Twisted

by Knight, Natasha

  And he gets up and walks away and a few minutes later, he’s gone.

  11

  Amelia

  “I think Willow Girls were made to cry.”

  I let myself wallow for exactly five minutes after he leaves before I push the covers off and get up to shower. I can’t just lie there feeling sorry for myself. Can’t just let him beat me.

  When I return to the bedroom, I find several bags of clothes and shoes waiting for me. Everything I could need for several weeks and all of it my size. I choose a pair of jeans and a warm wool sweater along with a pair of boots that reach up to my knees.

  At the door, I hesitate, but steel my spine and open it to head downstairs.

  I will not be some meek little doll. I won’t break this easily.

  Gregory is having coffee and reading the paper when I get to the dining room. He glances up when I enter, looks me over, nods once in approval then returns his attention to the paper.

  I pour myself some coffee from the carafe and help myself to a croissant.

  He thinks he knows me? Well, I know him too. I know his weakness.

  I just have to find some to use it against him.

  To make him feel the way he makes me feel.

  He folds the paper and sets it aside.

  “It’s good manners to thank someone when you receive a gift.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The clothes.”

  “The clothes are not a gift. You kidnapped me, remember?” His face darkens, and I turn my attention to stirring cream into my coffee. “Besides, I didn’t ask for a gift.”

  “Would you prefer to walk around naked? Because that can certainly be arranged.”

  I don’t doubt it.

  “Amelia?”

  I turn to him. I glare. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he says, one side of his mouth curving upward into a smile.

  Fuck. You.

  “You should call your sister today.”

  I’m surprised by this. “Why?”

  “She seems worried. She’s been texting you.”

  He takes out my cell phone, which was in his pocket, and slides it across the table to me.

  “You read my messages?”

  He shrugs a shoulder.

  “When she finds out what you did, she’ll come get me.”

  “Probably. But thing is, I don’t think you’re going to tell her. Because I don’t think you want her to come get you.”

  I don’t reply.

  “Besides, I haven’t collected all I paid for.”

  I shrink back, his words making me feel small.

  “Would you have gone through with it? With a stranger?” he asks.

  “Aren’t you a stranger?” And doesn’t that make me some sort of whore?

  “We’re different, you and me.” Any mockery is gone replaced by something almost sad. “We were never strangers. History saw to that.”

  I watch him, and I think what beautiful poetry he makes. What terrible, beautiful poetry. And in that moment, I think I see him. I think I glimpse the man beneath the monster.

  But it’s gone as swiftly as it came.

  And he’s still every bit the monster.

  He takes the phone back, scrolls through, pushes a button and puts it on the table between us.

  When Helena answers on the second ring, he gives me a smirk.

  “Amy? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call,” she says over speaker.

  “Oh.” I’m unprepared.

  “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

  I look at Gregory who’s watching me so confidently. So much like he knows exactly what I’m going to say.

  “Amy?”

  “I’m fine, Helena. Sorry. I just…” I look down at the table.

  “Where are you? Isn’t it the middle of the night? Are you hurt? Did something happen?”

  Shit. Time difference.

  Gregory’s grin bares every single one of his teeth.

  I move to swipe the phone off the table and take it off speaker, but he catches my wrist, shakes his head.

  “Amy? What’s going on?”

  “I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” I say. “I got this last-minute job…um…in France. Another girl got sick, so my agent sent me in her place.”

  “France? Where in France?”

  “Oh. Uh. Paris.”

  “You’re in Paris and didn’t tell me?”

  “It was all very last minute, and I’ve been so busy, and I…” I think. “I needed to buy a new charger for my phone since mine is the wrong kind…” I’m rambling and Gregory’s enjoying every second of my discomfort. “The battery died.”

  “Well, how long are you there? It’s only a short flight. I’m sure the doctor—”

  “No. You shouldn’t come. I’m leaving again tomorrow. Flying back. I won’t have time to see you.”

  “Well, can’t you extend the trip and come to the island?”

  I pause. She’s so close, my sister. I can go to her right now. I can fly to Venice. I can take a train.

  It’s what I should do.

  If I were sane, it’s what I would do.

  But I meet Gregory’s eyes and I know I won’t.

  “No. I’m sorry. I have another job when I’m back.”

  “Wow,” she pauses. “That’s great, Amy. I’m glad it’s working out for you.”

  Guilt twists my heart.

  I’m a liar.

  Strange that the only person I’m not lying to is my enemy.

  “I have to go.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Helena asks. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “Yeah. Just tired. I forgot to ask how you are.”

  “Fine. Tired too.”

  “I bet.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “Amy…”

  “I have to go. They’re waiting for me. I’ll call you again as soon as I can, okay?”

  It’s silent. I need to get off the phone. Helena knows me too well.

  “Talk to you soon,” I say.

  “Bye.”

  I hang up, tuck the phone into the pocket of my sweater.

  “What doctor?” Gregory asks.

  I look at him and I wonder if he knows. If he knows that Helena is pregnant.

  “I don’t know,” I lie.

  He watches me, stands, walks behind my chair. He reaches into my pocket to take the phone.

  “You’re a good liar. Better than I expected you’d be.”

  I exhale.

  He believed me that I didn’t know about the doctor.

  He turns the phone off, takes the battery out again then shoves it into his pocket.

  Matteo walks in just then. He’s wearing his coat and says something to Gregory in Italian.

  Gregory replies, turns to me. “I’ll be back later. If you need anything, Irina’s here.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “I have some things to take care of.”

  “Where?”

  “Rome.”

  “Rome?”

  He nods.

  “Can I come?”

  He stops, surprised, and I think he’s going to say no.

  I stand, put my hands on my hips. “If you’re going to keep fucking me, I probably should be sure my pills are up to date. Neither of us wants another Scafoni bastard underfoot, do we?”

  I think I have him.

  I give him a smirk, give myself a mental pat on the back.

  His posture relaxes, he cocks his head to the side. “You get the birth control shot. You just had it three weeks ago.”

  My smile vanishes.

  His grows.

  “I’m not stupid, Amelia. I wouldn’t come inside you if there was any chance of making a Willow whore.”

  I think I physically flinch. How can this man’s words do so much damage?

  How can they so wound me?

  “At least we agree on that then,” I say, having to force myself to hold his gaze ev
en though my voice sounds weak.

  We stand there for a long awkward minute before he finally speaks. “Finish your breakfast.”

  Is that a yes?

  I stick the last of my croissant—okay, the remaining half—into my mouth.

  “Done,” I say quickly, not wanting him to change his mind.

  His eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he gestures for me to walk ahead of him and at the door, he picks up one of the coats hanging on the rack and holds it up for me. It’s a long, gray wool coat with clasp buttons at the front. And it’s a perfect fit just like the other things.

  After he buttons it up, he puts on his own and we go outside where Matteo is waiting with the car.

  It’s good to go outside, although it’s freezing. It’s good to get out of that house.

  The sun is bright, and snow is still blanketed under a layer of ice, everything frozen.

  I watch as Matteo takes the steep curve down the hill, rocks crunching under the heavy tires of the SUV. We drive past a small village and eventually onto a highway that leads us to Rome.

  The city is beautiful and bustling with tourists and locals. It’s so much busier than I expect with traffic, car horns honking and people darting across streets I wouldn’t dare to.

  Matteo follows a few feet behind us, and Gregory has my arm which is a good thing because I’m sure I’d be run over by a car with all the gawking I’m doing at the ancient buildings and churches and squares that are just the norm here.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” I say.

  Gregory stops and looks at me and looks around me like he’s seeing it differently for the first time.

  He has no idea how lucky he is to have grown up surrounded by all of this history. It must have been so exciting, thrilling.

  “Just take care not to get hit by a car.”

  “Would you be sad?”

  He grins. “Matteo will take you to get what you need.”

  I glance at Matteo and I don’t know why it matters, why I should care if it’s Gregory or Matteo. Both are my jailors, aren’t they?

  What was it he’d said that night at the bar? Devil you know?

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  He puts his finger on the tip of my nose like I’m a child. “Curious little Willow Girl.”

  “Stop calling me that. I’m not the Willow Girl.”

  He grips my collar, pulls me to him, but it’s not hard, just abrupt. “Be good. Do as Matteo says, or I’ll punish you, do you understand?”

  The excitement I felt at being here dissipates and I nod my head.

  “Matteo,” he says, not taking his eyes off me, releasing me, adjusting my coat. “Take her where she needs to go.”

  He nods, and Gregory is about to walk away, and I hate this but I clear my throat. He checks his watch, raises his eyebrows.

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Matteo will take care of it.”

  I raise my chin up, my lips tightening. I hate this.

  He steps toward me. “What do you say, Amelia?” he taunts.

  I grit my teeth. “Thank you, Gregory.”

  He smiles then walks off, disappearing into the crowd.

  I look up at Matteo who doesn’t seem at all uncomfortable or put out at having to babysit me.

  “Is there a pharmacy?” I ask.

  He nods, and we walk a few blocks to a pharmacy where I spend about forty-five minutes looking at things I don’t need because pharmacies here are very different than what I expect. I buy some essentials and decide on some non-essentials too, lip gloss, mascara, eye liner. A little cover up because I’m starting to look like a racoon from the lack of sleep.

  When we’re done, I see the hairdresser around the corner, and I have an idea.

  Instantly, a very loud warning voice inside my head screams no. Screams it would be stupid to taunt him. That I’d be asking for his wrath.

  But my legs carry me in, and Matteo follows me to the door where I stop him.

  “I need to fix this,” I say, pointing to my hair. “It’ll probably take a little time. Like an hour or maybe more. So why don’t you go get some coffee or something. There.” I point to a café across the street.

  He gives me a smirk much like Gregory’s. “Nice try.”

  I suck in a frustrated breath. “Just wait outside then. I’m not going to run away. I have nowhere to go and no money, remember? And I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “I need a smoke anyway,” he says.

  That works just fine.

  I walk inside and it’s a small place with one older woman in a chair having her hair rolled into curlers and a hairdresser reading a magazine behind the counter.

  She looks up when I enter, and I go to her.

  “Can you fix this?” I ask gesturing to the back of my hair, which is crooked. I literally had gripped a handful of it and cut it straight across the night I’d colored my hair.

  She looks at it, says something in Italian and gestures for me to take a seat.

  “Also, I’d like a little color.”

  I pick up a hair color magazine and point to what I want, where I want it on my head. She clearly thinks it’s a bad idea but shrugs a shoulder and we begin.

  I can see Matteo in the reflection of the mirror. He’s busy on his phone and smokes two cigarettes in a row, looking back to check that I’m still there every few minutes. I give him a grin and a wave. After he’s finished with his cigarettes, he comes into the salon and takes a seat, still busy on his phone.

  But it doesn’t matter if he’s here. He has no idea what I’m doing. I wonder if he was even on the island. If he knew Helena or even saw her.

  About an hour and a half later, the girl tugs my smock off with a flair. “Voila,” she says, and I get a look at it. Turn my head a little to check the color.

  It’s perfect.

  At a quick glance, I could be her.

  I ignore the sinking feeling in my belly and get to my feet. “I love it,” I tell her.

  Matteo stands too, is clearly confused with my choice in color, but pays the girl and we leave.

  He checks his watch.

  I’m biting my lip, wondering if I should buy a hat. Second guessing myself.

  “Mr. Scafoni will be finished in a few minutes.”

  I turn to Matteo. “Mr. Scafoni can wait a little longer. I need a few more things.”

  I walk ahead of him into the art supply store I spy a few shops away. Inside, I pick up two new sketchbooks—mine are full—and some pencils.

  At the cash register, they have a rack of berets. They’re felt, not real hats, or not meant to be worn as such. There’s a fat, mustached cartoon character painting a scene wearing one of the berets, but I don’t understand the text. Still, I pick one up, cut off the tag and set it on the counter and tuck my hair into the hat, ignoring that same voice inside my head now calling me chicken.

  “Now I’m finished,” I say after Matteo pays. “Although I am hungry.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Let’s go.” He takes my arm and I follow, carrying my two bags. A light snow has begun to fall again, just some flurries, but it feels even colder than before.

  It takes us fifteen minutes to get to a tiny street, almost an alley, that is utterly quiet compared to the rest of the city. There, in the far corner is a small tattoo parlor.

  Matteo opens the door and I walk in and it’s deeper than it looks, and quite dark. Music screams from the loudspeaker and I realize what his appointment is. What he’s been doing.

  My face grows serious when I see him at the back. He must have seen me when I walked in because his dark gaze is intent on me.

  If it hurts, he doesn’t show it. I’ve never had a tattoo, so I don’t know.

  I take a step toward the back. I want to see. But Matteo catches my arm.

  “He’s almost finished. Sit down.”

  I tug my arm free and don’t sit.

  We just keep watching each other
, Gregory and I, my skin prickling under his intense gaze.

  The girl who’s working on him says something, glances up at me. I instantly don’t like her. She’s beautiful, with long black hair and full sleeve tattoos on both arms and even little colorful stars at one temple.

  He replies to her and then, a few minutes later, he’s finished.

  He stands, looks back at his shoulder in the mirror, still too far for me to see.

  She points something out and they have a quick conversation as she places something over the tattoo to protect it.

  I want to see. I’m desperate to.

  I wonder what I can exchange for him to let me see.

  But then I remember what I did, what’s under the felt beret. I touch the thick, blow-dried strands and watch him hand the girl a stack of bills before returning his gaze to me as he pulls on his shirt.

  The girl tucks the money into her back pocket, and I feel a pang of jealousy because she knows this other part of him, this intimate and very personal part.

  He walks toward me, and I can’t help my gaze from dropping to the lines of muscle on his hard belly, his sculpted chest and I feel my face heat up as I remember how we were this morning.

  Him behind me.

  Holding me.

  Inside me.

  When I meet his eyes, he narrows his and I know he knows what I’m thinking.

  He doesn’t say anything apart from complimenting my hat, though.

  I touch it, adjust it, trying to hide the silver strands beneath it.

  “Thank you.”

  He puts his coat on, the silence between us heavy.

  “You have everything you need?” he asks.

  I nod, not quite looking at him.

  “You got a tattoo.” I wonder if he’ll be covered head to toe in ink when he’s finished.

  He puts his coat on, walks to me as he buttons it.

  “You fixed your hair,” he says, and I have no choice but to face him.

  I see the change in his eyes instantly.

  His big hand cups a handful of hair, dark and light all in the same grip. I stare up at him, but his eyes are on that silver streak, and then he’s dragging the beret off my head and more hair is falling into his hand and I think this was a really bad idea. The very worst idea.

  He meets my eyes and my belly feels strange, like a brick has just dropped inside it.

  He fists the beret in his hand and wraps his gloved one around the back of my neck, turning me roughly toward the door and I can feel his anger growing and all I can do is hug my bags to myself and stumble along with him as his grip tightens.