His casual, almost friendly response feels completely out of place, leaving me momentarily stunned. He doesn’t seem drunk. So, is he out of his mind? Does he even understand what I’m saying? I’m not sure, but I need to leave before things get any worse. To get out, I’ll have to pass by him. I start toward the door, but then my worst fear comes true.
He grabs my arm and yanks me in. I gape at him as his eyes flutter shut and he draws in a deep breath, holding it for a moment before looking at me again. But this time, his gaze is different, pure wickedness, raw hunger.
“Stay. I need to talk to you.” His tone is rough, more like a command than a request.
What does he possibly need to say to me? Could it be that he remembers that night? Oh, God, no. No.
Even if he remembers, I can’t let it show. I can’t give him the chance to speak of that night. He’s acaponow, leading a powerful organization in another country. He won’t stay here long. I just need to stall him until Carlo gets back.
But even as my body seems magnetized to him, pulling me closer despite my fear, I shake my head, forcing myself to resist.
“I can’t. Please, just let me go.”
His eyes widen slightly in what looks like shock, his body going still. It feels like his gaze sees right through me, into the deepest parts of who I am. Time stretches, every second heavy and slow.
“Are you sure?” There’s a warning in his voice that makes my palms damp with sweat.
I shake my head again, struggling to free my arm. He doesn’t let go of me, his fingers digging into my flesh with a painful squeeze. Then, as if making up his mind, he abruptly shoves me toward the door. The force nearly makes me stumble, but I manage to catch my balance. I stare at him in pure shock. Did he just push me?
Beyond the darkness of his eyes I can see the flames of fury, tinted by a trace of hate. It breaks my heart. I don’t want him to hate me, but there’s nothing I can do.
Before the tears well up, I quickly turn and rush out of the room. Thank God it’s the night I visit my grandmother. I won’t have to spend the evening under the same roof as him.
***
I arrange the cream-colored throw pillows neatly on the comfy sofa, then let myself sink into the cushions. My gaze sweeps the room, and I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the faint smell of fresh paint and glue.
It was about three months ago when the fire broke out, forcing Nonna, my grandmother, to live in a hotel until her house was repaired. I glance over at her. As always, she’s sitting by the window, a half-burned cigarette resting between her thin fingers, her eyes fixed on the tree-lined street outside.
Those three months were hard on her. After more than fifteen years of living in this cozy, two-story apartment, it had become her sanctuary. A place that seemed to fill the void left by her absent sons who don’t check in on her, the daughter she lost, and the grandchildren who don’t bother visiting, not even once in a blue moon.
Her short, white hair stirs slightly in the breeze. I study her features intently; the dull blue of her sunken eyes, the fragile frame that’s more bone than flesh after years of substance abuse, and her thin, weathered hands. There’s always a sadness in her gaze, a sorrow so deep it aches in my chest. It’s a sadness intertwined with regret, something I fear to my core. The thought of becoming like her one day terrifies me.
She seems to sense my stare, turning her face toward me and catching my gaze. I offer her a smile, and she responds with a kind, gentle one of her own.
“The house looks just like it used to, Nonna. Do you like it?” I try to cheer her up.
She glances around and raises her trembling hand to take a drag from her cigarette. “Yes, I do. I love it even more now.”
“Why?”
“This house, like me, has been through fire. No amount of paint or polish on the walls can change the fact that it once burned in the flames.”
I frown as her words sink in. For a brief moment, I can’t help but wonder if the rumors are true, that she set the fire herself. The firefighters said the blaze started from her lit cigarette. Guilt makes me push the thought away.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask.
“No, sweetheart. I think I’ll go to bed. I’m tired. You must be exhausted too after everything today.”
“Not really. The movers had already done most of the work. I just made sure everything was where it needed to be.”
She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray, then walks toward me. Bending down, she plants a gentle kiss on my head.
“Thank you, my darling. Sleep well.”
I beam up at her. “Goodnight, Nonna.”
When I step into my room, I pause and blink in surprise. Everything is different. My old wooden bed has been replaced with a sleek, silver platform bed, its headboard etched with horizontal grooves. The scent of fresh paint hangs heavy in the air, a clear sign the walls have been redone.
