I follow him anyway.
The terrace overlooks the gardens we walked last night. Morning light gilds everything gold. The stone balustrade, the distant orange grove, the maze rising dark against the bright sky. A table waits, laden with fruit and pastries and strong Italian coffee. Two chairs positioned close together rather than across from each other.
Intimate.
I sit, and he sits beside me. Close enough that I catch his scent, maddeningly familiar by now.
The tension between us is different today. Less hostile. Something changed in the garden last night. The violence stripped away pretense. Now we’re circling each other without the masks, and I’m not sure that’s better.
Halfway through a pastry I don’t taste, he sets down his fork.
“I want to take you out today.”
I stop chewing. Swallow carefully.
“Out?”
“Into Palermo. Outside these walls.”
My heart hammers. Outside. The real world. Streets I know, buildings I worked in, cafés where people would help me if I?—
“Not just the grounds,” he continues. “Not the terrace or the gardens. But the actual city. We could have lunch. Or go shopping. Both, if you’d like.” His eyes hold mine. “I want to show you what our life could be.”
Our life.
“You’re delusional.”
“Probably.” No defensiveness. Just agreement. “I know what this is, Violet. I know I took you. Know you’re here because I gave you no choice. But after last night—” He pauses. “You’re strong enough for my world. I’ve known it from the beginning, but now you know it too.”
I stare at him.
“You broke a man’s arm over an insult. And your takeaway is that we couldwork?”
“My takeaway is that you didn’t run screaming. Didn’t look at me with disgust. You looked at me like—” He stops. Struggles with words. “Like you were seeing me. Actually seeing me. And you stayed.”
Because I’m sick. Because the violence woke something feral in me that my brain can’t forgive.
But I don’t say that.
“This is fucked up,” I say instead. “You know that, right? Taking me shopping doesn’t make you any less of a kidnapper.”
“I know,” he answers quietly. “I know exactly what I am. I’m not asking you to forget. I’m asking you to see what else is here.”
What else is here.
The same thing I chose this morning. Mirror over weapon. Dress over defiance. See what else is here instead of fighting.
“Fine.” The word comes out before I decide to say it. “Take me to Palermo. Show me your delusion.”
The car isa black Mercedes with tinted windows.
Guards follow at a distance. Two vehicles, discreet but visible if you know to look. Most freedom I’ve had in a month, and every inch of it is supervised.
Elio sits beside me in the back seat. His hand rests on the leather between us. Not touching mine. But close. Close enough that I could take it if I wanted.
I don’t.
Instead, I watch Palermo through the window. My old life sliding past in fragments. The corner where I bought a pastry every morning. The street that led to my apartment—formerapartment, emptied and erased like I never existed. The churches I photographed for reference. All of it within reach. All of it impossibly far.
