He fixed the mirror so he could see me again. My eyes pleaded with his. He nodded once, looked behind in his rear-view mirror, and then pulled over to the side of the road.
He got out and opened the trunk, retrieving a seat from the back. He fixed it on the seat and then held out his arms for Mia.
“I will never hurt her or you,” he said in Italian. “Trust me.”
What other choice did I have? Still, I kept her close, shaking my head.
“I’ll do it,” I responded in Italian. “I need to fix her head.”
He nodded and helped me get her situated. She whined a bit when I put her down, but after I took her hand and stroked her head, she fell into an easy sleep. Keeping my hand over hers, I stroked her soft skin with my thumb.
Vincenzo made another trip to the back, where he removed two bags and set them at my feet.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Things,” he said, and then got back into the driver’s seat, pulling out once again.
Digging through the bags, I realized it was clothes. One bag for me. One bag for Mia.
“How—” I had to swallow down the ice shards that had formed in my throat. “How long have you planned this?”
Vincenzo shrugged. Ettore gazed out of the window.
“Does—does Brando know about this? Was he—”
Vincenzo grinned at me, but there was nothing amused about it. “You should know better, Scarlett.”
“I don’t know a damn thing,” I muttered to myself, following Ettore’s lead, staring out of the window.
What I did know was that it was going to take us about two hours to get to our destination. It was so dark that nothing was distinguishable, just the rise and fall of hills, like a sleeping monster’s chest. I had no attention to spare to details or scenery though. My thoughts gravitated to my husband.
No matter how far the distance between us, I knew Brando was in a state of unadulterated rage.
Ettore had sworn not to hurt us, but he hadn’t sworn not to abduct us.
“Omission is still a lie,” I said aloud, though I hadn’t meant to.
Ettore turned to look at me when I said this. I met his eye and he shrugged.
“How—” I cleared my throat. It felt raw, as though I had been screaming for hours, but I hadn’t shed a tear. “How long have you been sick,uncle?”
The question seemed to float in the air, the opposite of the white moth I had seen earlier—this one was red, like his blood, with no place to go, tapping at the windows to be set free.
“You would know,strega,” Ettore said.
“It doesn’t take a witch to see the blood you spit from your mouth,” I said in Italian. “It stains your cloth crimson.”
“Your husband sees you as his rose,” he said in the same language, shifting in his seat. “He is not bothered by your thorns. Your thorns have done this to me. You cursed me.”
“You cursed yourself,” I spit back. “No word from me.”
“Ha!” He barked out, and then rolled the window down a tad, the red moth flying free.
I suddenly felt so tired.
I rested my head against Mia’s seat, keeping her hand in mine while I closed my eyes. It had been a long day, an even longer night, and I was ready for the sun to claw its way from the depths, so the promise of a new day could rise with it.
Uncertainty plagued me, though.
