The only reason I knew that he’d been killed was because I found an article about him. He was a senator’s son, and he’d had political aspirations himself. I’d been searching for any write-up on the accident, since it seemed like everyone was hesitant to talk to me about it.
Maybe they thought I couldn’t handle the truth—that I’d lost someone I loved, and my mind couldn’t deal with not remembering and then being told about it.
When I looked at him, though, I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except for grief. Grief that his life had been taken and I couldn’t remember a damn thing about him, except how he looked in this grainy picture.
I demanded that my doctor tell me who Richard was and why he was with me, since I was mentioned in the article (a staff member at Club Desolationwas how I was referred to), but there was no picture. It just said that he was in the back seat of the car with me when the chauffeur lost control, and the car hit the tree. I was the only survivor. Which was strange in itself. Why wasn’t there more coverage? I was an average citizen, but Richard wasn’t.
After the doctor told me who he was to me, I went to his family, hoping they would clear things up for me. They refused to see me. Any of them. It almost felt like they wanted me to forget them. They didn’t want me to exist.
A couple of months after that, I found the picture of Richard nailed to the tree, a rose underneath it. That was when it all started. The roses. The pieces of glass. It was like someone was leaving clues, trying to help me piece it all together, but refused to come forward and outright tell me.
Asking any of the girls was pointless. We were all brought up to keep secrets, our hearts dark places to hide them, and trust was not given easily, even amongst each other. Secrets were a part of our life, as vital as the fire that kept Rome safe, and to talk went against our norm.
It wasn’t until after my accident that I realized that nothing about this life was normal.
Nothing.
That was when my need to know more became a living, breathing thing. It sat in my chest, beating for something other than loyalty to an organization that considered human beings the equivalent of wallpaper and expensive shirts.
It almost felt like my near-death experience had brought me to life. A life that none of the women around me seemed to feel on the level I did.
They were content with the shallow—the plush condo, the fancy cars, the expensive jewelry, the designer clothes, and the endless money—whereas something had stirred inside of me, and nothing short of feeling love, or hearing that voice again, would do.
That void in my mind was my own labyrinth. I couldn’t stop myself from taking the path, to find out what waited for me on the other side— good or bad. Because I stepped inside of the riddle without knowing I had the moment I found that article.
In this life, though, I had to be careful and watch my step. If I started asking questions and demanding answers, the powers that be would know how curious I was. How it had become a depraved hunger inside of me to find out what had happened.
For some reason, no one wanted to tell me, which told me everything I needed to know. They didn’t want me to know.
Why?
It could have been that Richard was the senator’s son, and the organization had refused to approve our marriage. I knew that wasn’t true, though. We were behind their gates when it happened. I wouldn’t have been running to Club D but away from it if they hadn’t given their blessing.
My gut told me the senator had been elected with the help of the organization, and even though he and his family “belonged” (or were owned, more likely), it was in a different capacity than the usual members.
I’d seen the organization do it before. Approve a marriage that would help them in some way. We, all of the girls, belonged to them, and in that regard, the marriage might have even been arranged, whether I’d been agreeable to it or not.
For my hand, the organization might have made a deal:Overlook our transgressions and you can have her. It’s a partnership that’s profitable for the both of us.
A cold nose touching my skin made me look over. Bambina had jumped down from the bed and was sniffing my hand, around the blood. It smeared on the container, soaked through a petal of the rose, stained the glass, and seeped through part of the picture.
It had started to clot, though, and was beginning to dry.
I let the picture fall to the ruins, closing the top and shoving it underneath my bed. My head was starting to hurt from the strain of trying to remember. I needed to sleep. To escape the dark labyrinth that had become my life for a little while.
* * *
The smellof eggs and pancakes from our breakfast still lingered as I started to fall asleep. Even though I was exhausted, I had taken the time to eat with Cilla before I finally climbed into bed. She didn’t like to eat alone, and it seemed like we had our best conversations over breakfast.
The last thoughts I had before my mind shut off were of Aniello Assanti.
In that labyrinth, as insane as it sounded—even to my own mind—I found that sometimes he shared his fire with me. It was never enough to truly see by, but it always made me feel…less alone in the darkness.
In a world that felt dead, he made me feel alive, almost safe.
He was a fucking killer, after all.
My eyes felt heavy, as thick as the lingering scents, and right as I started to let go, a loud knock came at my door.
