Collateral

Collateral Page 13

by Natasha Knight

  Wow. Stefan was a kid once.

  I flip through more pages and it’s a whole other perspective, a peek into his life before he became what he is. There are even photos of Rafa with them.

  The album ends when he’s about sixteen and I’m about to close it when Miss Millie comes into the library. She’s carrying a cup of steaming tea.

  I think she’ll be angry when she sees the album, but she just smiles sadly.

  “How long has it been since someone’s looked through that?” she asks, handing me the tea and taking the album from me. She sits in the chair opposite mine and opens it.

  “Were you here when they were little?”

  She nods, turns a few pages. When she looks up at me, her eyes are watery. “Stefan’s father, Antonio, he helped me once. He saved my life, quite literally, when most people would have walked away. Stefan was no more than a baby when I started to work for his family, and I don’t regret a single day of it.”

  She stands up, puts the photo album back. “I’m going to go up to bed. Do you need anything before I go?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you, Miss Millie.”

  “Goodnight, dear.”

  I watch her leave and note the time, a little after ten. About fifteen minutes after she’s gone and the house seems quiet, I get up and close the library door. My heart beats a little faster as I make my way to the back of the room and pick up the phone. When I hear the dial tone, I pull the phone away to punch in the number to the clinic, keeping one eye on the door as I do.

  When it starts to ring, I mentally calculate the time. It should be late afternoon. My brother likes long naps after lunch, so I keep my fingers crossed he’s awake.

  A familiar voice answers the phone. “Clear Meadows, this is Melanie.”

  “Hi Melanie, it’s Gabriela Marchese.”

  “Oh, Gabriela, how are you?” she starts, and when she continues, her voice is strained. “Is everything all right?”

  I’ve known Melanie for two years now. I’ve paid twice-weekly visits since Gabe became a patient. For me to not show up or call must have worried her.

  “Yes, it’s fine. I’m okay. Just… there was an unexpected trip and I didn’t have access to a phone to call and let you know. Was Gabe very upset?” Yesterday was one of my days to visit my brother. If I could go every day, I would, but with our father essentially pretending Gabe is dead it doesn’t quite fit into his plans.

  “We talked him through it,” she says kindly.

  Guilt gnaws at my heart. I should have tried harder. Tried to call last night while I was home. But I was distracted, absorbed with my own problems.

  “Do you think he’ll get on the phone with me now?”

  “You know he doesn’t like to talk on the phone. It upsets him.”

  He has a hard time understanding how a person’s voice is there when they’re not. It’s such a strange thing. A simple, heartbreaking thing.

  “I know, but thing is, I’m in Sicily. And I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Can you access FaceTime? If he can see your face—”

  “No, I’m sorry. Please let me just try. I don’t have much time.”

  “Sure. Hold on and let me walk down there so I can explain it to him.”

  “Thanks, Melanie.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  It’s silent for a few minutes before she gets back on the phone and I can hear Gabe in the background. The sound of his voice makes me smile.

  “Gabi! Where were you? I waited and waited, and you never came. Are you here now?”

  My heart hurts and that smile vanishes as tears fill my eyes.

  Fuck.

  One stupid minute. One heroic decision. And this is the result. My brother trapped in the body of an adult with the mind of a child forever. My brother who is so good. Who deserves a life, a better one than this.

  One stupid minute.

  One act of bravery.

  And this.

  “Hi Gabe, it’s so good to hear your voice,” I try to keep my tone light. Try to smile so he can hear me smile. It’s somehow easier when I’m there, when I can be with him and hold his hand and see his face, even if I don’t see the man he was becoming before it happened anymore. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come.”

  “You’re not here now?” He’s confused, I can hear it.

  “I had to take a trip. I’m so sorry I missed our lunch. What did you have?”

  “When are you coming to see me?”

  Shit. He’s getting agitated. I hear Melanie’s voice as she tries to soothe him.

  “I don’t know yet but as soon as I can, okay? Is it okay if I call until I can visit?”

  “You’ll come on my half-birthday though? Melanie said we’re going to have cake.” Gabe and I always celebrated half-birthdays when mom was alive. We’d stopped that after her death, but since what happened to Gabe, it’s one thing he remembers and wants. And if it brings him joy, I will give it to him.

  I nod. “Yes. Yes, for sure I will come on your half-birthday. No way I’d miss that.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise, okay?” I know even as I say it, I shouldn’t. He’ll be heartbroken if I miss this.

  “Okay.” Then, as quickly as he was upset, his tone changes. “I have to go, Gabi. The magician’s here.” I can hear his excitement and it breaks my heart.

  “Okay, Gabe. You go have fun. Let me talk to Melanie, okay?”

  “Sure. Bye. Oh, I love you, Gabi!”

  “I love you, Gabe.”

  Melanie gets on the phone a moment later and I’m relieved I don’t have to try anymore.

  “He sounds good,” I say.

  “He is. He’ll be fine, Gabriela. Don’t worry. We take good care of him here. All the nurses love him.”

  “Thank you, Melanie. You don’t know how much that means to me. I have to go but I’ll try to call again soon.”

  “And if you can FaceTime him, some of the other patients seem to do well with those so…”

  “I will. I’ll try. Thank you. Goodbye Melanie.”

  I disconnect the call and can’t help the tears that stream down my face. It’s an ugly cry and it never changes because every time I see Gabe or talk to him, I think about what happened and how it changed everything. How his life was stolen from him by the very man who gave it to him.

  I wonder if he thought he had some right to do it? To decide that?

  Or was it the moment? His rage when he saw them together?

  I wipe my eyes, take a random book and get up to go into the living room. I’m still barefoot so I’m silent and no one seems to notice I’m there. Or maybe they just don’t care.

  I remember the liquor cabinet in the living room and go to it. I don’t drink usually, I don’t really like it, but tonight, I feel like I could use something. So, I grab a glass and a bottle of whiskey even though it’s nasty stuff, and head out to the patio to wallow. To drown my sorrows and cry myself a river. Because I haven’t cried since I was brought here. Not really.

  And it’s not that I feel sorry for myself because it could be worse. Gabe is living proof of that.

  I still wonder if he’s still in there somewhere trying to get out. Desperate to. For his sake, I hope not.

  I pour myself a generous glass of whiskey and drink it straight before pouring another, thinking if I shouldn’t go up to my room first, but too tired to move. Too tired to do anything but sit here and wallow.

  19

  Stefan

  It’s past midnight when I walk into the house in Palermo.

  Today was a bad fucking day. Marchese pulled his first punch and I admit it was a good one. Didn’t see that coming.

  I wonder if he timed it because today used to be one of my favorite days. Well, before everything happened.

  Mother fucker.

  Today is—was—Antonio’s birthday. First-born son is a big deal in our family and our parents, especially mom, went crazy with the celebrations.

  I l

ooked up to Antonio growing up. He was a good big brother to me.

  I always knew what kind of family we were. The things we did. As much as our mother tried to shield us from it all, our father wanted us in the business from as far back as I can remember.

  And when Antonio turned on the family, I wanted to hate him for it. Wanted to hate him for being the cause of our father’s murder and our family’s downfall. I did, too, for a while.

  But he was my brother and I knew he was good. I knew underneath, he was good.

  Maybe too good to be the first-born son in our family.

  I walk into the living room to pour myself a whiskey and I think about Gabriela upstairs, asleep. I think about why she’s here, how she’s involved. I think how if it weren’t for Antonio turning informant, she wouldn’t be.

  And I wonder if it isn’t better for her that she is.

  Because Marchese is a son-of-a-bitch.

  And he’ll screw his daughter—his own blood—to fuck with me.

  I think about how she was at the party when he came to greet her. How she stiffened. How she almost cringed when he kissed her cheek.

  And I think about the look in his eyes when he first saw her.

  I give a shake of my head.

  No. I imagined that. It’s too sick to think otherwise.

  I think about last night as I search through the liquor cabinet for the whiskey. About what I said to her about not wanting to hurt her.

  How far am I willing to go to bring down Marchese?

  Am I willing to bury her too?

  With this new condition, I may have to.

  Because her brother isn’t dead. He’s alive. Not quite well, but alive.

  Which means Marchese has a second heir, the rightful heir, as he called him. The rule of the Marchese inheritance is that it goes to the first-born child, boy or girl. Gabriela is second-born, but considering her brother’s condition, the inheritance had shifted to Gabriela. Marchese plans to shift it back and cut Gabriela out unless I make sure all ties with her brother are severed.

  I know from the two times her brother’s come up, Gabriela cares about him.

  “So what the fuck is your point, mother fucker?” I say out loud.

  Just when I do, I hear a crash out on the patio.

  In an instant, I grab the gun I keep in the right-hand drawer of the cabinet and rush out just as my men charge through the front doors, weapons drawn.

  Floodlights go on before I even reach the patio and the instant I do, I stop. I raise my hand to the men behind me to do the same, signaling to put away their weapons.

  Because there, kneeling by the pool, is Gabriela in a little yellow bikini, startled eyes wide, mouth open, staring back at me, at the men behind me, at those she must see on the roof.

  I walk outside, look up, see the two snipers with weapons pointed.

  “I got this,” I call up to them, tucking my pistol into the back of my pants. I see what the crash was because there’s that missing bottle of whiskey.

  She follows my gaze slowly back to the ground where she’s kneeling in broken glass as if just realizing it.

  “What are you doing, Gabriela?” I ask as I near her.

  She looks up at me and squints.

  “Turn out those floodlights,” I tell my men. “And someone bring some bandages.”

  The lights go out and again, she turns her attention to the broken glass, the pool of whiskey.

  “I tripped,” she says, sitting back, looking at her knees which are bloody with shards of glass. She then shifts her gaze to her hands, opens her palms. She takes a long time looking at them.

  “Is that my whiskey?” I ask her as one of my men hands me a first-aid kit.

  She looks up at me as I crouch down to take her hands and gauge the damage. She must have fallen into the broken bottle because the heels of both are badly cut.

  “I broke it,” she says, dragging her gaze back to the mess on the ground.

  “I see that, but how much of it did you drink before you broke it?” I ask, noting her wet suit and hair.

  She doesn’t answer but pulls one hand away to pick a piece of glass out of her knee.

  “All right,” I say, cradling her to lift her up. “Let’s go.”

  “I want to swim,” she says pointing to the pool.

  “Sweetheart, you are in no condition to swim.” I take her into the living room and lay her on the couch. She flinches when she tries to straighten her legs.

  “Wait. I need to get the glass out,” I say. I reach to switch on the lamp.

  “It hurts.”

  “I bet it does. How much did you drink?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “Really?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “Really,” she answers, eyes out of focus as she leans forward to again pick at the glass.

  I take her hand and move it off. “Don’t touch it. I’ll be right back.” I go outside to retrieve the first-aid kit and when I get back, she’s still picking.

  “Do I need to tie you up so you don’t touch it?” I ask, looking at the bikini again. At her smooth skin. At how much of her it leaves exposed.

  I think about all the men here. They’d better not be looking at her.

  “No,” she says, laying her head on the arm of the couch so she’s staring up at the ceiling.

  I let my gaze slide over her throat, down to her small, high breasts.

  The fact that her nipples are hard and the goosebumps on her bare arms and stomach tell me she’s probably cold.

  I work quickly, using the tweezers in the first-aid kit to pick out the glass on her knees then do the same to those shards on her hands.

  By the time I’m finished, I notice her eyes are closed.

  “Gabriela?” I ask, standing.

  She doesn’t answer. She’s asleep.

  I look her over, see the color she must have gotten today. The yellow of the bikini is pretty on her. She’s thin, but it’s not for lack of eating from what I can see. That makes me smile. It’s good to see a girl with an appetite.

  She makes a sound and rolls, almost falling off the couch. I catch her, tuck bandages and antiseptic into my pocket and scoop her up in my arms.

  “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

  She opens her eyes, reaches one hand to my shoulder.

  “What’s happening?”

  “I’m going to clean up your cuts then put you to bed.”

  “I can do it.” She wriggles in my arms.

  “No, you can’t. You’re drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk.”

  “Were you swimming alone?”

  “I just dipped my feet in.”

  “Then why’s your hair wet?” I ask as I maneuver her to open my bedroom door.

  “This isn’t my room,” she says, again trying to get out of my arms.

  “It’s my room,” I say. I close the door and carry her to my bed, draw the covers back and lay her down.

  “Your bed,” she says, turning her face into a pillow and inhaling.

  “Yes. Now answer my question. Why is your hair wet?”

  “I dipped my head under.”

  Which explains why it’s all coming forward and sticking to her forehead funny. I imagine her standing in the middle of the pool doing that and have to smile.

  I walk into the bathroom to get a washcloth. When I get back, she’s pushing herself to a seat on the bed and struggling to do so.

  “Can you swim, Gabriela?”

  “Of course,” she says as I help her sit up. She slaps my hand away once she’s upright but when I start to clean her knees, she lets me.

  “But you don’t like to?”

  “My mom drowned,” she says.

  I know this.

  I look at her but she’s not looking at me. She’s looking somewhere beyond me and I see her pupils working to focus.

  “And you’re scared you’ll drown?”

  She meets my eyes then and shakes her head. “It wasn’t an accident.”