I open it. A photo. There I am, sitting on one of the armrests of the very armchair in this room with my father sitting in it. He has his hand around my bum. I must be eight or nine. I don’t remember my childhood well.
But that’s normal,says the academic voice in me. Humans forget much when they become older. We are no good at remembering.Our memories are so faulty. But why don’t I remember this here? Even now that I see it?
“Well,” he says, and removes the first photo. “Then you should look at that.”
I gasp, and my stomach plummets. It is the same photo Rosalia has shown me with the dead young man on the floor, blood splattered around him, a puddle underneath. He seems to have been shot several times.
It is true.
I killed her son.
I killed someone.
I should panic. And yet, I feel nothing.
“You shot him with your father’s gun,” Giuseppe says. “He tried to touch you, and you killed him. That’s when we knew.”
“Knew what?” I whisper.
This is a nightmare.
This can’t be real.
“That you will be able to take over one day,” he says.
My eyes pop.
“You don’t believe me,” he says, and my mind can’t catch up. “But you should. You should, because the proof lies buried underneath the tree we planted.”
I am falling as I swallow down the information I just got.
“Let us see if you are worthy,” he says, rather amused. “I have two tasks for you. The first is that you will kill my bastard sister.”
I stare at the photos.
“I don’t want to take over?—“
“You don’t want to, huh?” he scoffs. “There is no choice. You will take over. Because your second task is to continue my line. You will fulfil the duty of your father's heritage. You will carry my heir, a worthy one.”
And with that, he grabs me by the neck, and I am pushed front-facing onto the desk.
“Nooo!” I scream, kick, and try to wiggle myself free, but he has a force in his grip I am powerless against. He closes his fingers around my neck, pushing a certain point, and pain shoots through my body.
I am fixed to the desk by his men with cable ties, my wrists and legs bound.
I can’t move. I try, but there is nothing I can do against the three of them.
Giuseppe’s other hand pushes up the dress and pulls my thong aside.
This can’t be happening?—
This is too much.
His zipper opened.
Everything is too much.
I need to wake up from this nightmare. I must have fallen asleep while listening to one of my podcasts.
