Her back is still unmarked in this one, and from the corner of the shot, I see Alessandro’s arm, his angry grip on the whip. Twenty-one lines. I wonder if there’s a significance to the number, or if his arm tired or if he just ran out of skin.
The blood from her open back stains them when they rape her again afterward. They don’t seem to care. I wonder if they were stoned because, even given who I am, what I’ve done, it’s inhuman what they do to her.
But I have to look at these differently. Block any emotion. Anything human. And I can’t ever let her see them.
I collect the photos and lock all but one in one of the desk drawers. The one I keep, it has all their faces in it. The two dead men. The four with their days numbered. Her.
I boot up my laptop. As I wait for it to load, the study door opens, and Emilia is standing there. My mind immediately wanders to earlier tonight. To her whispered words. I wonder if she remembers.
“You can’t hurt those women.”
It takes me a second to understand what she’s talking about. The women I threatened to have marked up like she’s been marked up.
“Don’t worry about that right now.”
She steps inside without waiting for an invitation. “I mean it. You can’t do this to them. You don’t understand what it’ll do to them.”
“I’m not going to have them raped.” I realize my mistake the instant the word is out because she flinches, like I’ve slapped her. I get up to go to her, but she straightens, steels her spine.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I’m glad I put the photographs away. “Nothing. Why don’t you go back to bed. It’s late.”
“I’m not tired.”
I can’t read her. She’s closed herself off again. I don’t know why that bothers me. “I thought you’d be exhausted.”
“You mean after my breakdown?” She walks inside and comes over to the desk.
I turn the photo over.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it one of the photographs?” She’s a different person to the one she was a few hours ago.
“Go back to bed, Emilia.”
She raises her gaze to mine. “No, Giovanni.” She reaches out for the picture, but I put my hand over hers.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“You don’t have to see them.”’
“How many are there?”
“Enough.”
“Your clothes were bloody,” she says, shifting gears. “Upstairs, I mean. From tonight.”
She touches the back of my hand, the one that’s resting on the image. She lifts it up, holds it between hers, and traces the swollen knuckles, the cut skin. She then pushes it out of the way, and I let her. I watch her turn the photograph over, and I study her when she does, when she looks at the image. And for the smallest millisecond, emotion flashes through her eyes. For that uncountable sliver of time, she’s vulnerable again. She’s that broken girl on the floor.
She moves her hand, and with her pointer finger, she traces the two X’s. She’s pressing hard on the photo because it moves in the line she makes. When she’s done with those, she points to one of the men. Says a name. She does the same with the other three I don’t know. I don’t have to write them down. I memorize them. I won’t ever forget them.
But then she starts to rattle off other names, facts, birthdays, and finally addresses.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She has her finger over her own face in the photograph like she’s blotting it out. She looks up at me.
“Names and addresses. You said you wanted those.”
“You’ve known all along?” They’re all in the city. All but one, who is in New Jersey, but all are close. Too close.
“I don’t ever plan on being taken by surprise again.”
“Why did you decide to stay in the city?”
“I grew up in this city. Where else should I have gone?”
Anywhere, I think. But I don’t say it. “I’ll pick up these men within the day.”
She nods. “Can I see them when you do?”
“Why do you want that?”
“Because I didn’t expect it to be like it was when I saw the one tonight. I thought I was farther along. Not over it—I don’t know if that will ever happen—but I didn’t think he’d have the effect on me that he did.”
“And what makes you think it won’t be the same with the others?”
“I’m ready now. Prepared.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Because it fucked me up? Made me crazy?”
“Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“What, do you care now? Am I some sort of pity project now?”
“I don’t pity you. Far from it.” I stand up, take her jaw in my hand, and tilt her head upward. “I think you need someone to take care of you right now, that’s all.”
“And you’re that guy?” She snorts, pulls free. “I’m fine, Giovanni. I don’t need you to take care of me.”
“That’s not true. You and I both know it. Go upstairs, and go back to bed like a good little girl now.” I sit back down and turn my attention to my laptop. From my periphery, I see her clench her hands.
“I’m not a little girl. Where are the rest of the photos? Who else has seen them?”
I finish reading what’s on my screen before turning to her. “Don’t worry about that. Do as you’re told.”
I watch her anger grow, feel it coming off her. She shoves at me and pulls a drawer open, then another.
I close my hand over hers. “Stop. It’s enough.”
She tugs it away, tries to pull the next drawer open, but this is one is locked.
I’m on my feet in an instant. I capture her wrists, hold them at her back. She tilts her face up. I’m a good head taller than her.
“Anger is good, rage is better, but only if you can control it. If you can’t, then it controls you.”
She pulls against me, but I don’t let her go. She doesn’t struggle for long, though. “I don’t want to be weak again.”
I understand that, but she’s got it wrong. “You weren’t weak. They were the weak ones. Raping a woman doesn’t make you powerful. The opposite.”
“What about what I told you?”
“Which part?”
She can’t hold my gaze when she says it. “The fact that I came.” Her voice breaks, and I know this part is killing her. “What does that say?”
“It says you’re human.” I soften my grip, slide my hands over hers, and intertwine our fingers. “Don’t fucking kill yourself over this. It’s done. What they did happened. But it’s over. You survived, and they’re going to get what’s coming to them. That’s all you need to remember.”
19
Emilia
I convince Giovanni to let me go to work the next night. He can’t keep me locked up inside this house forever. Besides, the Ragoni engagement party is tonight. I have to be there. He has three men stationed on the property, one in the lobby, one in the front lot, and another around the back entrance. Giovanni will be here at midnight to pick me up.
It’s a formal engagement party, so I’m dressed in a long lavender gown. It’s cut in a deep V down the front, but my back is covered to my neck. I’m in the bathroom off the lobby arranging my hair in a French twist and decide to leave some wisps to frame my face. I like how it looks. It’s less severe, much softer than I usually wear it. I tell myself I’ll go back to the tight bun on Monday.
Giovanni didn’t mention anything about the other night. About what I dreamed I said. I am grateful it was a dream. I don’t love him. It’s ridiculous to fall in love with the first man who doesn’t violate you.
I stop. Shake my head.
If that’s my criteria these days, then I am truly pathetic.
After applying a layer of lip gloss, I close my clutch and return to the reception room to see about the
It’s eleven at night when I return to my office. I glance at the front desk, which is empty, since it’s shift change. The hotel is creepy when it’s so quiet, and it is quiet because the reception hall is in the new addition to ensure overnight guests aren’t disturbed. I just have to wrap up a few details before I can leave. I’ll go to his house tonight. I’m not sure how I feel about that—or how I should feel, because as much as I miss my apartment, I don’t want to be alone. It’s like I’ve been alone for so damn long that my life is just filled with empty space.
But I’m also more anxious now than ever about Alessandro. I know he’s going to turn up. And he’s got everything to lose with Giovanni as an enemy.
By now, he must know that John Diaz failed in his task to kill our father. He must also know that I am here, within reach. And on Giovanni Santa Maria’s arm.
I have to be careful with romanticizing whatever it is that’s going on between me and Giovanni, though. We’re not a couple. We won’t be one when this is over, either. I have to remember that.
This is what I’m thinking about when I hear the glass door of the sales office open. My desk is around the corner in the open floor plan, where the only person with a private office is the general manager. His door I can see, but the door into the main office I can’t.
“Em?”
I hear a woman’s voice and realize my heart is pounding. I’m half up from my seat.
“Are you back here?”
“Yes, here,” I call out, relieved. It’s Lori, one of the front desk staff.
“There you are,” she says. I see the wheels of the chair before I see her. See expensive Italian shoes.
My heart races, and I’m half-standing when she comes into view.
“Mr. Santa Maria was looking for you.” She is oblivious to my state of mind. She just keeps talking. “And you know how heavy some of the doors are.” She gives me a look. The hotel isn’t quite in compliance for people with disabilities just yet.
“Oh,” I’m looking at the old man and hearing Giovanni’s words. His threat to him.
“Well, I need to go. My ride is waiting. You can help Mr. Santa Maria back to the lobby when you’re done, right? His driver is waiting outside.”
What is he doing here? What does he want with me?
“Em?” Lori asks, confused by my silence.
He just sits there watching me, studying me in that way Giovanni does, but different.
I drag my gaze from his. “Of course.” I force the smile I use at work.
The old man turns his head to look at Lori. “I’m so sorry for all the trouble, dear.”
She waves it away. “It’s no trouble at all, Mr. Santa Maria. I’m just glad Em’s still here.”
“Me too,” he says, turning his attention back to me.
“Well, goodnight everyone,” Lori says.
“Good night,” Mr. Santa Maria says, his smile wide, his teeth white and sharp, and his eyes locked on me like he won’t look away, not for the world. And I know why that is. Angelica. “Remarkable,” he says as soon as we hear the whoosh of the door, letting us know we’re alone.
“What are you doing here?”
He wheels himself forward, and I have a feeling he’s not as feeble as he led Lori to believe. And when he stops at the space where two desks are too close together to accommodate his wheelchair, he rises to his feet, taking the cane I now notice is attached to the side of the chair.
I was under the impression he couldn’t walk at all.
He comes to stand just two feet from me around the side of my desk. Not even. “You really do look like her. Angelica. She has…had…some Mexican roots. That must account for the spectacular beauty.” He smiles, bows his head. “I’m sorry. I seem to have startled you. It wasn’t my intention. Doubtless our initial meeting has left you with questions and, perhaps, distrust of an old man.” He extends his hand to me.
I give a shake of my head. He’s an old man. A crippled old man. I don’t know what happened between him, Giovanni, and Angelica. I only know that little bit about the affair. Affairs. Giovanni said so himself. He told me there’s more to the story. But that doesn’t explain the uneasy feeling I have.
“Of course not.” I go to him, and I don’t like how his eyes run over the length of me. Although hesitating, I place my hand in his. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say politely.
His grip is remarkably strong. Much stronger than I expect.
“You’re a little taller than Angelica was. Poor child.”
Child? Strange he should refer to her as a child if he had an affair with her.
He bows a little and brings my hand to his mouth to kiss it. A chill runs up my spine at the contact.
“Mr. Santa Maria, what are you doing here? Giovanni—”
“I sent a note, but I’m afraid it was intercepted. Given what happened at the church, I thought I’d better come.”
“A note?”
“Yes, a few days ago. Introducing myself.”
He must see from my expression that I never received it.
“Well, I’m not surprised. I know my son well.” He looks over at the sitting area and clears his throat.
“Oh. I’m sorry. You’d probably be more comfortable here. Let me help you.”
“You’re very sweet, dear.”
I don’t know exactly how to help, though. He’s a big man, as tall as Giovanni, at least he was once, but he’s more stooped now. He’s not as muscular. That’s probably due to him sitting in a wheelchair most of the day, but he’s still very strong. With his cane in one hand, he wraps his other arm around my waist. It’s strange, but I feel rude to pull away. We walk together to the sofa, and I help him sit down.
“Would you like something to drink?” I don’t know how I’m being so cordial. Alarm bells are ringing in my head, both for myself and for him. Giovanni’s words keep repeating on the heels of those warnings.
“If you have some whiskey, I wouldn’t mind it.”
“Of course, I’ll be right back.” I slip away, grateful for the few moments I’ll have. I’m unsure what to do. If I should call Giovanni. If I should call security. But I do none of those things. Instead I pour him a whiskey and return to the office. He doesn’t see me come back right away, and I have a moment to study him. His expression is fixed and hard and different than it was when we were talking or when Lori was there. Different even than it was at the church. Like those faces are the ones he puts on when someone is watching.
An instant later, he shifts his gaze to mine, and I wonder if I am naive. If he knew I was there all along. But I school my features into a smile. He’s not dangerous, I tell myself. He is just an old man. He won’t hurt me. Why would he?
I go to him. “Here you are,” I say, taking the seat across from him.
“Thank you, dear.” He takes a long sip and nods in satisfaction.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Santa Maria?”
“Well, it’s more what I can do for you,” he says. I’m about to ask what he means when I hear the swoosh of the door to the sales office open. I turn to find a man walking inside. Immediately, I’m on my feet, my mouth opening to say something, my heart pounding.
“It’s all right, dear,” the old man says, and I realize I’ve backed up to where I’m close enough that he can touch me. His old, cold hand is on my hand. “He won’t hurt you.”
“What is this about?” I recognize this man. He’s the one with whom Giovanni had words in the parking lot.
“Sit down,” Mr. Santa Maria says to me. It’s not a request. In fact, there’s a hardness in his tone.
I look from the old man to the other one, the very capable one.
“Robert, don’t stand there scaring the girl. Go get her a drink,” he snaps. If I had any doubt that he wasn’t a very capable man, it’s now wiped away. He is in charge. In command. The old man facade, it’s just that, a facade.
He pats my hand, and I turn to look at him. He smiles, gestures for me to sit beside him.
I do because I don’t know what else to do.
“What do you want?” I ask him. Where is Giovanni? Where’s the guard Giovanni placed in the lobby?
Robert comes back from the same place I’d just been and hands me a whiskey. I take it, drink a sip.
“That’s a good girl.”
“What do you want?” I ask again, my voice more forceful.
“Honestly, I just wanted to see you,” he says, cocking his head to the side, studying me. “Because when I heard about you, I couldn’t really believe it. You do remind me so of Angelica. I wonder what my son thinks he’s doing with you. Reliving the past, perhaps?”
I don’t know why that bothers me. Maybe because it’s been on the back of my mind too?
“Oh, that letter I sent. Here,” he reaches into his pocket, takes out a crumpled note.
I take it, open it, read the contents.
Dearest Emilia,
Ghosts we think we killed and buried always lurk nearby, ready to snatch us back in time. Ready to smother us in darkness.
Do not trust my son. He will hurt you like he hurt her.
Be safe.
Your friend,
A.
“I don’t understand.”
“Robert,” Mr. Santa Maria says.
Robert walks to the empty wheelchair, and I realize there’s a bag hanging from the back of it. He unzips it and takes out a large, heavy book. From here I can see it’s hand bound.
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