Alessandra
What the hell was wrong with me? It was as though his fingers had left a burning scar on my chin and as though his eyes had carved their way into my chest. Each time that I thought about him, it was as though an anchor weighed me down. There were even butterflies. What the actual fuck? I hated them. So why was I thinking fondly about Savio? Sure, he was attractive, but he wasn’t someone who I could see myself with. I barely knew anything about him, except that he enjoyed hearing me sing. Not that his love of my singing was enough of a reason to think of someone the way I was beginning to think about him.
He hadn’t been entirely cruel with me, but he had been cruel nonetheless. He had forced me to do things against my will. He had made me sing through many nights. He had made me walk barefoot on the pavement and across the sharp grass without caring if my feet hurt. He had dragged me out in the cold of the night repeatedly with clothes that obviously couldn’t keep me warm. He was a cruel man, but he had never hurt me with his hands, and at this point, I was almost sure he never would, no matter what I did.
There was a kindness about Savio, a kindness that didn’t exist in his other brothers or their cruel father, Angelo Cavetti. The picture of Marcello dragging Chiara out of my cell room came to me. Savio had never handled me like that. He had always been gentle in how he handled me. He was a bad man, but he wasn’t bad all the way. And I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him, his beautiful black obsidian eyes, or his short stubble.
I hated admitting it to myself. I didn’t want to. I was pacing back and forth in the small cement cage, considering what my head and heart were saying. On the one hand, I wanted to destroy them all—burn the Cavettis down, along with all of their worldly possessions, of which they were so proud of. I wanted to hear Angelo scream our names as we destroyed everything he worked so hard for. But I hated the thought of Savio being amongst the rubble.
Why?
Then there were the dreams. They were so vivid that I woke up thinking they’d actually happened, and it was as though I could feel his fingertips against my skin. I felt him kissing me, touching me. Whenever I woke up and realized what I had been dreaming about, I physically cringed. Sometimes, while I was awake, these dreams still followed me in my mind like a specter that I couldn’t shake. What sort of fool would have such dreams about her captor? What was wrong with me? The only thing I could consider was Stockholm Syndrome or some form of empathy for him.
I couldn’t lie to myself. I knew that he was a little different from the monsters in his family, like Marcello, Romeo, and Angelo. He seemed to be caring, but I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t know much about the Cavettis’ history. He wasn’t on the same page as his brothers, but that didn’t mean he was exempt from the atrocities they’d committed against my family. My thoughts made me sick. I shouldn’t be thinking of him that way. The implication of it made my stomach turn into knots.
Each time I heard so much as a footstep, I was convinced that Chiara would be in the doorway with Marcello behind her. He’d allotted her extra time since the first visit. I had noticed that each time I saw Chiara now, she looked a little brighter and happier than the last time, and she smiled more. She had more energy, and the dark patches around her eyes, which had developed from continuous cry, were no longer there. I wasn’t sure what she’d done to merit an extension, and I didn’t ask. I knew that Chiara would tell me if something terrible was happening to her. She always told me everything.
I did appreciate that Marcello had started giving us some privacy. Being alone with her almost made everything feel normal again. It was a small glimmer of hope on the horizon, and it fueled me even more. Even if I was only able to rebel against Savio, it was enough to keep me going for a few more days.
I grew more restless with each day that passed, forced to stay within those four walls. Being in complete isolation had that effect. My thoughts were like living things, following me everywhere I went. It didn’t matter if I tried to hum the thoughts away or distract myself with something. I always came back to those memories, the images of my dead parents, and the Cavettis holding the guns. Thoughts of how we were removed from our homes and brought to this place as their prisoners and of Angelo Cavetti and his goddamn goons mercilessly torturing my brothers ate at my mind and sanity.
I turned back and sat down on the cot. I brought my head to my hands and leaned against my knees. My feet were becoming swollen from pacing so much. I felt as though I were a trapped lion in a zoo enclosure that was too small. I wasn’t sure how many days it had been, but it was already starting to feel like months since I’d arrived.
The sound of footstep caused me to blink and raise my eyes toward the door. I held my breath with anticipation, watching as the lights above me continued to flicker gently. Chiara had already visited me. I was sure that it had been within the past few hours, but there was no telling how long it had actually been. Time eluded me.
I bit my lip as my foot tapped against the ground. Could it be Savio? His footsteps were always light, so I doubted that it was him. I couldn’t bear to see Romeo again, not after the previous visit. His words had cut deep. It was near impossible to forget those images he’d implanted in my mind. I hated him for it. There was a nervousness that protruded from every part of my body, anxiously awaiting the opening of the door. I stepped back slightly. I would be ready for him.
My eyes narrowed the moment the door opened, and I was surprised to see Savio visiting me again so soon. I wasn’t sure how many times he typically visited me over the past couple of weeks, but it hadn’t been that regular. He was as tall and well-dressed as ever. Being able to see him in front of me, wearing his best clothes and appearing as healthy as he did, made me realize just how thin and unhealthy I looked. There was even a difference in my skin color, which had faded from being tan to a pale, sickly yellow.
I felt hideous, especially compared to him. I didn’t understand why someone of his caliber would be interested in me. I was always able to determine my prettiness, especially since I could always just look at Chiara and know what I looked like. I knew she wasn’t ugly, but it didn’t stop me from feeling as though I were unworthy. I imagined the types of girls that Savio had been with in the past, and in my mind, they looked like models. Each and every one of them was beautiful beyond comparison.
Still, his expression made that thought disappear quickly. Something was different about him today. He was worried. I was sure that that wasn’t the kind of expression someone sported when they decided to tie someone up and take them to another location to sing. No, he was usually stoic like the rest of his family. It was different—there was anxiety in his eyes and the set of his jaw. It was as though he was reflecting my own worries back to me.
He closed the door tightly behind him and showed me the bag at his side. I knew what he was going to do before saying anything. He wanted to blindfold me again. I clenched my teeth and turned around, seeing as I didn’t have much choice. There was a nudge in my chest that told me he wasn’t there to hear me sing. I felt the butterflies in my stomach again, hoping desperately that my singing the other night had gotten him to realize just how miserable I was. Maybe, somehow, I’d managed to convince a Cavetti to set me free. All it would take was one of them. That was it.
Still, as he tied up my hands and placed the tape around my mouth, hope was fleeting. There was no way that he would take me away from there. I wouldn’t have. If my father were Angelo Cavetti, I’d fear even being in his way. Savio’s father was too dangerous to be trusted, and I was sure that Savio knew that, as did his siblings. Their stoic expressions and cold demeanors gave them away.
He pushed me out into the cool air, and I heard our footsteps echoing out past wherever we were. I wished that I could have seen it. It had been so long since I’d seen any real color. I was desperate to catch a glimpse of a green leaf or a night sky. Even just seeing the moon might have brought me to tears.
His hands were shaking as he continued to lead me ahead. We were silent, as we always were. He never did speak much, except to tell me which songs to sing. They were always older songs. I still hadn’t been able to figure out why he was making me sing particular tracks. I assumed he was reminiscing, but I couldn’t tell about who or what. I’d heard that Angelo Cavetti’s wife had passed away when they were young. She had definitely crossed my mind while I sang. I hadn’t heard anything about whether or not she was a talented singer, though. Aside from her death, there wasn’t much to be known.
He opened the door and nudged me through. I enjoyed the scent of freshly cut grass and the feeling of the cool breeze against my skin. I hated having to leave it behind for the musty smell of the building he always brought me to.
It had been so long. I’d almost forgotten how long it had been since I’d felt the breeze against my skin. I couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t matter. I was outside. Then, of course, I’d be forced into the old building he sequestered me into. That musky smell reminded me of the cell that I spent most of my time in. I hated it. I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to stand in a place that reminded me of that cell again—that was, of course, if I was ever able to break free from the binds that the Cavettis had put me in. At that point, it seemed as though it would never happen.
I jolted back as I felt his hands against my face. He removed the blindfold, allowing me to see in the dark shed. Then he removed the tape and the rope around my wrists. His teeth were clenched, and that same expression was hovering on his face. There was tension in the air. I could feel it as he brought his eyes to mine. My stomach began to churn, and I was unsure of what to make of the situation.
Why was he so nervous? There was something wrong. He was never off. In all the time we’d spent together, I’d been able to make him angry. I’d seen him furious, but I’d never once seen or heard him falter. I was uneasy, looking at him. Behind those eyes was something that he was going to say, and I instinctively knew it wasn’t going to be good.
“Your brother, Antonio, is dead.”
