It didn't stop the shattering of my heart.
The door to the bedroom opened and Tristan appeared. He'd taken off his jacket, and his white shirt was stained with blood where I'd shot him. His skin was pale and clammy and his eyes were strained with pain. My heart lurched seeing him like that, and despite everything he'd done, I was glad that I had sucky aim.
I almost laughed. God, I was sick.
He had a glass tucked in his arm and a plate in his hand. The smell of garlic and lemon quickly permeated the room.
My stomach rolled, and I swallowed hard.
"I brought you something to eat," he said, his deep, raspy voice carefully controlled as he came into the room, leaving the bedroom door open behind him.
I stared at him as he unlocked the door to the cell and set the plate and glass inside before locking me in again. How could he act like everything was normal after what he'd told me? How could he stand there and offer me food like nothing had happened? Like I hadn't just shot him?
"I'm not hungry," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"You need to eat, Luna," he said, his voice firm.
Rising slowly to my feet, I picked up the plate and studied the contents. A perfectly breaded and browned chicken filet lay on top of fettuccine noodles, both drizzled with the lemon sauce. Under normal circumstances, I'd already be shoveling it into my mouth.
But not today. I hurled the plate at the bars with all my strength. Food splattered everywhere, coating the cold metal and the floor, even speckling his expensive designer pants with the creamy lemon sauce. Snatching up the glass, I launched that at the bars too, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction as it exploded into glittering shards. "I'm not hungry!" I screamed, all the anger and confusion pouring out of me in a tidal wave of emotion I could no longer contain.
He didn't so much as twitch. "I did what I had to do, Luna." He sounded tired. "It was a long time ago."
I shook my head, my long hair falling into my face and my eyes filling with tears that ran down my cheeks. "It doesn't matter how long ago it was," I said. "You took her away from me. You took away the only decent family I had."
He took a step toward me. "I'm sorry,bambolina," he said. "I truly am. But I can't go back and change the past."
"Don't call me that," I spat out.
I was overwhelmed by a potent mix of anger and grief that threatened to consume me. Every fiber of my being wanted to hate him. I longed to scream at him until my throat was hoarse, to claw at his face and make him feel even a fraction of the agony that was ripping me apart.
And I wanted to pull him into my arms and let him take me, possess me, make me feel something other than this god-awful pain I felt now. Anything to numb the searing anguish that consumed my heart and soul. As sick as it sounded, I was desperate to lose myself in him, even if only for a fleeting moment, just to escape the suffocating emotions that threatened to crush me.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, swaying on his feet. "I was a very young man. I was trying to prove myself to Luca's father, to earn his approval." He paused. "And maybe…non lo so," I don't know, "…maybe I wanted to hurt Gino." His dark eyes searched mine. "Everyone knew how much he loved her, even if perhaps she didn't feel quite the same way."
I could only stare at him. I knew he was telling the truth, but it didn't make it any easier to accept. "Why are you telling me this now?" I cried. "Why?" I threw my arms out to the sides, indicating the cell I was imprisoned in. "Is this a fucking game to you?"
"I told you because I want you to know the truth," he said. "I don't want there to be any secrets between us."
"There is no 'us,' Tristan."
Glass crunched under his shoes as he came closer. When he reached the bars, he wrapped his fingers around them and rested the side of his head against the cold metal, his dark eyes on me. "But there is,bambolina. It's only us, and that's all there will ever be. I'm beginning to see that now. There's no fighting it."
I wrapped my arms around myself. "I don't think I can ever forgive you for this," I whispered, my voice thick with fresh tears. "Not for this, Tristan." I searched his dark eyes, desperately trying to find a glimmer of remorse or regret, but there was only acceptance and an unwavering conviction.
His dark eyes met mine. "You will. Someday."
I started to deny it, to swear to him that I never would, to ask him if he planned to keep me locked up for the rest of my life, but he pushed himself off the bars.
"Where are you going? Tristan! Let me out of here!!"
I watched as he turned and staggered out of the room, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch sliding into place echoed through the space, a harsh reminder that I was still his prisoner.
Sinking back down to the floor, I buried my face in my hands as I let the tears fall. I didn't even try to hold them back, my body shaking with the force of my sobs.
I didn't even know if I was still crying for myself or because I was worried about him.
How had my life come to this? Being held captive by a man who had murdered my mother in cold blood? A man who claimed to care for me, yet had no problem locking me in a cell like an animal?
