“I asked if you have anything cute to wear,” she said, eyeing me.
“I might,” I whispered.
She didn’t wait. She ripped open my closet, tossing clothes around. Everything she pulled out was black or white, torn up, worn down. But then she froze, holding up a red dress. The one I wore at the House of Clowns. The one that still haunts me.
She turned to face me, locking her eyes with mine. “Put. It. On.”
I blinked, the memory of that night crashing over me, but I didn’t argue. “That dress has trauma.”
“And so do you,” she said, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Bond over it.”
“You win,” I rolled my eyes, standing up and taking the dress from her hands.
Red. It was meant for him. Now it was meant to haunt me.
II. LIAR
A year earlier, Rome
Aglassofwhiskeyin my hand. Garden below, full of strangers clinking glasses and pretending they know what victory feels like. My father won the campaign today. Officially, the Mayor of Rome.
And me? His perfect son. The one with a split brow and two stitches because he hit me so hard I saw black.
A knock, gentle, barely there, before the door creaked open. Maria stepped in, quiet as ever.
“Sir, there’s a letter for you,” she said softly.
I took it from her fingers. No name. No return address.
“Grazie,vecchia cara,“ I said, and her face lit up with the tiniest smile.
I was a bastard to most, but never to her. She’d done more raising than either of my parents combined. The second the door closed, I tore the envelope open.
Inside, there was an invitation to theHouse of Clowns, La Maddalena.And on the back: “If you’re looking for truth, meet me at midnight at Piazza Navona. Wonder how I look? We have the same face, different suit.”
I laughed, one of those sharp, bitter ones that scraped yourthroat on the way out, and tossed back the last of my drink.
“Yeah, right.”
I crumpled the invitation in my hand, tossed it in the bin by the table, and dropped onto the bed.
Truth?
What was truth worth when lies let you breathe?
I’d built myself a home out of them. A fortress. Every lie stacked like a brick between me and the world. Because even men, oh, especially men,get broken. And if I let anyone see the cracks, they’d pour in like smoke. Better to be untouchable. Cold.Alone.
I stared at the ceiling, that one little dot next to the light. It looked like it moved when I blinked, but maybe that was just the whiskey again.
Then the door slammed open.
This time it was my mother.
“Oscar, baby, what are you doing lying down?” Her heels clicked across the floor as she flung the curtains open. Sunlight exploded into the room. “Get up, we should be with your father.”
“He doesn’t want us there,” I said, closing my eyes.
The pillow vanished from under my head and smacked against my face.
