Cicero doesn’t acknowledge that I spoke. Doesn’t even glance in my direction.
Like my words evaporated before they reached his ears. Like I’m a piece of furniture that made an unexpected noise, startling, perhaps, but ultimately irrelevant.
He addresses only his son. “Then you’ve made your choice. And I’ve made mine.”
He pulls out his phone. Dials with calm, precise movements. Speaks in rapid Italian as he walks toward the door.
Elio grabs my hand.
I try to pull away. He holds firm. Fingers locked around my wrist like a shackle.
“I’m not letting you out of my sight with him here.”
He follows Cicero, keeping me behind him. A shield between me and the monster. Like that makes any of this okay. Like I’m not also his hostage.
Italian words wash over me. Too fast to catch most of it, but three words stand out.
Elio.
Americana.
Ferrante.
At that last word, Elio goes rigid. Stops walking.
“What does Ferrante mean?” I hiss at him.
He doesn’t answer. Jaw set. Eyes tracking his father.
“Elio.” I yank at my wrist. “What the fuck does Ferrante mean?”
“Not now, Violet.”
Cicero ends the call. Pockets the phone with the same precise movements. Pauses at the main entrance. Looks back at his son. Only at his son, like I’ve already ceased to exist.
“You have one week to reconsider.”
The door closes behind him.
Silence.
Heavy and absolute. The kind of silence that follows gunshots. The kind that means something irrevocable has happened.
I rip my hand from Elio’s grip.
“Who’s Gabriella?”
He doesn’t answer. Won’t meet my eyes.
His jaw works. Throat bobs. Guilt and shame written across every angle of his face.
“Who the fuck is Gabriella, Elio?”
The silence stretches. Unbearable. Damning.
Then, quiet.
“My fiancée.”
