He stiffens at that. We never speak of her, never openly acknowledge the existence of the sister he ruined and then locked away.
“Do you ever visit her?” I stare at him, those ice-blue eyes, so different from my own. An inheritance from his own father, my grandfather, who by all accounts was cut from the same cloth as the evil facing me. “Do you ever look into her face, Salvatore? Ever face the consequences of your own actions?”
My mother told me once that I have my grandmother’s eyes.
We face each other, the last two full-blooded Asante men. There are no others. Fertility issues and various incidents marred our direct family line until it dwindled to the very last dregs. The only reason he kept me around, I’m sure.
And yet I see nothing of myself in him, and I am glad of it.
“Is that all you have to say to me?” He tries to swing the discussion as it slips from his hands, attempting to claw back the power he craves with silky, poisonous words.
“HowdisappointedCaterina will be. She appears to be missing you greatly. What a shame that you don’t return the sentiment.”
He forgets that he was the one who taught me how to be cold. I keep my face blank, my lips closed.
I make sure every single glimpse of the agony is buried deep, deeper than he will ever bother to look for it.
He grows bored of my silence, pulling his arms back from the bars and stepping away. “You will be released from here today. I have need of you.”
“Go to hell.”
But he only tilts his head. “Not even for my wife? Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”
My heart ceases to beat.
“She is… proving difficult.” The frown that slits across his face lends credence to his words. “There will be an event here tonight, and I want her present. You will ensure her behavior is appropriate and reasonable. Guards will be accompanying you at all times.”
My brows crease at that, even as my heartbeat bursts back into life, leaping into my throat. “Why me?”
Why let me anywhere near her?
He doesn’t bother to answer.
Day 90 – Caterina
My foot smashes out, landing directly in the middle of Cecile’s stomach as she attempts to drag me out of bed.
She crumples like a house of cards, a grunt escaping her as I roll over and face the wall. My arms wrap around my abdomen, grabbing at the skin as if I might be able to rip out the stabbing pain that keeps coming and going.
Hard breathing. “You little bitch. I can’t wait until you’re gone.”
I focus on the walls, on the way they warp and push toward me, the space around me shrinking.
Real, or not real?
Cecile is still talking.
“Will you shut up?”
“What?”
Sighing, I look over at her. She’s painting her nails, each one the color of blood. Slow and precise, several bottles of color laid out next to her.
She catches my stare. “I’m not your fucking babysitter.”
“I don’t need one.” I turn back to that moving wall.
There’s movement at the door. Cecile sighs. “Thank fuck. She’s not making any sense, and she needs to get ready.”
