Bad Sons

by Isla Cristeon

  My mind sifts through everything Fernando revealed. I remember thinking it was lucky I had stayed home sick that day instead of my brother. He would have tried to protect our mother and gotten himself killed in the process. I was too weak and cowardly to do anything besides silently cry and piss myself in fear.

  “That’s a lot of what-if’s, Nando.”

  He breathes out a short breath. “Your dad will try to get confessions from my father for something he didn’t do, and possibly has no idea about. How far will he push it?”

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s wait for him here, then.”

  I lead him into the small adjoining bedroom holding a single bed, a nightstand, and a small table with two chairs.

  “Cards or chess?” I ask.

  He looks at the bed, his mouth curving in a wicked smile. “Guess making you orgasm all over your father’s bed is off limits.”

  A tremor rolls through me as my stomach does a 360-degree flip. I lick my lips and swallow. “Definitely not an option.”

  “Chess, then.” Fernando says with a smirk, dropping himself into one of the chairs.

  His heavy gaze follows me as I move to the nightstand, and my belly coils at the thought of touching him again. From the bedside table, I pull out a simple chessboard with the pieces haphazardly gathered on top. Once we arrange the pieces, I give Fernando the first move.

  He complies with a raised eyebrow. “You got a look in your eye, Aida.”

  I press my lips together and move the pawn from in front of my king. Fernando moves his knight.

  “You play chess much as a kid?” he asks.

  Nodding, I slide my bishop out. “My dad insisted.”

  “Oh.” With a look of dismay, he moves his knight forward. “You’re totally about to annihilate me, aren’t you?”

  Four moves later, I say, “Checkmate.”

  He groans. “Okay, fine. Cards next. And I’m guessing you’re also a card shark, Aida Prospero, so we’re not playing poker.”

  We play several rounds of Speed, each one going faster and faster, until we abandon our chairs altogether. Standing, we play a best-out-of-five tiebreaker round, both our faces tightened in concentration as our hands fly. At one point, Fernando accidentally puts down two cards.

  “Cheater!”

  “No, no, that was an accident.” Hastily, he fishes out the card.

  I drop my cards on the table and raise my hands in triumph. “And the winner, due to unsportsmanlike conduct from the opponent.” I cheer for myself and then bow to an imaginary crowd.

  Crossing his arms, he lowers his gaze, a lupine smile curving on his mouth as he stares at my breasts. “You want to see unsportsmanlike conduct?”

  I lower my arms and take a step back. He moves forward.

  “Fernando,” I say in a low, warning tone.

  “Doesn’t sound like ‘no’.”

  He lowers his head, dashing forward and wrapping his arms around my thighs. Lifting me, he moves toward the bed and drops both of us on top, digging his fingers into my ribcage. I squeal and buck my hips against his, but his weight pins me firmly to the bed. The low sound of his laughter moves through me like smoke, filling every edge of my soul with contented happiness. His lips brush against my cheek, and he pauses, inhaling near my hairline.

  “Did you just smell me, you weirdo?”

  His cheek moves in a smile against my face as he breathes out a short, embarrassed laugh. “You smell like home.”

  Bringing his face in front of mine, his eyebrows draw inward as he smooths his fingertips over one of my eyebrows.

  I raise my hand to rest on the side of his face, blinking as my eyes sting with warmth. “Fernando, I—”

  The sound of a throat clearing at the doorway causes us to spring apart. I push myself to a seated position as Fernando scrambles backward until he’s seated in the chair.

  My father’s furious gaze moves between us then stops on Fernando. “What part of ‘Leave my daughter alone’ did you not understand?”

  “Babbo,” I say, careful to enunciate my boundary without stoking his anger higher, “you are not allowed to dictate what I do with my life, or who, for that matter.”

  Fernando shoots a look of surprise at me as my father’s eyes fill with anger. He stands, raising his palms in an appeal to calm my dad.

  “Look, Franco … Mr. Prospero, I’m really sorry for that. I asked her to bring me to see you so I could tell you something important. While we waited, we started playing cards and I got silly with her.”

  He works his jaw. “You seem like a nice enough guy Fernando, but I need you to understand my reservations.” Pausing, he moves his gaze to me, pain washing over his features. His voice trembles as he speaks, “She looks exactly like her mother. And you look exactly like your father. Your father had her mother murdered. It can’t work. I won’t allow it to work.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m here.” In a rush, Fernando tells him word for word the conversation he overheard between Alfonso and Don. My father’s eyebrows raise and lower as his head tilts in question.

  “I … I never stole anything,” he says with bewildered eyes.

  “But is it possible that Donnie framed my father?”

  He pokes his tongue into his cheek. “Anything is possible, of course.”

  Fernando’s shoulders relax in relief, and a twin sigh exhales from my anxious, tightened lungs.

  “But that can’t change anything planned tonight. If anything, it just adds one more level to Don’s.” My father strokes his chin in thought.

  “I don’t know what order you have planned, but can you do his first?” Fernando asks with wild desperation.

  “It only makes sense to do that,” my dad says. His gaze moves to me. “I know you’re a grown woman, Aida, and you can make any decision you want. But if it does turn out that Alfonso was framed for your mother’s murder, I’ll give you both my blessing.”

  Chapter 14

  MY FATHER DISMISSES FERNANDO, advising him to get as much sleep as he can. “Part of my plan relies on disorientation from lack of sleep, so get some rest.”

  I move to follow Fernando out, but my dad grabs my arm. “Aida, stay.”

  “Give me a minute with him please, Babbo. I’ll be right back.”

  After using my palm to dissolve the mirror, Fernando and I step through. I pull him along the dark walls of the storage space, then lift on my tiptoes, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pressing my mouth to his. He intakes a short breath of surprise, before returning my kiss. His hand wraps around the back of my head, holding me to him. A misty glow fills my bones, a combination of longing and sadness. I’m not sure if it’s just my imagination, but it’s almost like his doubts, fears, and love pour out of him and transfer to me.

  Somehow, Fernando makes me feel more connected to the woman I hope to be, than the one I had been once before. The kiss unravels my hidden wish for our future, one where I’m adored and cherished by a man who loves me.

  This man.

  We separate, but he leans forward to press his lips to mine one last time before connecting our foreheads. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Aida.”

  I smile. “Definitely.”

  Returning to my father’s study, I find him sitting at the table, staring at the pile of cards. “Your mother and I played cards a lot.”

  “I remember,” I say softly. “She didn’t like losing.”

  He gives me an amused look. “Pot and kettle.”

  “I know, I know.” Crossing my arms, I breathe out a small laugh.

  My father clears the cards off the table then returns them to the drawer. From the mini fridge in the corner, he withdraws a small plastic takeout container and a bottle of champagne.

  He sets the items on the table and sits on the other chair. “I’m glad you brought him to see me. I meant every word I said. Now let’s celebrate.” He pops open the bottle and cracks open the lid of the plastic container, revealing a gourmet assortment of chocolate covered
strawberries.

  I smile. “Mammina’s favorite.”

  He nods and pours me a glass of champagne. “I thought it was an appropriate way to put all this behind us.”

  With a smile, I pick up the fizzy liquid and take a sip. My father abstains, per the norm of a recovered alcoholic, sitting back in the chair with his arms tightly knotted on his chest.

  I reach into the box of strawberries and pluck one out, holding the fruit by its leaves as I extend it toward him. “Eat.”

  A soft smile breaks the harsh line of his cheek. He leans forward and takes the fruit, shoving the entire thing into his mouth in one bite before setting the leaves on the table.

  I giggle at his stuffed cheeks. “You look like an angry chipmunk.”

  My father snorts out a laugh, pressing his lips together to keep the chewed strawberry inside his mouth. My mother would always harass him for eating these in one bite, rather than savoring them nibble by nibble as she and I would.

  Memories of happy moments appear like wisps between us, slight and diaphanous, but not containing enough substance to hold between our hands. One by one, they fade and disappear in the past where they belong, to forever remain with the ghost of the woman who created them.

  A fuzzy feeling shrouds my brain, like moss growing in the crevices. Shaking my head, I push the empty glass of champagne away. My father doesn’t make eye contact as he refills the flute shaped glass.

  “I hope you know that I love you, Aida,” he says softly. “As such, I can’t allow your feelings for Fernando Navarre to jeopardize what needs to happen tonight. Forgive me. I know he brought you to the control room and showed you more beyond just the code to get in. You must realize I have eyes and ears everywhere.”

  I swallow and make a move to stand. My hands slide off the table, and I pitch toward the floor, but my father jumps forward and catches my elbows. With ease, he picks me up and sets me on the bed, then moves back to the table before returning with the drugged champagne. He lifts me to a semi-recline with one arm then holds the glass to my lips and tilts my head back to pour the liquid in. I sputter and choke, but the bubbly drink goes down my throat anyway.

  He lifts me upright to lean like a pile of wet sand against his ribcage and thumps his open palm on my back. “I know you’re going to be angry with me. I accept those consequences for this. But I need you to understand how important it is that this plan finishes to its completion.”

  How could he do this to me? Tears fill my eyes and drip down the sides of my cheeks. The bitter fruit of betrayal rots in my belly, twisting our already strained relationship into something I doubt I’ll ever be able to return from.

  Once he lays me on my side, he pulls a blanket up to my shoulders. My fingers twitch as I tighten my hand into a fist, wishing I could hurl a punch at him. Wishing to hurt him as much as he’s hurt me. Wishing I could damage his heart to the degree he’s damaged mine.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, pressing a kiss to the side of my head. “Never forget how much I love you. I’m sorry.”

  I’m grateful for one thing. Now I feel freedom in the certainty that my father’s heart doesn’t beat for me, his only daughter. It died with my mother, and only vengeance moves that cold organ to action.

  His footsteps fade in the distance as I manage to reach my fingers to my mouth. Once I hook my pointer on my bottom teeth, I concentrate hard to curl my finger and pull my hand deeper into my mouth. I have an excellent gag reflex, but maybe, just maybe I can manage to empty this baneful substance from my stomach.

  A putrid scent climbs into my nose. My eyelids weigh heavy as my head struggles to catch up with my surroundings. For a moment, I’m convinced I’m seventeen years old again, waking up in my own vomit after a night of binge drinking.

  I crack open my eyes, glancing at my surroundings. The memory of my father’s betrayal floods my mind. With a groan, I push my arms against the bed, raising myself to sitting. Even though I don’t remember it, clearly, I succeeded in making myself puke. The side of my face is wet with my own vomit, and it soaks strands of my hair. Grimacing, I wipe my palm over my cheek. My gaze lands on the mini fridge in the corner, and I move to stand, swaying slightly as my head spins. Thinking better, I crouch to the floor then move along on my hands and knees. Inside the fridge, I find a bottle of water and use it to clean myself as best I can, scrubbing my skin and hair repeatedly.

  Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my phone and check the time. One AM. I’ve been out nearly five hours. I leave the small room and walk to the mirror wall, praying my father had confidence in whatever drug he slipped me. If he somehow locked the mirror to keep me inside, I stand no chance at getting out of here.

  His first mistake was sedating his own daughter. His second was underestimating me.

  The mirror dissolves under my palm and hope pours over my heart. Eerie silence fills the building as I jog down the two flights of stairs. I don’t dare return to our suite, in fear I’ll be locked inside. Instead, I head toward the kitchen then stand in front of the disguised elevator. Once I punch in the code, I pull myself inside.

  My belly knots with nerves, hoping my father’s electronic system isn’t tracking me. But I’m confident he’s so embroiled in his games that he’ll allow nothing to break his focus. The basement hallway lights up as the elevator door slides open.

  I enter the control room, careful to keep the light off in case my father leaves the game. The screens each show a different room, all of them empty except for one. My eyes widen at the sight of Don and Clara in a concrete room with a typewriter on a table. Metal braces and screws fasten the table to the floor.

  “This is some bullshit,” Don says, his voice echoing in the hollow space.

  Clara’s arms wrap around her body, shivering, as gallons of water swirl around her legs, filling the room surely and steadily. Her long black hair lay wildly about her shoulders, set in stark contrast to her white nightgown, reminiscent of Catherine roaming the shrieking moors for Heathcliff.

  On the wall, scrawled in bright red letters is a phrase.

  Type the name of the girl you murdered in 1995, or her fate will be yours.

  “W-who died in 1995?” Clara asks, teeth chattering.

  “Open the fucking door,” Don bellows at the ceiling. “I won’t press charges. We will leave quietly and forget this ever happened.”

  The water rushes with increasing strength, reaching Clara's knees. She uses one hand to steady herself against her husband’s shoulder.

  “In 1995, you were, what … like, nineteen?”

  Don glares at his wife. “Shut up.”

  “Did you do it?” she says quietly.

  “I said shut the fuck up!”

  She sighs and wraps her arms around herself. “Clearly the people in charge here know more than you think they know.”

  An expression of fury moves across his face, his brilliant blue eyes igniting. “Clara, I swear to God—”

  “Don’t swear to God. He doesn’t listen to liars.” Clara stares at her husband with stoic calmness.

  A hushed exhale of awe moves out of me as I watch Fernando’s aunt set herself like a defiant boulder of opposition against her husband’s wrath.

  The water level reaches Clara’s hips, bubbling around the base of the securely anchored typewriter. She moves forward and presses a key, clearly an incorrect one, which makes the water level rise even faster.

  “Donnie,” she says, her eyes widened with urgency as the torrent inches up her waist.

  He shoots her a look of disdain. “They can’t let us die. I played their stupid game long enough. I’m done.”

  “Please, just do it. You know they can’t use any of this information against you. It’s involuntary. Coerced. It wouldn’t hold up in court.”

  His lip curls in a snarl. “Can’t guarantee that. I won’t do it. They’ll just need to let us out before we drown.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  He doesn’t answer his wife, jus
t turns away and wades through the water that’s risen to his ribcage. Once he reaches the wall, he slams the side of his fists against it. With a curse, he comes to the swift realization that he won’t be able to punch his way through concrete. He pushes his way back to Clara.

  A look of fear masks her face. “If they’ve gone this far, I don’t doubt they’ll let us drown.”

  “And will this be it?” he hisses, his eyes blazing in fury. “Are these the only hard questions they have planned? Say I get the name right and the wall opens to a new room with something even worse?”

  She blinks, her eyes fixed steadfast on him. “I guess it depends on what you’ve done.”

  He bellows a shout of rage, clenching his fists into his blond hair. A maniacal, but bitter sounding laugh erupts from his chest as defeat washes over his features.

  Chest expanding, Donnie takes in a lungful of air before lowering himself below the water line. An underwater camera shows him touching keys on the typewriter as they appear in block lettering on the wall.

  Edith.

  Don emerges from the water, looking around. Nothing happens. Beside him, Clara keeps herself buoyant by moving her arms in figure eights at her side.

  “Add the l-last name,” she says, teeth chattering.

  With a grimace, Don slips below the water and letter by letter, the last name appears on the wall.

  Montague.

  Immediately, the water level subsides, dropping inch by inch until all that remains are the dripping, shivering Capulets.

  My eyes move over the screen, wondering where Beatriss is. Fernando and I had left her with Abram in the studio. Guilt twists in my gut at the realization that we left her with a wolf shrouded in the skin of a sheep.

  At the far side of the concrete room, a wall partition slides away, and the concrete room darkens. A yellow light pulses from the new room.

  “It’s warm over there,” Clara says.

  “Just stay the fuck here.”

  “But I’m cold.”