by Xavier Neal
Something tells me she has a voice to match the rest of her exquisiteness.
“Mio figlio was wrong about you.” The corners of her mouth kick upwards to the ceiling. “You seem to do perfectly fine with an unknown face.”
My own smile, thoughtlessly, joins the conversation. “He has your eyes.”
Beni’s mother leans back in the chair that numerous guests cycle through. “At least I gave him more than my ability to worry about those he loves.”
To my surprise, the grin not only stays, but it also grows wider.
I was right.
She has one of those classic Disney tones.
Comforting.
Kind.
Likely to deliver a lesson or a lecture that will warm even the iciest heart.
“His father taught him to rule. To be cruel. To kill.” Her long leg crosses itself over the other. “There didn’t seem adequate time to teach him how to love, but it was impossible for him not to learn how to worry.”
Intrigue has me listening intently.
“Care is all it takes to worry, Tesoro, and no matter how much Benedict wanted the world to believe he did not possess the capability to do so, he did.”
“Tesoro?”
“Sweetheart.”
Another smile settles into my expression.
“Between him and me, our son learned how to properly worry, but failed to understand how to properly love or even what it might entail. So…here he is… un uomo adulto…flailing around without a clue because we failed him.” She folds her hands in her lap. “Or…perhaps that was just me. Not showing him what it means to truly love someone – instead of just letting him see what caring and control looks like – is why you are trapped in this room. Being…bullied to…cope the way he demands rather than the way that would be best for you.”
Her intuitiveness is terrifying.
“I have been in this very bed twice. Once to give birth to Benicio. He was un bambino molto grande.”
A very big baby.
“So chunky. So cute.”
Her nostalgic thoughts have me snickering.
Hard to picture my future husband as either of those things.
I was kind of convinced he just came out of the womb brooding.
Little scowl.
Tiny tie.
“The other time was when he was just a boy. I…I had been in the car when Benedict had been attacked. We were headed home from some charity gala – god we were always at those things it seemed – and we were ambushed. The bullet grazed me, but with the response Benedict took, you would’ve believed I was on my deathbed. When we got back to the estate, I was brought here to be stitched up, and then imprisoned here until he deemed I was healed enough to go elsewhere. He limited the number of visiting hours as well as ignored the doctor’s insistence that bedrest was unnecessary. Only Benedict knew best.”
Fuck, that sounds familiar.
Eerily familiar.
“And, his son watched. Mimicked. Grew to a point where he, too, was the only one who knew best, which is why you’re trapped in this room, tortured by your own thoughts, instead of being able to heal how you see fit.”
“God, were you like an Oracle in your last life or something?”
She snickers, shakes her head, and surprises me, again. “Do you like hazelnut?”
“I do.”
“Good! Then you can come help me make Baci di Dama.”
My face immediately scrunches in confusion. “I don’t…I don’t even know what that is.”
“Would you like to find out?”
Oddly enough, I would; however, I’m sure I shouldn’t.
Dario probably has strict instructions not to let me leave the room.
“È un no?”
“I…” the answer floats around my mouth, trying to find the politest way to decline.
“Chantal,” she states so sweetly it’s hard not to find it soothing, “is it something you would like to find out? Damn the possible constrictions that keep you in this bed or this room. Is discovering something new something you want?”
“Yes.”
Shock covers my face over not only the quick response but the enthusiasm as well.
“Then up out of that letto,” she happily commands at the same time she stands to her feet.
I carefully move the remote to the side, toss back the covers, and wiggle off the mattress. The minute my feet hit the cold floor, doubt threatens to send me right back into the bed. Giavanna doesn’t demand I find my shoes or get moving faster. There’s no pressure to push through the fears or persuasion to listen to them.
She does the one thing her son still struggles with.
She remains patient.
It takes several deep, centering breaths before I state, “I think I need shoes.”
“Slippers?”
A nod is instantly given.
“Would you like to get them, or would you like me to?”
“I would.”
Another soft smile slips onto her face. “Take your time.”
And, I do.
Crossing the room feels like swimming an ocean. It’s equally invigorating as it is exhausting. By the time I’ve finished putting them on, I’m convinced more than ever I have to stop just lying around in that bed for such long periods of time. Dr. Gregory seemed fine with the idea of me taking more walks. Fuck, she encouraged it. Maybe I can’t go jogging just yet, but maybe yoga?
Don’t they make pregnant lady yoga?
The simple idea of working out and wanting to work out pushes a proud smirk onto my face.
When I face Giavanna again, I ask, “What should I call you?”
“What do you want to call me?”
For some reason the question is more puzzling to me than it should be.
I guess I never really thought about what I would want to call my in-laws.
I just assumed Beni would make the introduction and I would follow his lead.
The same as he always does when I’m meeting new people.
Having him not around to insist one way or another is oddly…freeing.
“Gia.”
“Gia it is.” Her head tilts curiously to the side. “Do you mind if I call you Chantal?”
“Your son gets quite upset when anyone besides him calls me something else.”
“He also gets upset if there’s not sauce drizzled on top of his lasagna.” She rolls her eyes, handing me another reason to snicker. “He’s anal-retentive. That he also got from his father.”
I slowly relocate to where she’s standing and then follow her out the door. The minute we cross the threshold, the man I’m fairly certain to be Dario, springs to his feet. “Mrs. Bennett-”
“It would be Ricci if I were going by my last name.”
There’s no hesitation from me to interject, “Whoa. I didn’t know you married Antonio.”
“Neither did my son until he recently visited.”
When did he visit?
Why did he visit?
Was it to prepare for the inevitable moment when he would have to leave me?
Was it to discuss our wedding?
Why didn’t he tell me?
What else isn’t he telling me?
“Mrs. Ricci, Miss Brooks-”
“Dario,” Gia politely interrupts, “first off, you are to call me Giavanna or Gia, the same as I am sure Chantal insists on being called Chantal instead of Miss Brooks.”
“I do.”
Dario nods his acknowledgment of my comment.
“Second, you have no reason to be alarmed. We’re simply going to the kitchen in the main estate to do a little baking.”
“With all due respect, Gia, it’s two in the morning.”
“Precisely.” Her mischievous smirk feels equally familiar and comforting. “The in the morning portion is why you were allowed to let me into Chantal’s room since my son had strict time restraint orders.”
Of course, he did.
The fact she found a way a
round them, though, reminds me of myself and how I met him to begin with.
“Right, but-”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to deny a pregnant woman her choice of craving, do you?”
She didn’t say what I was craving.
Could be food.
Could be the walk.
Could just be space from this area.
Her lack of direct information is what’s keeping her from, basically, lying.
Yup.
I definitely hit the jackpot in this department.
Something tells me Dad would’ve loved her spunk.
Advised me to take notes and learn a thing or seven.
Dario immediately buckles under the possible guilt. “I don’t.”
“Good, then get to escorting us.”
He nods at the command and gives me a questioning look on whether to actually follow through with it. A sense of honor that he looked to me for permission, since I am the woman of the house, floods my veins. It pushes my black pajama-covered shoulders back a bit. Tips my chin a smidge higher. Adds a bit of confidence I can’t believe I’ve banished.
Our relocating to the main estate kitchen is done through slightly lower temperatures than I was anticipating. The cold night air is a spine-chilling surprise, yet Gia handles it with the same happiness she has everything else.
I miss being that content for more than a couple of hours at a time.
I miss feeling so alive.
Inside the manor, Dario lingers near the main doorway, weapon drawn and attention alert.
It seems idiotic, but thinking back on it, Miko was the same way, unless told otherwise.
Maybe I’ll ask him later why he’s shadowing Beni’s second so hard.
Is he going to be the one to replace Tao?
Just thinking of him stirs sadness up in my system, but, thankfully, Gia interrupts it by speaking again, “Baci di Dama are Italian hazelnut cookies.”
My eyes stay planted on her as she begins collecting an assortment of objects.
“Baci di Dama means ‘lady kisses’,” she explains while setting items down on the island I’m waiting next to. “They’re called this because the two halves coming together sort of look like lips kissing.” The whisk she snatches up turns into a tool to assist in her pointing. “Lavati le mani.”
Wash your hands.
I don’t argue with the instruction, although I find myself smiling over the fact her son says it the exact same way whenever I’m in the kitchen.
Won’t lie.
It’s kinda nice to see where some of him began.
He got to see me and my roots.
Definitely want to see his.
“People eat different types of cookies for different occasions and moods,” Gia rambles alongside her own hand washing. “And, Baci di Dama are the ones I like to make when I know someone needs a smile on their face.” Her eyes meet mine to show their levity. “Dopotutto, a chi non piacciono i baci?”
Afterall, who doesn't like kisses?
During the drying of our hands, she asks, “Did you speak or understand Italian before falling for my son?”
“No.”
“Would you consider yourself fluent now?”
“A fluent learner.”
A small snigger is proceeded by a nod. “L'apprendimento continuo è in continua crescita.”
So.
Her listening skills are about as shitty as her son’s on this subject, I see.
“Continued learning is continued growing. Growth and adaptation are crucial for survival.”
“In this lifestyle?”
“In ogni caso, tesoro.”
In any, sweetheart.
Another smile crosses my face at seeing where Beni’s philosophical nature stems from.
He definitely got more than just her dark features and gorgeous eyes.
I wonder if our son or daughter will have either of those.
I wonder if he or she will have sun kissed skin like his or a shade closer to mine.
I wonder, will they be in love with numbers like me or thoughts like him?
How does she know I’m pregnant?
Did he tell her?
Has he told everyone?
Wait.
Am I showing already?
Isn’t it too early to be showing?!
“Did a little prep work when I got in,” Gia casually informs upon moving over to the bowl. “Got the hazelnuts grinded so we didn’t have to worry about doing that.”
“You like to make everything from scratch, too, don’t you?”
“Quando possibile.”
Whenever possible.
“It’s not just a taste preference, Chantal, it’s about control.” She pushes the empty bowl over to me. “Having control.”
A finger point directs me to grab the ground hazelnuts.
“When you are in this kitchen, when you are cucinando, you are the one in control. You are the one deciding the speed at which you work. You are the one dictating what is worthy of your time and attention. What is worthy of being touched by your hands. Your unique, one-of-a-kind touch.”
Gia taps the edge of the bowl for me to pour them into.
“Cooking is a unique sense of power in a world that can make you feel so powerless.”
I grab the premeasured bowl of flour to add in.
“It was important for me that my son…my only son, learn all that cooking in the kitchen had to offer.”
Next, I dump in cornstarch.
“Appreciation of hard work. Lessons of taste. Patience-”
“Yeah, he still struggles with that one.”
“I blame his father.” She gives me a small shrug. “I only gave him good qualities.”
Giggles escape me of their own accord.
“Most importantly, having him learn to cook, was about teaching him to find something you can control when, perhaps, there’s nothing else in your life that you can.”
The bowl of sugar finds its way into my grip.
“Even in a world where you control so much there is still always something you can’t…So, it is up to you,” our eyes momentarily meet, “to latch onto what is within your control.”
A hum, thoughtlessly, creeps free.
“I wanted him to let cooking remind him that you still have choices you can make.” She motions towards the bit of salt waiting. “That you still have a voice that can be heard.”
I dump the last dry ingredient into the bowl.
“Cooking became my tool to teach him empowerment.” Gia leans in a little closer. Lets her voice grow a little softer. “Just because you are not head of a household doesn’t mean you are the doormat of it. Capire?”
Holy shit!
She’s…she’s absolutely right.
I don’t have to be so passive about everything.
I don’t have to stay down just because I fell down.
I deserve to get back up.
I want to get back up.
I want more choices and more say and more of my life that I used to call mine.
Maybe it’ll take more time than I want to get back to a place where I feel anywhere near normal, but I can’t keep living like this.
It’s not living.
It’s lying.
Lying in wait to become someone’s prey rather than lying in wait to catch prey.
“We’ll start with these cookies,” Gia warmly declares, “and see where it goes from there. Sì?”
There’s no resistance to agree, “Sì.”
Her bright beam banishes more of the darkness that’s waiting to engulf me all over again. “We still need to add butter and vanilla to this bowl. Do you know how to use a mixer?”
“Don’t you just push a button?”
A frown of disapproval almost identical to the one her son makes immediately crawls onto her face. “You have to pick the appropriate attachment followed by the correct speed. It’s not quite rocket science, but it’s not microwave easy, either.”
> “I thought about a career in rocket science,” I offer up the information at the same time I dump in the chunks of cold cubed butter. “Really into the math portion, but the science side…Eh. Not so much.”
“You like numbers?”
“Love. Them.”
“Non mentono.”
They don’t lie.
Hearing the familiar phrase prompts me to smile, nod, and ask for further instructions.
Dad would want me to listen to the advice she’s giving.
To remember the advice, he gave.
He’d want me back in action.
Talking.
Laughing.
Scribbling.
I think I’m ready to get my shit together.
I think I’m finally ready to move forward and be the woman I not only know I am, but the one I want my child to see.
Chapter 13
Miko holds the valet’s ankle steady while I position the nail in the middle of his foot. Thrashes are attempted despite there being no possible way it could help. They’re as useless as his screams that are muffled by a pig urine-soaked rag.
I do enjoy the extra perks I can use when mining for information.
Rather than driving it through his foot with a single whack, something that would be equally effective and efficient, I tap the head gradually.
Hit.
Pause.
Hit again.
His screams increase exponentially, and I look up to meet his wide-eyed stare. “The shot that was administered into your neck a few moments ago is a sensitivity enhancer. It’s something that’s usually taken by college children at underground parties to increase their sexual experiences.”
“Like a Molly?” Miko curiously questions.
“Like an uglier version of MDMA.” I drop my attention back to my work and deliver another hard hit to the nail driving it through his foot further. Blood leaking around the hole being created is proceeded by me striking the steel object twice more. Afterwards, I connect my cold stare to his teary one. “With traditional MDMA, the intent is to alter your body for pleasure.” There’s no looking down when I deliver the final blow to the item piercing his appendage. “This one is specifically for pain.”
His roped-up state makes watching him wiggle in agony all the more enjoyable.
