Mafia Romance
Page 113
But Damian wasn’t his dad, and he didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in my body. “You should have stayed out of things that are none of your business, Princess.”
Excuse me?!
Being in Devils Ridge hadn’t been a choice and being in this home had been even less of one. His father was the one who barged into the bathroom, and now Damian had the gall to accuse me of imposing? So much for kindred spirits.
If I were the type to lash out, I would have. Instead, I remained composed as I rinsed the rest of the soap from my shoulders, ascended the steps out of the pool, and stood in front of him. “If your intent is to provoke me, it’s not working.”
Water dripped from my naked flesh, but his eyes never wavered from mine. “I have no intent when it comes to you. You are a pest. A flea. Nothing more than a common house fly. Something that is beneath me to swat at. The door will remain open, and you’ll eventually fly away. But until then, stay away from me and stay out of my business.” Condescension was an ugly look on anyone but him. He stepped closer. “I wouldn’t want to accidentally hurt you, Princess.”
The air chilled my wet skin as it brushed against me. Or maybe it was his words that chilled me. That lasted for about a second before his father’s voice boomed in the background as he yelled at one of the poor staff members in the opposite wing of the house.
Myriad emotions ran through Damian’s eyes before he filtered them out. It didn’t matter, though. The damage had been done. I’d seen the emotions, and rather than latching onto the moment of vulnerability like a vulture clutching onto a dead carcass, I saw a kindred spirit I wanted to help.
A damsel that needed saving.
I lifted my chin and measured my words. “I’m no princess.”
He laughed at me. “What else would you be?”
I thought of Maman’s chessboard and the never-ending Vienna game. I wasn’t the king, but I certainly wasn’t the pawn either. “I’d be the knight.”
“Fine, Knight.”
“Fine, Day.”
His eyes narrowed at the nickname. I didn’t wait for him to call me out on it as I reached for my robe, slipped it over my shoulders, and walked past him as collected as I could with a thin silk robe sticking to my wet skin.
Truth was, Day wasn’t short for Damiano.
It was a play on Damsel.
He didn’t know it yet, but that was exactly how I saw him.
It should have been a bad thing, but it wasn’t.
The world might not have seen him as one, but to me, Damiano De Luca was the damsel—trapped in this gilded tower, lashing out at his dad for an escape—and I was the stupid knight in shining armor who wanted to save him.
Chapter Six
“All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.”
– J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Damiano De Luca
Three months later
My favorite room in Angelo’s mansion was the one he never stepped foot in. The library had been my sanctuary since I learned to read at age three. Mama took me in here, introduced me to a world of words that felt more real than my own, and filled it with thousands of books. When she died, this room was all I had left of her. A coffin of worn spines, first editions, and Dalbergia wood shelves.
So, it should have bothered me that Renata tainted my sanctuary each night when she crawled out of bed at two in the morning, crept inside here, and read the books that had previously only been touched by myself and my mother. But it didn’t bother me. And that was dangerous.
For most of the summer, Renata locked herself in her room by day, the staff dropped food off to her room, and the only reprieve she had in this prison happened to be my reprieve, too. I understood that in ways I’d never tell anyone. It was why I left her to enjoy the library. Except today, when the lashing Angelo’s belt had given me earlier still burned my back and the idea of company enticed me. Sue me.
Tonight, she was quiet as she crept out of her room. Not a single step heard. I stared at the framed article on Great-great-grandfather Ludovico De Luca as I waited for her to pass the painting of Ludo in the hall. (Angelo had an obsession with him.)
She pushed the double doors open, not a hint of surprise on her face when she saw me, though I know I surprised her. She was good at hiding. I’d give her that. But not from me. Never from me.
With my legs propped on two accent pillows formerly owned by a European prince three centuries ago, I laid on one of two ebony velvet divans in the library. A first edition copy of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov rested between my palms. The same copy she’d been reading and left lying on the side table last night. I could still smell her vanilla scent on the cream pages.
She stood there for a moment, and I wondered how flustered I had her. I also wondered how smart she was. My contacts had informed me that she had the best education money could buy, and lust tempted me to test her.
“There are goosebumps rising along the length of your arms.” I didn’t once look up from the book. Even if I had, several feet separated us. I couldn’t actually see the goosebumps, though I had no doubt they existed.
“I don’t recall reading that line in the book.” She sat on the divan across from mine, probably deciding this was better than another minute in her room.
I turned the page, not looking up, and continued with my test. “They’re a physical manifestation of your attraction to me.” My tone left little for debate. Like my words were fact—they were—and trying to argue against me would be met with failure—it would be.
Her level voice impressed me. “So, my goosebumps, which don’t exist,”—bullshit—“are a physical manifestation of my attraction to you, which also doesn’t exist.” Bull fucking shit. “I take it the rumors of insanity running rampant in De Luca territory are true.”
“Those aren’t rumors. They’re facts.” I met her eyes and dared her to argue otherwise.
“Do you hate me?”
My eyes flicked back to the book, mostly to hide my surprise at her boldness. “Hate would require emotion, and I do not possess any of those where you are concerned.” I adjusted my body, doing my best to be sure she couldn’t see my pain. Angelo stopped hitting when welts began to form. His way of assuring no scars surfaced as evidence. It still hurt like a bitch.
“The hair on your forearms are raised.”
So, the princess played games.
My lips tilted upward. I let it settle for a second before I tampered the smile. “Is that so?”
“It’s a manifestation of your attraction to me.”
“Possibly,” I allowed, swallowing as I shoved down the thrill shooting through me. I didn’t know what souls were made of, but in this moment, I suspected ours were the same. “It’s certainly not natural.”
And there we had it. The truth of my attraction, spoken out loud. Would she say something? Admit she lusted for me, too? Or let the opportunity slip through her fingers. Rational Damian knew this had to stop. Fuck-All Damian, who rose each time Angelo whipped me, didn’t give a damn.
She didn’t admit her attraction to me. But didn’t stop this either. Her eyes traced the way my fingers caressed the Dostoevsky pages. “Do you really think neuroses can physically present themselves?”
Most high school curricula didn’t include Freud’s “Dostoevsky and Parricide,” so the fact that she recognized my references impressed me. Moreover, it built a bridge between us, and we stood at the center, wondering which side we’d walk to.
I flipped a page. “It makes more sense than the alternative.”
“Not to me.” She tucked her feet under her thighs, leaned against the cushion, and allowed herself to get comfortable.
I gave her the silence to think. Dostoevsky suffered from epilepsy. In Freud’s essay, he argued Dostoevsky’s epilepsy materialized after his father’s death as a physical manifestation of his guilt over wishing for his father’s death. I understood Dostoevsky wishing for his father’s death—I felt the same w
I felt her eyes on me as she spoke. “Death should be a last resort. Not some trivial wish to be thrown about. And goosebumps, your example of emotions eliciting physical responses, aren’t as severe as a condition like epilepsy.”
I peered up from the novel and, for the first time since Ren had walked in, took in the sleeping shorts that exposed most of her legs and the satin spaghetti strap shirt, which hid nothing. Her nipples poked at the fabric, and my Adam’s apple bobbed.
My eyes returned to her face. “Would you have stayed if I accused you of developing a heart condition over your attraction to me?”
She eyed where the throw blanket pressed against my hips. Maybe she did have goosebumps. “It wasn’t an either-or situation. You weren’t limited to goosebumps and cardiovascular disease.”
“Perhaps.” My hands untangled the blanket, flattened it as I held it open above the floor, and tossed it so it covered her body almost perfectly when it landed on her. “You overestimate my desire to converse with you.”
“Which one of us was the first to speak?”
“If I recall, it was me… after I caught you sneaking around my room.”
“You didn’t catch me snooping. You caught me laying on your bed.”
“Yet, you deny your attraction to me. Which is it, Knight? Are you attracted to me, or were you snooping?”
Probably both, now that I considered it.
“What is it with you and absurd either-or scenarios?”
I set the book aside and swiveled, so my feet touched the floor and my forearms rested on my knees as I leaned forward and hit her with a heavy stare. “Dodging my questions isn’t going to earn you any respect from me, and seven days from now, when we start our senior year of high school, you’ll be wanting that respect.”
She met my actions, unfolding her legs and leaning forward, so mere inches separated our faces as we sat across from one another on the divans Mama and I once picked out together. “I have your respect.”
“Is that so?”
“What do you call this?” She gestured between us. “Are you in the habit of discussing the psychology of literature with people you don’t respect?”
Touché.
The pain in my back should have been a reminder to build higher walls. Instead, it torched them to the ground. The dangers of letting her see me in a vulnerable state didn’t deter me, and something in her eyes begged me to believe she wasn’t the enemy here.
Did she see my loneliness? Did she connect with it? It couldn’t be fun stuck in that room all day.
I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off. “It’s okay not to hate me. It’s okay not to like me, too.” She dipped her eyes to the blanket that had pooled at her lap before returning them to me.
Had it been wrong to give her the blanket? I was an asshole, yes, but Mama raised a gentleman.
My eyes followed hers to the blanket. “Hate would require emotions, and I—”
“—don’t possess anywhere I’m concerned. Yeah, I got it. There’s a difference between loneliness and solitude.”
Her words reminded me of choice. I had two. I could be lonely, I could have solitude by choice, or I could chase the outlet she gave me. The cure. And I made my choice the next night, when I returned to the library, and we read Infinite Jest together and argued over the psychological consequences of having absent parents.
This isn’t a big deal, I told myself as we walked back to our hall. It’s just an outlet. Just an outlet.
I wondered what she told herself.
Chapter Seven
“Trust is like a mirror. You can fix it if it’s broken, but you can still see the crack in that motherfucker’s reflection.”
– Lady Gaga
Renata Vitali
I could ask myself what I was doing here a thousand times more, and I still wouldn’t have an answer. Reading a book is like peeling the pages back on your soul. For eighty-thousand words, you become someone else. You bare yourself to the words, and you feel what the character feels. When you share that experience with another person, it’s like sharing the same soul.
For the past three weeks, I’d been sharing the same soul with Damiano De Luca. I didn’t trust him. Hell, I barely even knew him, but there are people I’ve known all my life that I wouldn’t trust to water my plants let alone spend night after night reading with.
Yet, like clockwork, when the clock beside my bed had turned to one a.m., I had slipped my sheets off and wandered down the hallway. Damian sat on the divan with a book in his hand and an identical copy for me. I eyed the paperback in his outstretched hand. Atlas Shrugged. Ayn Rand.
I took a seat but didn’t touch the paperback. “No.”
It was an impulsive reaction. A need to feel power after feeling so helpless in my decision to show up here. The best explanation I could come up with was, my father had taught me to build walls around myself. That included my heart, which seemed too interested in Damian for my own good. Attraction could be brushed off. But this need to seek company in him? Unshakeable.
Trust no one, I reminded my heart, then begged it to listen.
Damian laid the paperback beside him. “No?”
“Nope.” I popped the P.
“Why not?”
I flummoxed for a reply. “It’s in third person.”
He looked unimpressed. “You read The Brothers Karamazov just fine.”
My shoulders shrugged, and I tried my best to look like I wasn’t pulling excuses out of thin air. “That was Dostoevsky. He’s in another league.”
“This is Ayn Rand.”
“I can leave if you’re committed to reading Atlas Shrugged.”
Damian stared me down. I wanted to give in, because yes, I was so damned lonely in that room all day. I couldn’t afford another hour alone. It would drive me insane. As Damian stood, I almost backtracked, but I shut my mouth when I realized he was making his way to one of the shelves.
He pulled out a paperback and approached the divan. Junot Díaz. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. If anything, this made it worse. It meant he wanted me here just as much as I wanted to be here.
“There’s only one copy. I’ll read.” Damian opened the book.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he was doing this. Instead, I swallowed the words down as he read. Damian had a voice like Zachary Webber’s, and when he read in his light Texas accent, I swore he ruined me for audiobooks. No one could compare.
Stretched out on the divan at such a late hour, it was easy to fall asleep to Damian’s voice. My eyes drifted shut. When I opened them again, he was carrying me down the hallway, his movements quiet and effortless.
I let out a yawn, my vision blurred from sleep. The darkness didn’t help. When I shifted, Damian tightened his hold on me. So, I closed my eyes again and rested my head on his chest. He was supposed to hate me. I didn’t trust him. I’d stolen his phone from him. I was a Vitali, and he was a De Luca.
But this didn’t feel like hate.
Chapter Eight
“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.”
– Ernest Hemingway
Renata Vitali
Most schools have a mean girl. Devils Ridge High has three. Laura Willis. Maria Delgado. Adalasia Ricci. I’d clocked them the second I stepped into the hallway, my new schedule crumbled into a ball in my fist, already memorized.
They strut down the hall like a scene out of Mean Girls. Step. Hip sway. Step. Hair flip. Step. Wink. Step. Lucky for me, they gave me nothing more than narrowed eyes and thinly veiled jealousy. I encroached in their territory, still managing to draw attention despite the mess of clothes I wore.
My name protected me from bullying, and perhaps that drew the most resentment. Here I was, a privileged Vitali, the mafia princess they wanted to be. It was as glamorous as the title suggested, and yes, I had money, education, and status.
If that was your thing, I could understand the animosity. But my thing was wholesome families with parents who cared less about territorial disputes and more about the report cards I brought home each quarter.
This made me aloof. The I-don’t-care expression made me easier to hate. The prestigious last name tacked onto my first? The nail on the green-faced coffin.
“Eyes up front, Miss Willis.” The white-haired Mrs. Bruno flashed a warning look at Laura. Italian last name. All-knowing stare. Mafia-affiliated, I’d guess. Meaning, she knew the war going against me could start.
Laura swiveled in her seat, her eyes finally shifting away from me. I relaxed a little against the cheap plastic backrest and toned out of the AP Calculus BC lecture. I took it freshman year, and using derivates in growth and decay models didn’t challenge me.
Instead, I cataloged the students in the classroom. Most took the phone ban seriously. Nearly everyone in this classroom sported pagers attached to their clothes. Laura, on the other hand, texted beneath the table each time Mrs. Bruno looked away. I added her to my mental list of potential candidates to steal a phone from. After all, I still needed to check my email to see if Maman had responded.
Damian came into the classroom ten minutes before class ended. No one said a word. Miss Willis greeted him with a smile and continued her lecture. He took a seat in the chair diagonally beside mine but didn’t take out paper and a pen.
His body reeked of alcohol, and for all I knew, he’d been holed up in the local strip club or a brewery. We spent every night in the library together, yes, but we never talked about things that went on outside that room. I knew his dad beat him. He knew I needed company to chase away the loneliness. Beyond that knowledge, we kept things strictly book-related.
-->