“Rocco.” Amora squeezed my arm to get my attention.
It had never left her.
It would never leave her.
She was mine. As vital to me as my heart.
She sat up straighter, her backbone stiffening. Her chin settled into a position of defiance. “I’m your wife, which means I’m married to the next king of Italy, and it takes more than balls to fight to where you are, regarding your family’s hierarchy. I understand what it takes to reach that highest point. So, for me to be married to you, that must mean I have balls, so to speak, too. Whatever is going on, I need to know. And you’re about to break the steering wheel.”
I released the pressure, but not by much. I took a turn, and the motion caused her to set her hand on the dash, as if she was preparing for the twist of this all. It was not my driving but what I was going to say next. I told her of the newest message, my jaw clenching, a vein in my head pulsating.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she cleared her throat.
“I have to tell you something. I should have told you before, but I didn’t think it mattered now that I was on the island. The reason I came here.”
Taking another turn, I pulled along the rough dirt path, stopping in a cloud of dust. We’d walk to our ending destination from here.
After the dust settled, she sighed, turning in her seat, staring in the distance.
“The book I wrote? The criminal thriller. My dad was going to write it before he died. His death was unexpected, and the mysterious disease took him fast. But he had told me about it. Planted the seed for the idea. We were struggling at the time—Nonna started to get sick right after my dad died, and it was an escape for me to write. I wrote the story and before I knew it—my dad’s agent took me on and found a publisher for the manuscript right away.
“The system moves with the hunger of readers, and at thetime, thrillers were meaty mental meals. I know, not the best or most appealing metaphor, but it works. Thrillers stick to the bone is what I’m meaning to say. After the book had been published and had some acclaim, meaning, it sold well—I have a knack for descriptions like my dad did, and moving at a pace that fits the tempo of the book—I started getting threatening letters.”
My entire body froze, but the blood in my veins steadily heated.
“I’m not the enemy,” she whispered.
What she meant to say was—stop looking at me that way, as if I am the enemy.It was not her I was envisioning, but a man in the grip of my fist, fighting for his life as it drained at my touch. I purposely relaxed my features, not wanting to cause her to run from me. I was her safety. I would protect her from all worlds.
“Tell me,” I said.
She nodded. “The author of these letters claimed that I wrote this book knowing it was him. I’m using that pronoun because the killer in the book is a man—John Doe, he calls himself, until you learn his real name at the end of the book.”
“I am aware.” I had read the book—seven times. She was skilled, and correct when she said she was a master at descriptions and pacing. However, the cold side of the world did not suit her. She had it in her to be ruthless, but only if someone she loved was in trouble. A person who cares about the brains of a four-legged animal was not a ruthless killer. Even if she had attachment issues to hamburger and commitment issues with vegetarianism.
“The killer said that if the cops ever took me seriously, I would point them straight to him. The letters started to come more frequently when I ignored them. Then I felt like someone was following me. After Nonna died, someone broke into our house. The place was ransacked.”
I rolled my shoulders. “Letters in blood on the wall,” I said.
“No.” She shook her head. “I think it was just a scare tactic—how violent it was. He’d stepped on a framed picture of me in high school, cracking the frame and shattering the glass. It had theprint of a boot on it. It had been raining, which was why I stopped and grabbed a bite to eat at the Port of Call, a hamburger place not far from the house, before going home. He’d left the door and windows open, almost flooding the place. But I don’t know how he found me. I write under a different name, and my agent allows me to use an empty building he owns as a business address, which is connected to the PO box the letters are delivered to. That’s why I ran from home.”
“Straight to me,” I said.
“Straight to your arms—even if I didn’t know it at the time. You probably know this, but my Nonna worked for the Poésy family. Evangeline, or Eva, who lives across the street, befriended us since Nonna first started working for the family. Eva suggested I needed a change of pace. A new start. She’s…touched.” She touched her heart, then her temple.
As she was. And it seemed as if she wanted to add more but was stopping herself.
“Tell me,” I said.
She sighed. “I assumed…after meeting you…that the killer was symbolic. A metaphor. I was running from him, straight to you, because, for whatever reason, this is when you needed me the most. The actual standoff…that night, Rosaria coming for me and me going for her. Who would give you up first… It seemed almost…symbolic too. This entire situation does.”
My Amora did not give me up. She would have fought to the death for me. Rosaria let go first. This was because she knew. Deep down, she could no longer hold me. In the light of my love, I would have released her. I had no say in the matter, even if the barbs of her voice still echoed in the most hollow parts of my chest.
“Does,” I repeated, the question implied if not stated. The word did not sound certain coming from her mouth.
“Or did. Maybe…maybe I’m just going mad.” She laughed like she was. “Maybe the writing on the wall couldn’t get any clearer. Someone is after me for no other reason than the obvious. Mydad figured out who the killer was, the drug game he runs, and I wrote the story. The killer is pissed that his crime might not go unsolved. Even though, Lord knows, I tried to tell the police. They basically ignored me—well, not ignored me exactly?—”
She looked at me and cut her words off. She did not have to finish. They ignored her tale but did not ignoreher—mine.
