Another crack. Taylor visibly swallows. “Get out of my way.”
“No.”
“Move, or I will move you.”
I nab her hand and press it hard against my throat. “Do it.” Emotions in her eyes flicker like starlight through foliage, fingers twitching around my galloping pulse. She’s ready tinder, dry and excitable, and I’m trying to be a sheet of cold rain. “I know you’re hurting and I’m so, so sorry. But it is not your fault, and you don’t have to do this. You can come with me to my room. Scream, cry, throw things, break stuff, I don’t care. She’ll still be here in the morning and you can question her with a clearer head. Stay with me tonight.”
We square off, my arms at my sides as she cradles my neck in her hand. But asking her to back down is like politely imploring the plates of the earth not to split their seams and swallow the world.
“What gives you the right?” she asks under her breath. She releases her hold on me, but not the hold in her stare. Before a sigh of relief exits my lips, she addresses the men beside me. “Soldiers, escort Miss Piccolo to her room. She is to be placed on lockdown.”
I’m suddenly in the firm grasp of the guards, each of them arresting one of my arms. They drag me away from the door, and Taylor doesn’t, or can’t, look at me.
“Unhand me!” I fight against their grip, trying to lunge toward her. “Let go of me! Taylor, please, don’t do this!”
But she’s gone, door closed, my words nothing but an echo down the hallway. I’m dragged to my room, shoved like a disobedient dog into her kennel, locked in and left to anxiously pad in my cell.
I want to believe Taylor will arrive soon. I want to believe she’ll come to her senses and seek refuge with me. I want to believe she sees me as the kind of person with which to seek refuge. I want to believe enough of my mother—a woman who could soften the marbled tyranny of Luciano Piccolo—exists inside me for that to happen.
I want to believe. But the reality is, I’m alone.
12
It rains during Faith’s funeral. Shoes sinking into the ground, I watch Faith’s casket do the same. Delilah whimpers, consoled by an older gentleman I remember seeing at the Order subregion meeting. Mason holds his paramour, whose sobs rack her tiny frame as she unloads tears into his burly chest. Taylor stands alone, hands stuffed in her pockets, eyes glued to the beautiful mahogany casket. I watch her more than I do anything else, but she pays me no mind. The coffin is barely in the ground before Taylor takes off on her own, back toward the brothel.
I don’t see her for days. Delilah insists I can roam the hotel, but I hole up in my room, fed and watered like a pet bird. Fear keeps me away from her. Cowardice keeps me away from her. I make the choice to keep away from her.
When my mother died, they held a procession nearly the length of the city island. From her namesake bridge down to The Archives on the southern tip of Manhattan. Everyone dressed in black, people wept openly in the streets. My mother’s image hung from windows and storefronts, painted in blue like the Virgin Mary. I rode in our limousine, staring out the blacked-outwindow at the mix of supporters and protesters. I watched Force members drag dissenters from the crowd and beat them.
We interred her near the southern levee in a mausoleum. I never went inside. No amount of cold marble could ever bring to life the warmest woman I knew.
And for Faith, now six feet deep in the mud, there will be no procession. No mausoleum. Just a plaque in the grass. Nothing left of her but the memory in the minds of her friends.
Snuggled in a depression cocoon of blankets, I stir only for the knock at my door. My hallway door, I note with a frown. “Go ahead.”
Delilah enters, dressed down in black slacks and blazer. With the brothel all but defunct, there’s no need for her to dress as if she’s entertaining or working. “Good afternoon, Luciana.”
“Is it afternoon already?” I’m in my pajamas. Though the sun is desperately trying to peek through the shutters I’ve drawn, I ignore it.
“It’s nearly four, actually.” She sits on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and leaning back on her palm. “How are you holding up?”
“Well enough.” What else can I say? I didn’t get shot in the heart. I didn’t lose one of my only friends. I didn’t lose a close employee. “How’s…everything else?”
“Taylor is not herself,” Delilah says knowingly. “She hasn’t eaten in days. She won’t see anyone outside of official Order business. From the looks of it, I don’t think she’s slept, either.”
“How could she? Her friend was murdered in her arms. I don’t think I’d sleep well, either.”
Cedar eyes bore into mine. “If only she had someone to get her through this time.”
“You said she won’t see anyone.”
“I believe an exception would be made if it were one of her close friends,” Delilah replies.
“I doubt she considers me a close friend. Besides, I tried. I tried and I failed. If I can’t convince her not to torture a stranger, how can I ever hope Papa might be spared?”
She studies my face for a while, making me suddenly self-conscious of my dishevelment. Her eyes traverse my comforter, fingers tracing along the helix stitching. “Luciana, you don’t actually think you can save Leader Piccolo, do you?”
I blink up at her. “I thought maybe if I—if I proved myself to Taylor, maybe she’d spare him in some way.”
