“Rosalia!” Cilla said, her mouth probably as close as it could get to the wood. “Rosalia!”
“I’m sleeping, Cilla.”
“Are not.” She laughed. “Or how could you be talking to me?”
“In my sleep,” I said.
“Bullshit,” she said, laughing a little louder. “You got a phone call.”
“Tell whoever I’m sleeping.”
“Okay. When do you want me to tell him to call back?”
“Him?” I said, sitting up a little.
“Yeah. His name is Benjamin Dalton.”
I flung the covers off, and a second later, Bambina jumped off the bed, following me to the kitchen.
“Are you sure it’s him?” I whispered, not wanting him to hear, if he was still holding on.
Cilla had put the receiver face down, but she was louder than me. I hoped she’d follow my lead and keep her voice down.
She nodded. “I’m too young to have a hearing problem. Who is he?”
I didn’t want to answer that. I didn’t want to make it seem like I was too eager. Benjamin Dalton was Richard Dalton’s older brother. From my research, they were only two years apart in age, but that was all I knew about the senator’s eldest son.
It was the first time any of the Daltons had reached out, even though I tried to get in touch numerous times.
“What does he want?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “Pick up the phone and find out.”
I picked up the phone and offered almost a whispered hello.
“Rosalia Lombardozzi?” His voice was deep, warm, and pleasant.
“Yes.”
“Benjamin Dalton. You and my brother—”
“I know who he is,” I said, my voice rising a little.
He hesitated for a second. “We were told—”
“It’s true,” I said before he could continue. “I don’t remember, but I was told who he was…to me.”
He sighed. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered. Then I heard him say something like “fuck it,” and he came back on the line. “I’m calling because you have my great-grandmother’s ring. I’d like it back. It means a great deal to our family.”
The ring with all the blood on it. The hospital never even cleaned it up. I assumed it was just another ring of mine when the hospital gave it to me after the accident. It wasn’t until I found out about the wedding that I realized what it was—an engagement ring. It was vintage, maybe something designed and created in the 20s. It was in the container under the bed.
It seemed like everything inside of it had been touched by blood. Preserved in it even.
“Rosalia?”
“I’m still here.”
“The ring?”
