I’ve lost track of the days that have passed since I tried to escape, and then the unspeakable happened in Alessandro’s office. Every day is the same old blur of a quick phone call with my family, watching TV, and attempting—and probably failing—to flirt with Alessandro.
I avoid snapping at him in anger over not bothering to spare an extra couple of minutes of his precious time so that I can talk to them longer. But I can’t get myself to act cute and giggly, so I just sit on the couch.
I’m sure it looks like I’m fuming.
And I am. Although it was much worse in childhood, my temper has always been an issue for me. It’s like when that boiling, pent-up feeling in my chest crosses a certain threshold, I lose control.
I was so close the morning after my legs got hurt trying to run away, and Alessandro acted as if that hadn’t happened. But I managed to scurry off to the bedroom so that I could rage in solitude… then that anger made me fly over to Elena’s balcony.
“Sofia, do you know how many times in my life I would have traded places with you in a heartbeat?”
What he says makes my teeth clench together.
Why didn’t he just leave?
Fuck it. I don’t care if this kills any flirting progress I made. I’m losing control.
I burst off of the couch. “Oh, really? And what exactly have you gone through, Alessandro? The way I see it, any misery you feel in your life is self-inflicted. And I’m sure you would love to trade places with me. You hate people. I bet sitting here in silence, not needing to talk to anyone, would be heaven for you.”
I expect him to give me another empty, over-the-top threat and stalk out the door. Or maybe insult me. Or simply ignore me and leave. Instead, he flies around to face me, and I’ve never seen this much emotion in his usually icy exterior before.
“And maybe I hate people for a reason! Have you considered that?”
“And what reason is that? The fact you don’t act human half the time? That basic social cues confuse you? News flash, asshole, if everyone treats you like shit—it’s probably your fault!”
I can see genuine hurt register on his face before he looks away, rubbing his jaw. I force my breathing to slow and count in my head.
He takes a few steps forward towards me.
“You’ve met Marco, so you’re aware that he’s the man who raised me, no?”
I grit my teeth and nod. I’m sure that wasn’t easy, but plenty of people grow up in abusive households and still function in society.
“I didn’t have a childhood like you had,” he continues. “I didn’t go to school and get involved with clubs and sports. Before my mother died, I was too concerned with learning how to pickpocket to make sure we had enough food because she would waste any money she got her hands on immediately. And then she died…”
He pauses, looking towards the door as if he wants to retreat.
“Then you moved in with Marco.” My arms are crossed against my chest. I feel myself cooling down somewhat. “How did that happen? He’s only Elena’s biological father, right?”
He nods. “He got annoyed at how sad she was that I wasn’t here with her. So, he took me in too. But he didn’t want me and made that abundantly clear. I was left isolated with only brief visits from Elena for a few years until he thought I was old enough to be useful. I kept myself busy by trying to learn as much as I could—to escape in books because there was nothing else. If the staff hadn’t looked out for me so much, always grabbing me books and toys I could play with independently… I don’t know what would have happened to me.”
My throat is dry as he scratches his head, and I assume that he’s done. But he continues, “When I was old enough to work, I wasn’t asked to manage anything specific or to help strategize. Instead, he had me focusing on killing and torturing until I had a brief moment of fame—”
“TheLo Spettrostuff?”
He nods.
I open my mouth to ask how old he was when all of that started and think twice about it.
“I don’t know who the fuck I even am, Sofia.”
I feel my brows knit together as I decipher what that even means.
“My mother was French. I have no idea when or why she ended up in Sicily, but she did. I could have been born there; I could have been born here. I never thought of asking when I was that young. It’s possible that I don’t have any Italian blood in me. That’s why Marco renamed us; he viewed that as a weakness. I was Sylvain and she was Marion. Those names sound foreign on my lips now. I suppose Elena and I have enough agency over our lives to try to revert back. But I guess we just don’t care anymore.”
I open my mouth to speak, dumbfounded at all of this, but he continues on.
“I don’t know my birthday. Elena does since I was old enough to remember the date. But…”
