.

  The scissors clang to the floor and he closes his hand over my throat and squeezes and all I can do is try to claw his hand from me, try to suck in air. I think he’s going to kill me. I think if it isn’t for the other man, he’d kill me. He’d suffocate me or snap my neck and kill me.

  But the other one, he puts his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Hey. Boss doesn’t want her hurt.”

  “Fucking cunt. She cut me.” He squeezes and that gurgling sound is coming from my throat.

  “Calm down, man. Let her go.”

  He doesn’t.

  “Go wait downstairs. I’ll bring her.”

  Nothing.

  “I said wait downstairs.” He cocks a pistol.

  The man who has his hand around my throat finally releases me, and I drop to my hands and knees, panting for breath, sucking in gulps of air.

  The gun is decocked and the one who strangled me mutters a curse and I think for a moment he’s going to kick me, but then he’s gone.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” the one who’s still in the bathroom with me says. I look up to watch him tuck the pistol back into its holster.

  He kicks the scissors across the bathroom floor, far out of reach.

  “Get up,” he says, taking my arm and dragging me to my feet.

  “Let me go!”

  He walks me calmly into the bedroom, picks up my discarded clothes from the floor. He tosses them and me onto the bed.

  “Get dressed. It’s cold out there.”

  I don’t move. I just stare up at him.

  “Look, if you want to go like that, I have no issue—”

  “Where’s Gregory?”

  “Your boyfriend’s not here.” He looks at his watch like he’s timing me.

  “Where is he?” I ask more urgently.

  “Time’s up,” he says, stepping toward me. “I guess like that it is. Let’s go.”

  I shake my head.

  He pushes his jacket back to put his hand in his pocket and I see that gun again and I think that was the point.

  “Don’t make me carry you. I got a bad back.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  He shakes his head once, snorts like what I just said is funny.

  “That’s not up to you, sweetheart.”

  Next thing I know, he hauls me up by my arm and tosses me over his shoulder and mutters something about his back hurting as he carries me down the stairs, none of my fighting making any difference, like I’m a fly on the back of an elephant and he doesn’t feel a thing.

  When we get downstairs, the other man is waiting. He opens the door and I don’t even have shoes or a coat as he takes me out into the waiting sedan, same as those I saw this afternoo
n, and shoves me inside and cuffs my right wrist to the handle above the door and takes his seat beside the other man as we drive away.

  My heart races as the car slips on the ice, the driver taking the turns too fast. Somehow, we make it to the highway, and I recognize some of the signs. We’re heading toward Rome.

  I know where we’re going. Who they’re taking me to.

  Stefan Sabbioni.

  I have no doubt.

  The men up front are smoking and it stinks in the car but my window is locked so I can’t open it to get some fresh air. Neither of them is talking and I get the feeling they’re not friends.

  The one who isn’t driving glances back at me after the other one says something in Italian. He nods and turns away, and about forty minute later, we take an exit and I don’t think I can get any more nervous as we drive through an obviously wealthy part of town with gated properties, mansions that would dwarf the Willow house.

  But the biggest house of all is on the darkest street of all.

  The sedan turns onto the drive as the gates slowly inch open.

  The driver rolls down his window and greets two of the soldiers standing just inside the gate and I can’t look away from the machine guns they have slung over their shoulders.

  But my attention is soon on the gothic mansion that comes into view at the top of the hill. Downstairs, all the lights are on, but the second floor is dark.

  When we arrive at the front doors, the car stops and the man on my side opens the door. Without a word to me, he reaches in to undo my handcuff and gestures for me to step out.

  I’m barefoot and in my underwear but I’d rather walk than have him carry me. The ground is icy beneath my feet and the gravel hurts, but I follow them up the half dozen steps and don’t look at the guards watching me and ignore the whistle followed by another man’s chuckle.

  When the front door opens, I hear the soft sound of classical music accompanied by a soprano. I don’t really know anything about opera to guess what it is. The large doors are closed behind us and at least it’s warm in here.

  I stop when the man who cuffed me tells me to wait and he talks to someone for a few minutes before gesturing for me to follow.

  Marble gives way to a beautiful Persian carpet and the music grows louder as we approach the living room where I see Stefan Sabbioni sitting in front of the fire, watching it, drinking his whiskey and listening to the opera.