“Niente. She acted like nothing happened. Kept asking for hermammina, as if she had no idea what she did the night before. When I took her to the shrink, the woman told me she had…what the fuck is the word?Dissociated. Dissociative amnesia, she called it. From then on, I tried to manage it as best I could, but I knew nothing about raising a daughter. So, I called Lucia. She agreed to come back and look after her.”
I perch my arms on the window frame, and when I realize where I am, I step back, wiping my hands and drawing the curtains.
“Has Cecilia ever attempted anything like that another time?” I ask.
“I kept a very close eye on her. Tightened her leash, so to speak. I didn’t have it in me to send her to a correctional facility, but I also knew I had to be wary around her. Not that she could kill me…but just…I had to be careful with her. If you hadn’t learned her secret and asked to marry her, I don’t know if I would’ve let her out of this house. Ever.”
“Then why the fuck did you try to marry her off to someCapo’sson?”
“Because you forced my fucking hand. I don’t like being strong-armed,” he drawls. “How is she now? What did she tell you?”
His words make a vein in my forehead pulse. I know exactly how he treated her—like a prisoner in her own home. Now, we have a lot of her people pleasing tendencies to undo. But I’m nothing if not patient when it comes to my wife. Anything she needs, I’ll make sure she has it.
“That’s between me and my wife,” I say. “Thank you for the bedtime story. That will be all.”
I hang up and pour myself two knuckles of whiskey, downing it in one go. I take Cecilia’s coin from my pocket, flipping it in the air then slapping my hand with it on the desk.
Something’s missing.
I can’t put my finger on what exactly, but some of the things Antonio said struck me as odd. I never knew Lucia Donatello was in the room with Cecilia, or that Cecilia and her mother had a fight that night—though I’m not sure how much it matters. Six-year-olds aren’t exactly known to be reasonable.
Both could mean something.
Or not.
All I know is I need more answers, and I’m not going to get them from Antonio.
41
Cecilia
The room is dark—maybe early morning or late at night. I lie awake in bed, waiting for another sleeping pill to kick in. Somehow, I’m still here, even though I thought I wouldn’t be. And there’s pain—so much of it, it almost doesn’t feel real. It scurries up my veins like cyanide, killing more and more parts of me by the hour.
I open my eyes again, and Mikhail is here, lost in a shallow sleep. His face is tense, his wounded chest expanding faster at times, as if he’s never too asleep to get up and fight whatever new disaster might hit me.
Whatever happened to him…when he barged into the room, it looked bad. He was bleeding, broken, and almost crawled to get to me in that state. I couldn’t look at him without hating myself even more than I already do. Maybe if he didn’t have to come rescue me, he wouldn’t be in this state. But he didn’t seem to care. He wanted to die with me.
He put a gun to his head and hovered on the trigger. I knew he’d pull it. I could almost picture the blood exploding from his head, smearing the walls of our bedroom and imprinting on my mind like a deadly tumor. My eyes close again as I let out a trembling breath. Nausea squeezes my throat, and I swallow, curling up on the other side.
He said he loves me…but how can anyone love someone like me?
My mother’s face flashes before my eyes again: long, curly brunette hair, beautiful sun-kissed skin. Her smile was always bigger than you’d expect it to be—she had a wide, lush mouth that mesmerized people whenever she spoke, laughed, or sang. Even when she fought with my father, she had a certain energy that kept you staring.
That’s how I remember her. It’s how she looked the morning that took her from this world.
She barged into my room and opened the windows. A wave of light and ocean mist hit my eyes, making them flutter. Then, she came running, jumping on the bed beside me, her head diving into the crook of my neck to kiss and tickle me. I laughed, and her hair cascaded over her shoulder, smelling of her—of Madonna lilies. My small hands wrapped around her neck, pulling her closer until her cheek was pressed against mine.
“What a good day to try to catch the sun.” She beamed, like every morning. “Come help me. Maybe we can do it this time.”
It was her way of spending time with me before the rest of the house woke up. We went to the beach and swam, the sun floating on every small wave, impossible to be contained in my minuscule hand. My mother loved the ocean and the music it made for us every day. I loved her, and everything she loved found its way into my heart.
I can’t imagine wanting to hurt her.
Yet, I did.
Something must be seriously wrong with me. Maybe there always was.
The thought sends a shock of panic through my chest, and my hands reach for my phone hurriedly. I enter my messages with Ms. Donatello, noticing how empty our chat looks. I’ve barely talked to her since I arrived at the estate.
