Mr. Santa Maria takes the book from Robert. I see that both front and back covers are made of carved wood. He takes a quiet minute to look at it, traces the intricate pattern of the carving, then looks up at me. He holds it out.
“I wanted to give this to you. I think you should see it for yourself, because I am quite certain my son has not been fully forthcoming.”
My heartrate slows a little as I take the book. It’s heavier than I expect, and there’s a sick sense of something in my belly. Whatever is inside here, it’s not good.
“Go on,” urges the old man.
There’s a little resistance as I open the book, and I realize it’s not really a book but an album or a very expensive scrapbook. No, not that. What’s inside doesn’t look like happy memories. The opposite. It’s a reckoning of sorts. A record keeping.
“Do you read Italian? I thought maybe with the Spanish background?”
I shake my head no, but I can make out the headlines of the newspaper clippings inside. The quality isn’t great. I’m guessing the clippings have degraded over time. There are several articles from different papers. Headlines in bold letters. Large photographs. Smaller text that’s too hard for me to read. But I guess I don’t need to read more than the headlines to understand.
He looks younger, Giovanni. It’s just a few years, but there’s a difference. I know it’s not youth that makes him look so different. It’s something else, and that thing, whatever it is, there’s no longer place for it on his face. On his person.
In one photo he’s surrounded by countless people, and he’s walking away. Or being led away. He’s looking over his shoulder, though, so I can see his face. In his eyes I see a hardness, like the beginnings of what I sometimes glimpse now. What time has turned into a ruthlessness.
“Love triangle, they called it,” Mr. Santa Maria says.
I glance at him, and he smiles ruefully as he turns the pages for me until we come to another image. One of Angelica. A different one than the one I saw in Giovanni’s library.
He touches the picture tenderly, almost like he’s touching her face. He then meets my eyes.
“I understand Giovanni thought he was in love. He was a child, after all, but Angelica,” he shakes his head, looks back down at her pictures. “She was mine. Always.”
“What about your wife?” I ask stupidly.
His face has lost any tenderness when he looks at me. “Our love died a long time before Angelica entered our lives. It’s something my son refused to understand then. Refuses to accept now.”
He turns back to the first page, and I look at the photo again. Giovanni in handcuffs. Four policemen are close by, and more stand around, holding the crowd back. Mr. Santa Maria looks me square in the eye when he tells me the next part.
“He hurt her when she told him. When she told him she didn’t love him. That she loved me.”
“Hurt her?”
He watches me for a long moment, and I think I understand his meaning. I know I do. But he’s biding his time. Drawing out the horror. “He raped her, my dear. Violently. She became pregnant, and he insisted she terminate. She couldn’t stand up to him. Giovanni will always get his way, no matter how hard he has to push, no matter who he has to hurt.”
Ice sweeps through my veins. I stiffen, as if I’ve turned to stone.
“No, I didn’t think he’d tell you that part.”
I look down at the image again. I don’t know the word for rape in Italian.
“I don’t understand,” I say, my face buried in the book.
“She committed suicide after that. She couldn’t live with herself, live with the violation, the murder of her unborn child. And then he came after me. These stories, the pictures, the papers love this sort of drama, don’t they? Family torn apart, father and son at each other’s throats, a beautiful, innocent girl the one left hurt—tragically—between them.”
I shake my head, close the book, and shove it toward him. “I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do that.”
He puts it calmly back into my lap. “Keep it. Read it for yourself. You don’t have to take my word for it. See in here. In history. Robert,” he calls out. The man comes, helps him to his feet. Helps him into his wheelchair. “And when you have finished reading it, you can come to me. I imagine you may not feel very safe in Giovanni’s protection.”
I remain sitting there, looking at the carving on the wood, thinking about his words, and in particular, that last word.
“Take care with that book, Emilia. Keep it hidden from my son. And, more importantly, take care he doesn’t do to you what he did to her.”
I look up at him, and his gaze doesn’t release mine for a long time. Not until he nods, and Robert wheels him out of the office and I’m alone again. Alone with the book that sits as heavy as a brick on my lap.
20
Giovanni
Picking up the men who raped Emilia wasn’t hard. They weren’t expecting me and had all but forgotten the event of four years ago. They remember now, though. Clear as day.
Emilia is waiting for me in her office when I arrive. She startles when I enter and looks paler than usual, but then she smiles. Although I feel like she’s forcing it.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” I had to go home, shower, and change my clothes before coming here. I don’t want her to know the details of the night. “Things took longer than I expected.”
“Do you have them?”
I nod once.
“Alessandro too?”
“Not yet, but I will. Ready?”
She’s still sitting there and has her arm over whatever is on her desk. I see a corner of something familiar, but before I can think about it, she clears he throat. I return my gaze to hers.
“I just need a minute. I need to pack up a few things. You can have a drink if you want. I’ll meet you at the bar?”
She’s behaving strangely, and I notice the two tumblers, one empty and one with what I assume is whiskey, on the table in the sitting area. Her lipstick is along the edge of the still full glass. She follows my gaze.
“Father of the bride-to-be needed a drink when he saw the bill.” She attempts a chuckle, but it’s a poor try.
I study her. “Everything okay?”
“Everything like what?”
“You’re acting strange.”
She glances down, busies herself with something on her desk. “Just a long night.”
“We’ll have a drink when we get home. What do you need?” I step toward her.
“Nothing. I’m ready.” She quickly slides the large book into her tote and stands.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, just some work.”
I watch her face. I know she’s lying, but I can’t figure out why or what she’s hiding. There’s nothing to hide at this point, is there?
“Okay. Let’s go.” I gesture to the door, she just barely meets my eyes as she goes through it and out into the lobby. She and the man I stationed in the lobby exchange a strange look. When I go to him, he can’t quite meet my eyes. “Everything all right here? Any trouble?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re new with me, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dave Russo, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
I watch him a moment longer and see sweat beading on his forehead. I pat his back a little harder than I need to. “Good to have you, Dave.”
When I turn to Emilia, she’s watching us. I can’t help but wonder if they’re sharing some secret. But that makes no sense.
With a hand at her lower back, I lead her out to the waiting car, noting how she’s clutching the tote.
“Do you mind if I go to my apartment tonight?”
“I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
“You can’t keep me locked up in your house.”
“I promised you my protection. I don’t break my promises.” I open the door, and she slides in. I take the tote from her. She tries
to grab it back, and as soon as she does, I pull it just out of reach.
“Heavy.”
“I…I wanted to take some of my personal things home.”
I hand it to Vincent, my eyes narrow as I study her, watch how she flushes a little when she lies. “Put this in the trunk.” He nods and puts it away. A few minutes later, we’re on our way back to my house. “Why are you anxious?”
“I’m not.”
“What’s in the bag?”
She looks me straight in the eye. “Nothing. Just work.” She pauses, seems to change her mind. “And I guess I am a little anxious with Alessandro out there, knowing where I am and all.”
“You don’t have to worry about him. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
We drive in silence the rest of the way home. Once there, I watch her as I take her bag out of the trunk, carry it in for her.
“Do you want a drink before heading up to bed?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I have an early day tomorrow.”
“All right. Good night, then.”
She eyes the tote. “Can I have my bag?”
I shake my head. “You’d better get some sleep. You have an early day tomorrow,” I remind her.
She swallows. She knows I know she’s lying. “Are you coming upstairs?”
“I have a few calls to make. I’ll be up soon.”
Conversation is stilted, but she nods and turns to go. “Emilia,” I call out once she’s on the first-floor landing.
She stops and turns.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
I meet Vincent in the kitchen.
“Russo acted strange, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. I’ll make a point to drop by his place tomorrow. Find out what’s going on.”
“Good idea.”
“What do you want to do with the women?”
I open the fridge and grab a beer for myself and one for him. I drink a third of it before answering. “I’m hoping this will be resolved before the seventy-two hours are up. Right now, I want to see what’s in that bag.”
I carry the tote into my study and unzip it. Inside I find some folders and among them, a book, the corner of which looked familiar. I lift it out and set it on my desk. I don’t want to touch it, but I force myself to, force myself to open the carved wood cover. My mother had had this book specially made when I was born. It was a photo album. Mine. And, as I numbly turn the pages, I see the outline where each of the photos once stood. Each one she painstakingly placed. I wonder if he destroyed them.
“Vincent,” I call out, my voice hoarse.
Vincent is at the door in a moment.
“Find out what my father used to bribe Russo.” I look up and meet his eyes. “Then kill him.”
He glances at the desk, but I doubt he can make out what I’m looking at. He nods his acquiescence and walks away.
I return my attention to the book, make myself read the headlines. I haven’t seen most of them, but they all tell the same story. A years-old love triangle. Father and son as rivals over the affections of the beautiful, innocent Angelica. A son who could not let go of the past, long after the tragedy.
Angelica. What I feel at the mention of her name is sorry. Sorry for her.
Although the name didn’t always fit the woman. Angel. No, she wasn’t that. Not when she started our affair—my education, as she called it—not when she ended it in his bed.
But my father soon showed her his true face. By then, it was too late for her. She was pregnant. Just another woman in a string of affairs my father had had. But this one, I think she did love him. I wonder if he realized it. If he cared.
I didn’t know about the pregnancy until years later. Until I found the letter she wrote me before she killed herself. She had reached out to me for help, help against my father, help to keep her baby. But I never responded because I never received the letter. My father intercepted it. He read it and, even hearing the desperation in it, he’d kept it from me. She paid a heavy price for his deception.
That was the letter Emilia found in the library the other day.
When Angelica told my father about the pregnancy, he’d rejected her. Told her she needed to get rid of the baby. Made her go along with it. And the guilt killed her. She’d jumped from the window in the attic of our home in Calabria a few days after the abortion. Four stories. A cliff. Instant death.
After her death, I was sad. Not angry. The anger didn’t come until I discovered the letter among my father’s things. Then I was angry. Enraged. But it wasn’t how the papers printed it—not what Emilia would have read in this book. That’s fiction. The story my father told. The real tragedy is in that letter. If it was in English, she’d have read it and understood and this book wouldn’t carry the weight it must for her.
I took everything from my father when I learned the truth. Took it all, and put him in a wheelchair to watch life pass him by.
I’m calm when I close the book. Calm still as I climb the stairs to my bedroom.
Emilia is innocent, I know that. But she lied to me. And she still doesn’t trust me.
The lights are out in the bedroom, but I know she’s awake. I take off my clothes, watching her in the strip of moonlight coming in between the curtains.
“I changed my mind,” she says.
“About what?”
“Those men. You’re right. It won’t do any good for me to see them. I don’t want to see them.”
“I’ll take care of them.”
She sits up, meets my eyes. The sheet falls to her lap. She’s naked, her hair covering one of her breasts, leaving the other exposed. She’s so beautiful. And still, after everything, so out of reach.
“You mean you’ll kill them,” she says matter-of-factly.
I go to her. Stand over her. “Yes.” My gaze settles on her breast, then lower to the crease of her thigh. Her sex is covered by the sheet.
She looks up at me, then down over me, over my chest, abs, her eyes coming to rest on my cock.
“Get on your hands and knees.”
I hear her breath quicken, and she licks her lips. But then she turns her gaze up to mine and asks me a question that shouldn’t surprise me.
“Are you going to hurt me, Giovanni?”
I study her, this strange, beautiful, damaged girl. She must know I’ve gone through her bag.
“I said hands and knees, Emilia. Facing me.”
She climbs up on all fours, and I take a handful of her hair in my hands, make her look at me while I look at her like this.
I take my time before returning my eyes to hers. “Are you a liar, Emilia?”
She swallows, tries to shake her head no, but I don’t give her any room to because that’s the wrong answer. I bring her face to my cock, push into her mouth, pump in and out twice, three times, then pull out.
“Are you a liar?”
“No.”
“Then why do you lie to me?” I push in again, all the way this time, making her choke, keeping her down when she tries to push back, pumping, touching the back of her throat.
When I pull out, she has tears on her face and is gasping for breath.
“I’m going to ask you this exactly once. Is there something you should tell me?”
She shakes her head no.
“Fine. Turn around. Face in the bed, ass high.”
She turns, gets into the position I require of her. When I press down on her lower back, she arches it, and I can see all of her now. My hands move to cup her ass, spread her wider. She’s shaved everything.
“I like you like this. Did he like it too? My father? Did you show him too?”
“What? No!”
I hold her in place when she tries to move, slap her ass.
“Did you get on all fours for him?”
She pulls away. I let her this time. She turns to me.
“No. Why would you say that? No. God. No.”
I point to the space before me. “Get
back up. Now.”
“No. What is wrong with you?”
“I said up, damnit.”
She tries to scramble backward, but I grab her ankle and tug her to me so that she’s flat on the bed.
“Leave me alone!”
“You’re mine. Not his. You’re going to remember that after tonight. Get. Up.” I flip her over, slap her ass again, and drag her hips to me.
“Stop it! You’re hurting me.”
“I thought you liked that.”
She kicks her leg back, just missing my balls. I grab her and haul her up so she’s kneeling up on the bed. “That was a mistake.”
“Did you hurt her?” she blurts out.
I stop.
“Is it true? Did you?” I let her go.
It’s like a slap in the face. I feel her words like a physical assault, and it takes me some time to process. I shake my head. These words, they impact me more than I care to admit. More than I thought I could be impacted.
“You ask me if it’s fucking true?”
She’s watching me, crying a little. I get on the bed, grip her hair, and tug her head backward.
“How can you ask me that?” I’m calm. My heartbeat is level in the face of this betrayal.
She looks up at me, and I see so much sadness in her eyes, confusion and trust that’s been broken again and again and again. And I can’t blame her.
“I never hurt her. Not like he said. Not like they printed. I wouldn’t, not her, not anyone. I thought you’d know that about me.” I shouldn’t care what she thinks. Why do I? I should just put her back on her hands and knees and fuck her. That’s all she should be to me.
But instead, I release her and get off the bed. I don’t feel like a fuck anymore. I find my pants and pull them on and walk to the bedroom door.
“I shouldn’t want you,” she says, stopping me when I reach it.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make it easy for you.” I put my hand on the door handle.
“You’re not good.”
“I don’t think you’re looking for good.” I step back into the room. “I think you’re self-destructing. I think you’ve been hanging on by the thinnest thread for so long, you can’t even see straight anymore. You can’t see good or bad, and you’re so fucking scared to let go of that illusion of control you think you have that it leaves you empty and alone. Let me tell you something. You have none. You have zero control. You need to stop running and face the past. Face yourself and move the fuck on.”
Giovanni Page 16