Speaking didn’t seem necessary to me. Whatever a shake of the head couldn’t communicate, a shrug would. But I saved a special word for Livio whenever he would pass.
“Judas,” I’d hiss, eyes narrowed.
“Vipera,” he’d hiss back. Sometimes he’d show me his fist in response to the narrowing.
He didn’t strike me again. He wasn’t around much. He’d disappear long enough for me to wonder if his body was the one in the bag being bumped out in the middle of the night. Then he would appear for a moment or two, only to disappear again.
Enzo, on the other hand, I couldn’t seem to shake. He became my shadow. I think he enjoyed the fact that I didn’t speak. He was able to go on and on about whatever without interruption.
“I see why it is that your husband wants you so bad. You are the perfect woman.”
Ha!I thought. He had no idea of the crazy lurking beneath the surface.
Enzo was being kind to me, almost too kind. Proprietorial at times. Why? I didn’t really know, but I had to keep my eye on him. Enzo was just as dangerous, even more so, than any of these men. Sitting next to him was like sharing a warm fire with a serpent disguised as a charming man. If you were blind enough not see the fangs. I saw them. He made my blood run cold.
The mention of my husband made my heart hurt too much. For the most part, I had to keep the thought of Brando at arm’s length, never allowing it to get too close, or I knew I’d crumble. When I did think about him, it was to scream, WHERE ARE YOU? inside of my head. Then, STAY AWAY! Fear would slink its way into crevices, sending visuals of the body bags as a grim reminder of what these people were capable of, not remembering what the Faustis were capable of.
The thought of the Faustis sent a ripple of unease through me. Not all Faustis, but one powerful figure. Lothario. He wouldn’t limit resources to find and rescue me, would he? Would he leave me on purpose, knowing Brando would come after me regardless?
A shove to my back from the stock of a gun reminded me that we were making our way toward a new villa on foot. All of the training I had, and I couldn’t use any of it, unless I was prepared to die. The amount of men around overwhelmed me.
The man (bully) behind me got into a small tiff with Enzo over the force used. Enzo shot him between the eyes a second later. A new man took the old bully’s place—and his gun. It was his lucky day, it seemed. He had two to call his own.
I kept my eyes forward as we trudged along at whatever speed was set. I still had no idea where we were. A small village in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere, it seemed. We had moved so much that attempting to pinpoint our location was fruitless. We hadn’t gone far enough to leave Sicily, though. Even the weather felt the same.
The town was preparing for the upcoming Easter celebration. It wasn’t so much in what they were doing, but the energy in the air.
Life. Sacrifice. Death. Rebirth. Forgiveness.
A violent chill made me rub at my arms. It was well past warm, but the cut on my knee was infected. After tending to it myself, I realized that it needed medical attention.
I attempted to keep it clean as much as possible, but some circumstances were out of my control. A couple of times I wondered if the blankets given to use were leftovers from World War II.
I was feverish. Even in the heat, goosebumps rose on my skin, my teeth clattered, and on the whole I felt miserable. Doing the forehead test, I wasn’t burning up, but still had a low grade fever. It could’ve also had something to do with the cold water I was sometimes forced to bathe with, and the cool weather I was immersed in afterward with wet hair. These ‘baths’ were held at night, during the chilliest time of the day, in the privacy of a room in the house that had no windows, sometimes in small buildings adjacent to the abandoned villas. A candle, soap, towel, clean clothes if available, and fifteen minutes were given. I’d emerge trembling, teeth clattering, skin so transparent that it seemed the blue veins beneath would burst through.
Bully Two groaned when I stopped to sneeze. He’d be on me like white on rice if he were anything like Bully One, who had been stuck to me since the first villa. I could’ve continued on and sneezed, but stopping allowed me time to catch my breath. A hollow wheezing sound came from my lungs. No wonder—between the stress, the infected cut, the less than sanitary accommodations, the dust in the air, and the cool water baths at the coolest times, I was probably on the path to pneumonia.
“Mossa,” Bully Two said, touching me with the butt of the gun again.
I wanted to jam the butt of his gun where the sun didn’t shine and then tell him tomove.Instead I almost snarled at him.
Enzo laughed, positioning himself between Bully Two and me as we continued our stroll up hill. Men were dotted along the property like marching ants among the greenest of grass, all watching for signs of impending siege.
Enzo’s arm grabbed mine, and I resisted the urge to yank it out of his grasp. I slipped out instead, moving to accommodate the old beater coming up the dirt road. The man driving was new to me, but the man in the passenger seat was none other than Curly, the one-eared hero. Or that was how the men treated him.
As the car that carried him moved forward, rounds of applause sounded from each area. Some men had to stick their rolled-up cigarettes in their mouths before shouting and clapping.
“Ai,ai, ai,ai!”
It was these men against the French. He had killed one of theirs and taken another’s ear. A new war sprang up out of the existing one, a poisonous mushroom on a damp and sunless hill. I still didn’t know the French’s name, but the Italian men had taken to calling him Assassin Moe when they would drink or get rowdy.
Thunder roared in the distance. I put a hand up to shield my eyes, but the day was clear and bright, not a storm cloud in sight. It happened again. This time the noise came from behind. I didn’t bother to stop and check. It happened again seconds later, then a stench to fell a mule drifted in the air.
Some of the men started making protests, putting up hands to their noses and mouths to protect themselves from the toxic smell. One man shoved the man next to him, accusing him of creating the miasma, but they were up ahead. Whoever trailed behind seemed to have caused the stir.
The air seemed concentrated with the horrendous smell, thicker where I was. I picked up the pace, for once having something to urge me on to the next stop, apart from the longing to have someplace to sleep and escape reality, not to mention the creeps with weapons.
Whoever was behind needed serious doctoring, or vitamins. That smell couldn’t be healthy. Some of the men even stopped to see if there was a dead animal someplace nearby.
