I’m flustered by that kiss. As one of Stefan’s men drives me back to his Uncle Jack’s house, all I can do is think about that kiss.
Why did he do it? It was wholly unexpected and unnecessary.
My mind slips back to Clara. To how beautiful and sophisticated and polished she looked. How confidently she gave me her hand and how carefully she chose her words.
She knows the circumstances that bring Stefan and I together. I have no doubt of that.
And the way he answered—or didn’t answer—about her and the fact that I even asked—because I don’t care—pisses me off to think about it. That, and it embarrasses me.
Why did I ask anyway? What do I care who he’s fucking as long as he doesn’t touch me?
As we pass through the gates of the gothic mansion and drive toward the front door, I note that the opening of the temporary fencing where the truck drove through this afternoon is still unguarded. It strikes me that it is. Wouldn’t that be more of a threat against intruders than the front gates?
But maybe Uncle Jack isn’t a target.
Is Stefan?
I realize I’d never thought of that because if Stefan is a target, does that make me one too? And as the boss of a mafia family, there must be a constant threat against him. I mean, I know of at least one man who would kill Stefan Sabbioni if he could. My father.
We pull up to the front door and I have to wait for the driver to open my door because it’s locked.
I feel like a child, but I climb out and pass him into the house. I don’t speak to anyone and no one speaks to me. They’re just a bunch of soldiers and I’m sure their orders don’t include making small talk with me.
As I make my way slowly up to my bedroom, I make a note of where everyone is, and pretend to be curious about the construction if anyone asks why I’m peeking my head into the sealed off living room.
Tools, work tables and dust cover the room and the furniture is set against the far corner under multiple dust-cloths. I glance back, but none of the soldiers have come to check up on me.
I need to go upstairs and change my clothes, grab the money. I plan on giving it to Alex and his aunt. I’m sure they need it, considering he no longer works for my father and I remember being at his aunt’s house years ago. She’s not well off.
I wish I could just walk out right now, but I hurry up the stairs and put on the same sundress I’d had on earlier, along with a pair of flip flops. Not ideal but they’ll do. I hadn’t actually packed before leaving Palermo.
After I’m dressed, I let my hair down because the pins are digging into my skull. I just drop them where I stand, and finger comb my hair, which is wavy now from the tight twist. I find the tear in the lining of the duffel that I sewed shut a few nights ago.
I pull at the stitching until it gives and dig my hand between the layers to find the Ziploc I’d stashed there. I pull it out, eyeing the wad of cash, a credit card and my passport. A fake one. Alex had it made for me. The currency is American, not Euros, but it’s still money.
I don’t know why I take the passport with me. I just need the cash because I’m not planning on running away, am I? Stefan would find me. Or my father would. I wonder which would be worse.
I take the credit card out of the Ziploc then tuck the bag into the little clutch which is too fancy for my sundress but it’s all I have. I leave my iPod and the European charger I picked up from home in the clutch.
It feels strange to mess up the bed, stuffing the pillows under the covers in case anyone peeks in, so they think I’m sleeping, but this isn’t the first time I’ve snuck out. I’m a pro.
Although I guess if I were a pro, I wouldn’t have to sneak out now because I wouldn’t have gotten caught the other night.
Wishing I could call an Uber, I walk back out into the hallway after checking that it’s clear and creep back down the stairs and into the dusty living room. I stop when I hear two men talking but their voices fade as they pass somewhere inside the house.
I make my way to the temporary door, open it and think how easy this is. Something niggles at me about that.
I never did get a reply from Alex to say it was okay that I come, but I just need to at least drop off the money. That’s all. Apologize in person. I don’t know. All I know is I owe him because he has two broken legs because of me.
Those are the thoughts that I busy myself with as I step out into the dark night. I hug my arms to myself even though it’s not cold and, after making sure the path is clear, I hurry toward the large truck parked near the fence, scoot around it and a few moments later, I’m on the street walking quickly away from the house wondering how I was able to do it, counting my lucky stars.
I know Rome pretty well, although this neighborhood not as much. But I walk back the way we’d driven and fifteen minutes later, I get to a gas station with an attached café and walk in. Only a couple of tables are occupied but there aren’t enough people here that I can go unnoticed.
Everyone turns when the bell over the door jingles as I enter. I tuck my hair behind my ears and make my way to the counter where two men stand sipping espressos.
The bartender acknowledges me and, after ordering an espresso I won’t drink, I ask if I can use the phone to call a taxi. He does one better and calls it for me, and I pay for my coffee with the credit card then walk back outside to wait for the taxi which pulls up just a few minutes later.
This is too easy, I think, but I climb in and give him the address, which is about a half-hour ride.
The driver eyes me in the rear-view mirror but I ignore him and settle in as we drive, thinking I’ll ask him to wait and drive me back to Uncle Jack’s and sneak back into my room without anyone noticing I even left. Even if Stefan comes back, if he peers into my bedroom, he’ll see the pillows and assume I’m sleeping and that will be that.
And if I do get caught, I’ll deal with the consequences. I’m sure Stefan will punish me, but I’ve survived Gabriel Marchese’s wrath. How much worse can Stefan Sabbioni be?
When we pull up to the house, I ask the driver to wait, telling him I’ll pay him for that time too. He agrees and I climb out.
This isn’t the best neighborhood, and I’m aware of that as I make my way to the front door of the small house that belongs to Alex’s aunt.
I only know where it is because Alex’s dad worked for my father years ago when we were all kids. A couple of times, my mom would let us pick Alex up and take him with us when we went to a park or a pool. His mom had died when he was just a baby, so I guess in that sense, I was lucky. I had my mom for eight years.
Before I push the button to ring the doorbell, I twist my engagement ring so the diamond is on the inside. I hope Alex won’t see it.
I realize the doorbell doesn’t work so I pull open the screen, which wobbles on its hinges, and knock loudly. There’s a light on around the back of the house which I saw walking up here, but the front room is dark.
A few minutes and two more knocks later, I hear the chain and the lock turns and Alex’s aunt, a fifty-something woman with small features and a look of worry on her face opens the door.
That worry turns darker the moment she sees me.
I greet her, pretending I don’t see the way she’s looking at me. She mutters something, makes the sign of the cross. I don’t need to catch the words to know what she’s trying to say.
She doesn’t want me here.
And when I see Alex roll up behind her on a wheelchair, both legs in casts up to the thigh and stretched straight out in front of him, I can understand why.
“Alex!” I rush in, tears flooding my eyes.
I saw him beaten. I heard his bones break. And as terrible as that was, this, the result, the consequence he bore for me, it’s more overwhelming than all of it.
“Gabi,” Alex says when I hug him, trying not to hurt him as I do.
He hugs me back as best he can, one arm around my shoulders as I bury my face in his neck.
“I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
“We talked about this,” he says, pulling back.
I straighten and look down at him, look at the stitches on the side of his head where the doctors must have shaved his hair to close the cut. I remember when he’d been struck by the broken beer bottle and I hate the man who did it.
“It’s not your fault. And besides, I’d do it all again if I had to,” he says.
At that, his aunt calls out to God.
He turns to her, tells her it’s okay, and to go inside.
She looks at me, distrust in her eyes. I don’t blame her. “She shouldn’t be here,” she says. “She’ll get you killed.”
“I just want to give you something,” I say, reaching into my clutch to take out the Ziploc of cash. “They’re dollars but you can exchange them for Euros. There’s almost ten-thousand here.”
I hold it out to her, but Alex puts his hand over mine. “No need for that, Gabi. I told you that, too.”
“Just let me do this one thing, Alex. It’s nothing compared to what you did for me.”
“You’d have done the same thing if our roles were reversed. And Gabe…” He trails off.
A moment of silence passes between us. We’re both thinking of Gabe. Of what happened. Of the consequences he bore.
“I shouldn’t have gotten you involved,” I say, needing to not think about my brother.
“Do you still have the passport?” Alex asks.
I nod, feeling the sharp edges of the diamond in my palm. I don’t have the heart to tell him it doesn’t matter. That my circumstances have changed. I gesture to the money instead.
“Please, take it.”
Alex nods, giving his permission. His aunt cautiously takes the money.
That’s when the front door crashes in and Alex’s aunt screams and I scream too, jumping in front of the wheelchair, thinking it’s my father’s men and they somehow followed me and came back to punish Alex again. Maybe to finish the job this time.
But it’s not my father who walks inside. Who stands there brandishing a gun. It’s not his men who stalk into the small house as if they own it, as if they have every right to be here.
It’s Rafa and two other men I don’t know.
And behind them is Stefan.