The mention of Uncle Tito, the man she called my uncle, sent a surge of relief over me. Relief followed by dread. However much I wanted to be saved, it wasn’t enough to cover the dread of being saved—what would the cost be?
“Your husband knows I am here,” she said, continuing in French.
“He is…?”
“The last I saw, he hid behind a flag in the church.”
I nodded, fatter tears streaming down my face. That answer wasn’t good enough.
“Do not worry. He must be safe, or the house would have a different feel to it. He has become a thorn in the man in charge’s side. He fears your husband, or he would not be fighting this hard. This is good. They are afraid to leave now, thinking your family is close. They are not sure what to do at this point.”
Depending on your idea of good, I thought cynically. I had been avoiding all thoughts of Brando, yet they still clung to me in sleep. I hadn’t realized that I had been asking for him, but the lingering feelings of meeting him in dreams and then having to let him go left me empty and spent. I woke every day with an acute sense of dread that didn’t taper off. If anything, the feeling increased, and come nighttime, it hit me like a sickness.
When I closed my eyes, the memory of him in the church came to me on feverish waves. He had reminded me of an apparition, an avenging angel searching for the blood of his enemies. Shadows of his prominent bones were close to the surface of his skin. His hair hadn’t been slicked back, which gave him a mad appearance. The circles underneath his eyes told me he hadn’t been sleeping. He was too gaunt—he wasn’t eating enough either. All I could sense from him was rage and love, nothing in between.
“Are you able to talk to him?” I asked her in French.
She shook her head, replying in the same language. I knew our conversation would continue this way, to keep it as private as possible. “No, this is not possible. But I am able to send word to him. He knows you are doing okay.”
She eyed me for a minute or so, seeming to deliberate. “How did a woman such as yourself come to be—”she looked around the room, and then fixed me with a stern eye “—here? You seem smarter than this. Your husband is a beautiful man—the Faustis are well known for this trait—but that is not worth this much danger.”
I gave her a ghost of a smile. “I don’t know about that,” I continued in French. “He has persuasive charms.”
She smiled wide, showing off a nice row of teeth. “I am intimately aware of the Fausti charms. Still.” She shrugged. “I know your type. You do not belong in this game. You are a world-famous dancer.”
“You don’t seem to belong here either,”I countered.
Shrugging once more, she took another glass from the table, stared at the water for a second, and then she took a sip. “I was born to this life. My father and mother worked for Giovi and his family. Fate saw me to another life, a different one.”
“Then why did you do it? Come back to help me?”
She grinned into the glass, became as still as the water inside, before she decided to place it back on the table. “Why not?”
I nodded. “But I don’t know how long I will be here.”
“Ah,” she sucked in a breath. Her eyes met mine. “It will not be long,” she continued in French.
“H-how you do know?”
“Can you not feel it? The house. It is changing. Not for the better. They are scurrying like the rats they are.”
Since she mentioned it, the house did feel different. The usual noises were not present. The women were not in the kitchen producing loud chatter and delicious scents. Men’s voices were absent too, though they lingered. Whispers could be heard, but all laughter had ceased, and so had everyday conversation.
I could taste the tension thick on my tongue, undercurrents of uncertainty the boldest flavor.
“What happened?” I asked her, attempting to sit up taller. She didn’t bother to help; I didn’t need her to. Hope sprang up in me like a well, taking me with it.
She looked to the door, then back at me. I realized I didn’t know her name, so I asked. She answered: Benedetta Nicchi.Dr.Benedetta Nicchi.
“Dr. Nicchi? What’s changed?”
“The headman’s only son has been killed. His heart has been stolen from his chest.”
“I see”was all I could say. The entire weight of my body sunk down into the bed. Suddenly, I was too tired to even hold myself up.
Giovi’s son had been murdered. His heart had been stolen from his chest. This was the Fausti’s signature mark. Not only did they kill their enemies, but they desecrated them, leaving them and their family with one last parting dishonor. The enemy would go to the grave without their most important organ, the one that made a man a man…or not.
This, I realized, would send Giovi over the edge. All of the attention would sway from me to Brando. Would Giovi be crazed enough to go after him, leaving me alone to escape? I couldn’t understand the reasoning behind killing him. Retaliation? But wouldn’t that be too dangerous? I was in Giovi’s care. What if he decided to stealmyheart? An eye for an eye? Was that why the house was so tense? Were decisions being made?
