by S. Massery
“Hello?” a groggy female voice answers.
I do the quick math and realize it’s midnight in New York.
“Hi, um—”
“Amelie.” The voice is clearer now.
“Gemma?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Why did you give me your number?” I sit up straight. “I mean, I don’t mind it. I just… am confused.”
“I hoped you would call and tell me you got wherever you were going all right.”
“Oh.” I glance around the space. “I did.”
“And are you happy?”
No. The answer comes out of the recesses of my mind without hesitation. So instead of admitting that, I say, “I would like your opinion on something.”
She pauses, and something shuffles around. “Hang on one sec.” Running water fills in behind her breathing, and then she says, “Okay. Sorry, my brother is nosy. If he hears me talking, he’ll barge in and start asking questions…”
“Ah.” I swallow. “Between you and me, Wilder did some shady stuff to a family where I’m staying, and they tried to take it out on me last time.”
“So you’re in danger?”
“No,” I hurry to say. “Well, I don’t know. I just want to make things right.”
She hums. “Women are more receptive to change.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I mutter.
She chuckles. “Okay, so I’m assuming it’s a girl he screwed over… or maybe just screwed? Either way, start with her and go from there.”
“That was my plan. I have her address. But I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to get shot… in your humble opinion.”
I smooth the second paper out. Ricardo’s handwriting is a sharp staccato, all pointed lines and little flow. It’s easy to read, although I don’t know exactly where this is.
“Be prepared,” she says.
I hesitate to ask the question on the tip of my tongue. It’s not really anything I expect she can answer, but I woke up with this on my mind, and I haven’t been able to shake it. “You spend most of your teenage life being told you have to fit a mold, and suddenly that mold is smashed to bits. Do you break with it?”
She thinks about it. “No, I don’t think so. I’d like to think I’m flexible enough to form something new. Maybe my own shape entirely.”
“I like that,” I reply. I like the idea of deciding for myself.
“And now I have a question of my own.”
“Shoot.” I owe her a lot more than a question.
And a favor.
“They’re still looking for Wilder’s killer?”
I tilt my head. “I think so. Last I heard, Aiden was in charge of that.” I think back to the menial chatter at the funeral. People who thought he wasn’t doing the best job digging out information on the Wests. “They know it was one of your family.”
“Know,” she scoffs. “They’re guessing. And we’re in danger because of it.”
“Are you saying everyone in your family is innocent?” That seems… unlikely. Especially given their feud.
“No,” she replies. “I just don’t know who did it, and it’s my family that’s under the gun. How are they supposed to know when I can’t even figure it out? I suspect, but…”
“Don’t want to ask?” I snort. “I get it. But to answer your question, I’m pretty sure Aiden is on the hunt.”
She doesn’t reply.
“Do you… know him?”
“Once. A long time ago.” There’s another short silence, then the water cuts off. “I’ve got to go. Good luck with the girl. I don’t need to tell you not to underestimate her, do I?”
“Not at all.” She might be the most dangerous of the Costa siblings.
After I make a cup of coffee and eat the last of the frozen waffles, I go upstairs to get ready. I try not to think about it like going to war. Really, I’m going to bargain for my own right to stay here. I shower quickly, then strap the knife in its sheath to my leg. It’s warm out today, and I have a feeling I’ll be taking off the jacket eventually. I slide the gun holster’s clip onto the waistband of my light-wash jeans. It goes well with the dark color of the jacket.
I shake out my wet hair and put a hair tie on my wrist.
And then I’m ready.
My phone plots out the best route for me, and I commit it to memory before stowing my phone away. It would be just my luck to wander down the streets of Sanremo and run into someone who wanted to hurt me.
Again, rather.
This time, I’m prepared. I’ve steeled myself for potential violence. There’s no one to rely on. No one I can ask for help. That, in itself, is a lesson in bravery.
Along the way, I explore. I stop in some shops, smiling at the store owners. I didn’t bring a lot of money—in fact, my budget will be running out soon, and I need to save for food. But I smile at the people I come across.
That untethered feeling comes back, stronger now. If I just jumped, my feet might never touch earth again.
I’ve never not had money. It’s the most ridiculous thing in the world. My parents always provided financial stability. And not just that—but excess, sometimes, too. I plan to stay here as long as possible, casting off the nets that wanted to anchor me to New York. And that means I should probably get a job.
Eventually, I make my way to Mariella’s street. She lives in an apartment above a storefront, squashed close to two others. It’s tall and narrow, befitting of the narrow street. It seems like the buildings are leaning in closer as I go. I ring her doorbell and take a step back.
My nerves are shot. The gun and knife don’t make me feel any safer, and I glance over my shoulder in both directions. The street is quiet.
The door opens, and Mariella appears. She stares at me for a second, as if trying to place me, then scowls. She begins to shut the door in my face, and my stomach knots.
“Please, wait,” I blurt out.
She pauses, and somehow I know she won’t ask me why I’m here. To ask would be admitting curiosity, and right now only disdain fills her expression. Her curly dark hair is pinned partially back away from her face. Her skin glows against the white dress, tanner than I had assumed when we met before. She’s all bronze and gold.
“I lied to you. About Wilder. And, if you’d let me, I want to explain what happened.”
She lifts her chin. “I know you lied about Wilder.”
“Because you didn’t find him at the villa in France, or because you saw our news and know he’s dead?”
She flinches slightly.
“Let me in, Mariella. I just want to talk.”
Her dark eyes appraise me, then she steps aside. We climb a set of steep, narrow stairs to her apartment, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight until we’re on even ground, and she’s not behind me anymore.
“Tea?” she offers.
I nod, following her into the kitchen. The walls are light yellow, the counters all white tile. It feels like a place she could be happy in.
“Here,” she says, offering me a mug. “Let’s sit.”
She has a tiny dining table against the wall, two chairs that face each other. A small vase sits in the center with wildflowers in it.
“Talk,” she says.
I stir milk and honey into the tea, sucking my lower lip between my teeth. I contemplate my words, then say, “Wilder and I were arranged to be married. For the past three years, I lived knowing I was going to marry a stranger. I only had hope that I could love him eventually.”
She inclines her chin. “That’s what you meant when you said he hurt you? Because you were arranged to be married? That’s a load of shit, Amelie. You can marry someone and be happy.”
“Or you can marry someone and it can be the worst thing in the world,” I reply quietly. “I was prepared to walk down the aisle and accept the consequences. It was a duty. I think you understand that.”
She narrows her eyes.
I’m not making any friends here.
“Listen.” I exhale. “He died, and I married Luca. I thought I could love him, but I was wrong.” That hurts to say. It’s like I’ve turned my knife in on me, impaled it into my stomach. All those jagged edges inside me shift again, and I can’t help but wonder when they’ll eventually slice through my skin. “I’m so sorry for lying, but your brothers didn’t give me a choice.”
She looks away. “He’s really gone, then?”
“Yes. We just had the funeral two days ago.”
Her gaze comes back to me. “Where’s your ring?”
“What?”
“You’re married to Luca, so you say. Where’s the ring you were wearing last time I saw you?”
I grimace. “Ah, well, so technically I was married to Wilder, and Luca and I thought we were married, but the license for Wilder and me had been filed and processed. A clerical error… So I took off the ring. And he held me captive for two weeks, so there’s that.”
Her mouth drops open. “I didn’t expect that.”
I offer her a brittle smile. “Life hasn’t been all sunshine and roses. Trust me.”
“I…” She can’t meet my eyes. “You were seen coming here. My brothers are on their way.”
I lean back. “Cristian?”
“And Matteo, I think,” she whispers. “They called me and told me you were in the area. If it were up to me, I’d just call it moot. Wilder is gone. Our grievance isn’t with you, if we can believe that you’re not married to Luca.”
The panic of knowing Matteo is on his way here claws up my throat. I can’t speak for a moment, terrified of a repeat of last time.
It won’t be. I’d shoot him in the face before I let him touch me again.
But then it’s too late—her apartment door opens, and footsteps pound on the stairs. They emerge a moment later, first Cristian, then Matteo.
My eyes go to the second brother. His jaw is swollen, even now, but there’s no other sign of damage. His eyes are angry, landing on mine.
Like I’m the one who broke his jaw.
I glare right back.
Mariella stands and goes to Cristian. “Don’t,” she pleads. “Amelie and I have talked. I don’t blame her for what happened, and I don’t think you should hold it against her, either.”
Matteo sneers, although his mouth moves funny. And when he speaks, his voice comes out a bit muffled. “Is that right? The DeSantis bride was sent here—”
“No.” I set down my mug but keep my fingers wrapped around it. I lean back in my chair and cross my legs. “I’m not a DeSantis bride. Not anymore. And I’m no one’s lackey.”
“Ah.” He saunters closer, stopping just in front of me.
He seems to have an issue with women. I refuse to believe it’s just a me thing.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I warn him. I’m surprised at how furious I am, immediately. “You already violated me. Do you expect me to let it happen again?”
He puts his hand on the table and walks his fingers to my arm. “I don’t think you’re in control here.”
I force myself to remain relaxed, while terror and indignation battle for the top spot in my brain. I’m so sick of people thinking they can take advantage of me.
He touches my arm, and I move fast. I channel the attacking power of a snake, ripping the knife from its sheath on my ankle and swinging it in a small arc. I stab the blade down into the top of his hand, through the tendons and bones.
He screams, dropping to his knees beside me. The knife’s tip buries into the wood, keeping him pinned.
“Sooner or later, you’ll realize I don’t fuck around,” I say in his ear. I twist the hilt.
He screams again.
I hold on to the blade the same way I held on to the knife in Ricardo’s stomach. A bit of wild desperation clings to me. I wonder if they see how far gone I really am. The blood pooling on the table is nothing. Not compared to my head, or Ricardo’s injuries. Not compared to the fury churning my gut.
“We’re even,” I say to Cristian, rising from my chair. “Whatever bad blood was between your family and Wilder should’ve ended with his death. Luca killed two men who attacked me, but he spared your brother. I am sparing your brother.” My attention goes to Mariella. “They might be your brothers, but where is the respect for women?”
She avoids my gaze.
“Agreed?” I snap.
“Fine,” Cristian grits out.
I yank the knife free from Matteo’s hand and shove him aside. I might even feel bad if he wasn’t such a dickbag.
I storm downstairs and onto the street, sucking in a huge breath. That might not have been as productive as I’d hoped…
“Wait,” Mariella yells. She chases after me.
She stops a few feet away, eyeing the bloody knife still in my grip.
“What?” I glance around. “No offense, but I don’t really want to hang around and wait for their retaliation.”
She exhales. “You’re right. That’s all. I should be more accountable and stand up when they do something bad. I’ll talk to Cristian, make sure nothing comes back on you.”
“Or Luca’s family,” I add.
She nods. “I’m the one who should’ve apologized for that night. It made me sick to see it, but he’s…”
“I don’t want to hear about how he is,” I say gently. I offer her a slip of paper with my number written on it. “If you ever want to talk, that’s how to reach me.”
Her smile is tentative, and she slowly backs away from me.
I mirror her smile. I won’t say hope has come back to me—not yet. But this is a step in the right direction. A truce… a friendship. I mull that over and head for the water.
31
Amelie
When I was a senior in high school, I was miserable. I was the head cheerleader, I had boys interested in me, I had all the popularity I could win. My name was the first one entered for prom queen, and it was my face everyone glanced at to see how they should react. They followed my lead like little sheep.
I was seventeen. I started my year in Paris as an exchange student. My parents wanted a cultured lady for a daughter, and where else to learn sophistication than the heart of France? And it was nice. Pleasant, even. I learned French, I had a nice host family. But I couldn’t seem to make friends. My popularity had remained in the States, and I didn’t know what to do without it.
I wore it like a cloak, keeping people back. It was the haughtiness in which I approached situations that did it.
But now, as I stride down the street with that familiar expression, I feel more than ever like I’m putting on a show. That person isn’t me anymore. France wasn’t able to tear the mask from my face, but Luca did.
“Amelie!” Paloma steps out of a doorway and beckons to me.
I raise my eyebrows, then follow her. She leads me up a steep set of stairs to a wide terrace that overlooks the street. Her house is set back, small and neat. There are flowers planted along the walkway, the soil around them seeming well-tended to. I smile to myself.
“I didn’t realize you lived out this way.” After my chat with Mariella, I decided to wander. There was no one to stop me, and I was feeling better about confronting Cristian and Matteo. I’d sort of poked the hornet’s nest with my knife, but some guys only respond to a display of power. Being weak or relying on Luca did nothing for me.
“We’re quite close to the restaurant,” she says. “Only two streets over.”
“Oh. Oops.” My cheeks heat. I was a bit lost—not enough to ask for directions or consult my phone, though—but now I can see how the city connects together. It’s enlightening, almost like puzzle pieces clicking into place. It’s not enough, though.
We enter the house. The first room has floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, everything a rich, warm wood. The bookshelves are crammed full. The front window lets in a stream of light, and the leather armchairs make it seem like a den area, of sorts. We keep moving to the living room, which has massive sliding glass doors t
hat show a fenced-in backyard and a breathtaking view of the ocean.
I gravitate toward it.
“What did you do today?” she asks.
“I saw Mariella Costa and straightened some things out,” I say, unable to tear my eyes away from the view. “I think I’m going to stay a while. Do you know if anyone is hiring around here? I don’t speak Italian, but I catch on fast.”
She steps up beside me and sighs. “Sometimes it’s nice to be reminded of youth. What do you mean you straightened things out?”
I shrug. “I just corrected their perception. And warned Matteo to never come near me again.”
She tsks. “Did you threaten them?”
“Only slightly.” I’ll keep the hand-stabbing to myself, then.
“I can use an extra pair of hands in the restaurant, if you’re willing,” she says. “You’re practically family.”
That gets my full attention. I stare at her. “What? Really?”
Never mind that she just called me family—that’s a marvel for another time—she’s offering me a job. A job I could very well suck at.
“I’m getting tired,” she says. “Standing all day, preparation, cutting. I love the restaurant, but someone to share the work would be nice. I’ve been telling Antonio for a year now that we should look for someone.”
She steps away, and I follow her to the kitchen. She’s picking up her keys and purse, slinging it over her shoulder.
“Besides, I am an excellent Italian teacher.”
My heart swells. “You’d do that for me?”
“We’re going to be late.” Without further ado, she heads outside and down the street.
I close the door behind me and race after her. She’s surprisingly fast, and my legs are burning by the time we arrive at the restaurant.
We circle around back, and Paloma stops short behind me. I bump into her back.
“Have you seen Amelie?”
I step around her, eyeing Ricardo. “She has. I’m right here.”
He comes forward with his hands out, like he’s going to grab me, and I jump backward.
“Ricardo,” Paloma snaps.
He freezes and slowly lowers his arms. “Sorry. I just, I went to the house, and it’s been empty. I was worried, especially after I gave you her address.”
