by Vice, Demi
“I wanted my son.” My jaw ticked with each word.
Lorenzo watched my bare back, covered in a full skull tattoo, flex, as I washed my peach and took an angry bite. I turned around, leaned on the counter and crossed my ankles. Lorenzo eyed the severe damage and family art on my flesh, never batting an eye. Even after all these years, it was a hard sight to get used to. I knew it, and so did he. It’s why Lorenzo was the only person who had ever seen me naked. Granted, he was the cause for my early scars, and I liked pulling the guilt card.
“You damaged my body before I went into the military or HK or got a job here. Before I could defend myself, remember?” I tapped the scar on my face.
Lorenzo’s face fell into sorrow from the memories he hoped I would forgive.
He hopped on the granite island counter across the sink and crossed his arms. “It’s been nine months since you did something that could mess up our lives,” he paused. “Something that could cost us our lives.”
“There is no us, Lori. She doesn’t know your name and she’s never seen my face.”
“It’s been nine months since you started drinking heavily, again. I told you I would give you more time. Time’s up.”
“I need more time.” I stared at my peach.
“It’s been five months since you needed my blood, again, after I found you passed out in a pool of yours on the kitchen floor with half a bottle of rum in your hand.” His eyes darted to the coffee brown hardwood floor then back to me.
“Five months ago, I fucked up. Okay?”
“You did. I saw the slap, and I gave you one myself. So, let me ask again, what did you do to Bianca?”
I ate my peach, my upper lip twitching with rage.
“What did you do, Antonio?”
I continued eating, forcing myself to stay calm and collected.
“Antonio!” he snapped.
“I didn’t do anything!” I shouted, my hand choking the unfinished peach.
It was true. I didn’t. After visiting Bianca on her birthday—our birthday—I needed a break from her. I took two months off from drinking, from Bianca, aside from my traditional shot I took when I finished my job. I stayed fairly sober until the day I crashed.
I went into my underwear drawer and pulled out three hidden secrets from my greedy memories. A dollhouse, a photo, and an orange iPod. I listened to her iPod for the first time since I stole it. I laughed at her odd selection of bands, I caught myself singing along to Backstreet Boys and NSYNC, and then I became paralyzed.
When I was younger, Lorenzo religiously listened to Sinatra, and Mamãe listened to Elvis. So, when I heard “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” by Elvis Presley, it hit me hard. And when I found out Bianca had listened to it over ten thousand times, far more than her beloved JT, I drank. And drank. And drank.
I drank so much that I went to Bianca, drunk and bleeding, ready to plant steel and protected kisses all over her. But that wasn't how she felt. She wanted nothing to do with me and she left a mark on my cheek for two days to prove it.
Being the kind heart she was, she helped me with my blood but then hid under her pink bedcovers. I apologized, hugging her through the covers, but she never said a word, not a peep. Before I left, I stole a gift.
A pink leather journal.
It was fairly new with only a few pages, maybe ten or so, full of black ink and loopy, long cursive handwriting. I read the first few pages about her morning which consisted of Jonah visiting her, wearing an itchy wig, and trying her hardest not to slap Camila across the face when she popped open her blouse for her father.
That was Camila’s signature move. She did that to Lorenzo and even me. I fake gagged in her face, making it obvious what I thought about her plastic tits and Botox face. She beat me with her long claws, and I laughed and walked away. She never bothered with me after that day, like she shouldn't, but Lorenzo still enjoyed her company, flirting, which was as far as he went even though Camila clearly wanted more. However, Lorenzo had a strict type. Natural and voluptuous.
I read more about Bianca’s boring morning and crazy thoughts until I entered the dangerous pages.
Feared like death, worshipped like light;
He was my breath, and I was poisoned at first sight.
I stopped reading after the poem. I could only assume that the rest of the pages were full of me and I didn’t want to be inside Bianca’s head. I barely wanted to be inside mine.
When I went back to Bianca two weeks later, we never talked about her missing journal.
“If you didn’t do anything, then why did I find you like I did?” Lorenzo pressed, taking me out of my deep thoughts.
Because even Bianca knows I’m poisonous, but she looks at me like I’m a cure.
“I’m a drunk, that’s why.” I cock my brow.
Lorenzo laughed. “You’re not a drunk, Antonio. I was, but not you. I’ve seen you go years without a drink. You can stop whenever you want, but you’d just rather take the easy way out.”
I threw the squished, unfinished peach in the garbage and washed my sticky hand. I went into the cabinet dedicated to Marlboros and took a pack.
“Easy is nice.”
I popped a cigarette between my lips and handed Lorenzo one. He fished out his matching lighter, Ceifador VII, and gave me a light.
I continued as I took a drag. “You would know. You wanted easy after Salvador. After Ella died—”
“Shut up,” he gritted. He didn’t want to be reminded of his dead son or his half-sister or the life that followed afterward.
We smoked in silence. He took in my naked body and I took in his navy suit.
“How was your date with Jonah?” I asked.
He chuckled and watched his cigarette burn. “Fine, the usual Sunday morning breakfast with a good friend.”
“Still don’t think it’s weird that your ‘good friend’ never mentioned Bianca, his daughter, not once?” I asked for the hundredth time.
Lorenzo went quiet, then let out a painful exhale. “I don’t talk about Salvador, Toni.”
Nor did he even look at his photo in our family album. Which was just a fancy way of saying my many great-grandfather’s black leather sketchbook we slipped photos inside.
“Salvador’s dead. Bianca’s not,” I said bitterly, biting the filter of my cigarette.
We went silent again, and after a while, I chained my old cigarette with a new one.
“Don’t see her again, Toni. Come to the funeral, on time, and forget about her. It’s easier to start now than after…” He let the sentence fade in the tense air.
I never responded.
“Why do you keep seeing Bianca?” he persisted.
Because I’m self-destructive and love to torture myself with what I can never have.
Because she’s a dream come true with the right amount of innocence and sin.
Because I’m addicted to a girl, a soul, who's going to wither away and leave me.
“Because she’s my favorite toy that I don’t want to buy,” I smirked.
Lorenzo's tightened jaw and subtle head shake said it all.
I was an asshole.
I shouldn't have told Lorenzo about Bianca. I never gave him all the details, but he knew her name and how sick she was, which was more than he needed to know. He also saw my gifts, but he never asked. He was a smart man.
I finished my third Marlboro, then went to the fridge to feed my body with its favorite poison. White rum. It was the only way to ever satisfy my extreme sweet tooth. I chugged two cold shots’ worth then placed the bottle back for later. When I turned around, Lorenzo gave me a death glare.
“You’re going to fuck up your life. Our life,” he gritted. He hopped off the granite top and found his way to me as I leaned against the cold, stainless steel fridge.
“You’re not part of this, Lori—”
He gripped the side of my head and pulled our foreheads together, my wet hair pressed between us. Our noses touched, and we watched ea
ch other under hooded eyes.
“When will you understand, asshole? I fucked up, and I’m sorry, but you’re not alone anymore, Antonio. Wherever you go, I go.”
He hit his forehead against mine. The pain rippled in my skull as his hands gripped tighter on the side of my head. My eyes bounced between his as I took in his intensity. I grabbed the side of his head and pushed my forehead harder into his. The blood in my body boiled and my muscles flexed with pure rage.
Moments like these, when Lorenzo gave a shit about me, pissed me off. I didn’t need his love now. It was too late.
“When will you understand, I do what I want, whenever I want.” I pushed him, hard, forcing him to step back. “You killed the last part of Mamãe. The part that was supposed to be my life. My happiness.” I pushed him again, harder.
We stared at each other like we were going to fight, but I turned my back on him and walked away.
“Can’t fix what’s always been broken. Get over it, old man.”
He chucked the pack of cigarettes at my back, but I continued to walk to my bedroom. I locked the door, expecting Lorenzo to follow, but he didn’t. If he had, we would’ve gotten into a fistfight. Lorenzo and I were similar, yet complete opposites. But when we got fired up, we blew up.
We fought until we were covered in blood, had black eyes, and busted lips. It sounded extreme, but that was our norm. It had always been since I could actually put up a fight and return the scars. We fought to release bottled emotions, trapped unwanted memories, or simply because we were bored and wanted some fun. Soreness, bruises, blood, and cuts were a temporary price to pay when in the end we felt a little at peace. And when the fighting was over, it was time for a rich man's luxury.
Bubble baths.
I rechecked the time. It moved too slow as I waited for everyone to leave. I rolled back in my bed, pulled out my iPod, shoved my headphones into the jack and listened in solitude. I set my alarm on my phone and rested it on my stomach on full vibrate so I didn't miss my opportunity.
It’s almost been three weeks.
As I dozed off into my slumber, I let the girl who shouldn't have been in my thoughts fill them. The girl who I should’ve stayed away from. The girl I couldn’t seem to say no to. The girl who made me feel guilty and shameless. And the girl who was the main reason I fought Lorenzo, now more than ever.
* * *
Five hours later, I woke up and went through my grooming cycle. I brushed my teeth and flossed three times, applied some Versace cologne, styled my hair, put on my jewelry, then finally, put on my suit and grabbed my mask. I was going to go straight to the funeral after seeing Bianca, so I didn't bother with my face paint. I slipped on my last piece, my gloves, and opened my door.
I headed straight toward the fridge, ready to drown my thoughts, but the bottle was missing. In fact, all the bottles in our entire apartment were missing. I licked my lips and let out a single laugh of disbelief when I opened the trash. It was full of empty glass bottles with a yellow Post-it note stuck on top.
She’s not broken.
Let her be.
-VII
I waited an hour for everyone to leave, but even when I knew the mansion was empty, I sat alone in the kitchen rubbing my temples.
I thought about stalling my visit until Jonah went on his business trip to Boston… in a month.
No good. Too long.
I thought about going into Jonah's private liquor cabinet in his office where no one was allowed into unless they were invited.
And what, water down his $18,000 scotch like I’m a teenager breaking into Papai’s liquor?
I even thought about driving out, grabbing a bottle, and coming back.
‘Cause it definitely won’t look suspicious that you’re leaving and coming back on the gate camera.
I buried my face in my mask and let out a low muffled growl.
I was a high-functioning drunk. Remembering every word, touch, thought and feel, but sometimes my vision got a little iffy. The photo I took of Bianca on her birthday didn’t look as I remembered it. Bianca didn’t look like I remembered her. I guess my mind loved to make my life easier by imagining she wasn’t as sick as she was. That’s why if I saw her sober…
I let out another muffled growl.
Only I could find a way to hate a dying girl for being perfect, but too far from reality. Some days it was exhausting to hate Bianca for what she couldn’t control, and those days were the best for drinking.
One thing was certain, I couldn’t see Bianca sober. However, my body was not on the same page. I moved to the bowl of fruits, picked the firmest peach, slipped off my gloves and washed it for a few minutes, getting every spot clean.
You’re not seeing her.
I slipped my gloves back on then put on my mask as I headed upstairs. With one hand in my pocket, playing with my lighter and the other holding a peach, I walked down the empty great hall. The mansion was completely hollow, rid of all staff as it always was when there was a funeral.
Would Jonah do the same for Bianca? Or would her death be invisible, like her?
Jonah made it mandatory for all his workers to attend the funerals of his fallen men. Although, I got out of it by telling him I needed more time. You know, since Johnny’s death filled me with so much pain I couldn’t possibly go to his memorial. It was bullshit he ate up, and that’s all that mattered.
The only funeral I’d ever cried at was Mamãe’s. And I knew better than to cry. She had what we Castillo’s loved to call The Perfect Death. A death only Lano, the God of Peaceful Death, could give.
I froze in the middle of the foyer staring at the wide grand stairs that split in two. East and west.
What’s the worst that can happen?
It was one of those questions that was going to leave me in misery, but I found myself taking the first step toward the west wing. The wing that Jonah had told us was in memory of his beloved wife. No one was allowed to enter, and everyone listened. One, because it was best not to go against Jonah’s word, and two, because no one really cared about the second floor. I’d moved into the Di Vaio mansion a little over three years ago, and needless to say, I leaned toward option two. I didn’t care.
I made it to the top of the stairs, facing the large dark blue library door.
What’s the worst that can happen?
Chapter Five
Click, click, click.
My heart felt like it was being used as a stress ball when I let myself in. I should’ve knocked since the last time I saw her, I walked in on her changing. Luckily, I saw nothing. Bianca was in her closet, and I was busy eyeing her room to see what destruction she had caused since the last time I saw her.
Saying Bianca Di Vaio was a spoiled little brat or a little drama princess was the understatement of the century. Madly enough, when I saw the aftermath of her losing control, it got to me. Because Jonah’s little angel was nothing more but in disguise.
I shut the door behind me and felt a rush of adrenaline. Bianca was at her easel, painting on one of her pink shirts stretched over a canvas, adding some black to her wardrobe and life.
I gave her the idea of creating her own original Bianca Di Vaio shirts a few months back, and her face held an expression that made her wonder why she never thought of it before. Sadly, her shirts were short-lived. Camila found them in less than a week or so, and she disposed of them. Jonah really didn't like seeing his little angel act like anything else other than that.
I disagreed.
I liked the real, unfiltered, bratty Bianca. But it didn’t matter what I thought. It only mattered what Papa thought. The man who hid his daughter and wanted no one to know about her.
I moved closer toward Bianca, but she never realized I’d entered her room. She listened to her iPod on full blast, humming along as she wrote her favorite Victorian curse word in a blackletter font that looked like it belonged in a medieval book.
Zounderkite, adjective, a complete idiot who constantly makes clumsy and awkwa
rd mistakes.
I stood a foot away from her, her peach perfume and lavender body wash drowning my lungs whole. I clenched my jaw, trying to get rid of the soreness in my chest, but it was there to stay. I already knew this was a horrible mistake, but I couldn’t get myself to leave.
My eyes fell down to her peach dress. The lacy sleeves hugged her thin arms, the waistline hugged her tiny waist and had a bow in the back, and the bottom was full of flowy fabric.
I stood behind Bianca for a minute, but she never noticed her shadow, which was how I liked it. It made it easier to scare her back to earth, but I didn't. Walking away, I migrated toward her desk and placed the peach right next to her journal. I flipped through the freshly written pages. It was almost full, and temptation wanted me to steal it, but even if I had, I’d never have the balls to read it.
“Don’t scream, Neo.”
A pair of thin arms hugged me from behind as a giggle vibrated against my back. I didn’t scream. I didn’t move. I merely held the journal in my hand with my eyes shut closed because Bianca’s touch felt… wrong. The kind of wrong that felt right.
She felt my body stiffen and stepped away. “You-you don't smell like booze.” She gulped. “Are you sober?” she asked, her voice a little farther from me.
“I am,” I said while placing her journal where it belonged.
“So, you hate…” She couldn’t say the rest.
“It’s probably best if you don’t touch me.”
I turned around and saw her for the first time with no blurry vision. My eyes, shielded by black mesh, traced over the features I had seen a handful of times. Her round baby face, her round cheekbones, her little button nose, and her perfect round lips. She was still gorgeous. If anything, she was even more gorgeous.
I became lost in her eyes. Those baby blues didn’t make the sky jealous, but the gods envious. They were a little dark and sunken in, like her cheeks, but I saw her. It didn’t help that this was also the first time I had ever seen her in the sunlight. Her skin was flawless with no scars or blemishes. Practically glowing.