Giovanni

by Natasha Knight

  I nod and guess Emilia should be fuming at his referring to her as “the girl,” but she’s too anxious to notice.

  When we reach the door to the meeting room, she abruptly puts her hand on my arm. “Who’s in there?”

  “Friends of Alessandro.”

  Her mask of composure slips for just a second, just long enough for me to see that little girl underneath, the glimpse I had one other time. Except this time, she’s not lost. She’s terrified.

  “Please don’t make me,” she pleads. She’s never begged before. Never let herself stoop so low. “Please.”

  “I told you, you’ll be safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  I turn to her, take her arms, squeeze. “You had every chance to tell me what the hell you’re so afraid of. What it is that happened. But you didn’t. You wanted to keep your secrets. Thing is, Emilia, my asking, it wasn’t ever a request. So, unless you want to talk now…”

  She studies me, searches my eyes, then lowers her lashes. I push the door open and step inside, pull her inside with me.

  Six men are sitting at the table, two wearing suits, the others in T-shirts and jeans, all looking a little worse for wear. A dozen men stand guard around the room.

  I look at each of the seated men, meeting each set of eyes in turn. I memorize the face of the one who has his locked on Emilia. I don’t look at her. I don’t need to. I know she’s staring back at him, the stranger in the dirty T-shirt and ripped jeans, the only one of the six who is leaning back against his seat, his greasy head resting casually against the back of the chair. When he moves his hand to scratch his armpit, I see how dirty his nails are.

  But the thing that gets my hackles up isn’t any of this. It’s the one corner of his mouth that’s curved up into a smirk. It’s the fact that I feel Emilia tremble beside me. Feel her nudge closer to me, seeking safety. Protection. It’s in the small sound she makes that I know she hopes no one hears. That trembling exhale, the fear in the soft breath, the desperation.

  “Vincent,” I say, not taking my eyes off the man who’s looking at her. At every inch of her. I feel my hand tightening around her arm. I know I’m hurting her, but it’s not her I want to hurt.

  “Sir.” Vincent is beside me.

  I hand her to him, make sure he’s got hold of her because I’m not sure she won’t collapse if left to stand on her own.

  Once Vincent has her, I step over to the man whose smirk has widened into a grin. I instantly have my fingers in his greasy hair and yank his head back hard. I want to keep pulling. I want to tear his head off his body. Rip him apart.

  “You keep looking at her like that, and I’ll pop your eyeballs out of their sockets and feed them to you, understand.”

  It’s not a question. I don’t want an answer. I slam his face into the table then release him, step back, and adjust the sleeve of my suit jacket.

  A quick glance at Emilia shows me her white face. Her eyes have gone huge, and she’s trembling, but she’s not looking at me. She’s still staring at him. Can’t take her eyes off him. Doesn’t even blink.

  And I’ve never seen her this afraid.

  This was a mistake.

  Bringing her here was a mistake. I’ll fix it, but first, I need to get a message to these men.

  “Gentlemen.” I use the term very loosely. “In case you don’t know who I am, my name is Giovanni Santa Maria.”

  No one speaks. Two are still staring at the one who’s bleeding all over himself.

  “You’re here because of your continued loyalty to Alessandro Estrella.”

  “We don’t know where he is,” one of the men says. “He fucking disappeared like a fucking ghost. Left us to clean up his shit.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what he left you with. That’s not my problem. I want Estrella. You’re going to smoke him out of whatever hole he’s hiding in and bring him to me.”

  “Where is my wife?” one of the men asks. “They took my wife.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Your women are downstairs.” I did take them, one from each man. Wife, girlfriend, daughter, I didn’t care.

  “They’re not involved—”

  “Again, not my problem. You have seventy-two hours.” I turn to Emilia. When her eyes meet mine, what I see inside them, that desperation, that plea—it almost makes me stop. Almost changes my mind.

  Almost.

  But this is business. And I can’t change my mind. That’s not how this works. And so I take her from Vincent and turn her around so her back is to the men.

  Some of them gasp. The one with the broken nose just glances up.

  “After that, I start marking your women up one by one, just like Estrella marked her up.”

  When two of the men make to stand, the soldiers along the walls move forward, grip their shoulders, and force them back down. I look once more at the man whose nose I broke.

  “Let them go, but keep this one,” I tell one of the soldiers, then take Emilia by the arm and walk her out the door.

  “Who is he to you?” I ask her the moment we’re out in the noisy club.

  She just stares past me at that door. I’m not sure she hears me right now. She’s still shaking, and her eyes have a strange look to them.

  I see Kill walking purposefully toward us.

  “Who is he to you, Emilia?”

  She rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes, and when she pulls them away, they’re black with mascara and eyeliner and there’s a dark streak of it across her temple.

  “Giovanni,” Kill says.

  I turn to him, and he drags his gaze from Emilia to me. He looks ruffled, the cuff of his shirt is stained red. It’s not like him. Killian Black is always in control.

  “I have that information.”

  “I need to get her home.”

  “It can’t wait. Hugo will put her in a room.” Hugo appears behind Kill.

  Emilia’s eyes snap to mine, and I imagine what she’s seeing. Three men. Three powerful, dangerous men. And her between us, at our mercy.

  “Vincent.” He’s at my side in an instant. “Take her home.” I take Emilia’s arms, make her look at me. She doesn’t fight. Doesn’t put up any resistance at all. I get that same feeling again, that she has learned which battles to fight. Which ones she won’t win. That she knows when to roll over. Give up. And I like it less now than I did before. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. We’ll talk then.”

  She doesn’t reply, just blinks like she doesn’t quite see me. Her forehead is furrowed like she’s working something out in her head. Some complicated problem.

  I hand her to Vincent and walk to the private elevator, which will take us up to Kill’s private office.

  15

  Emilia

  I thought I was farther along than this. I mean, I knew I wasn’t over it, but I didn’t know it would be like this. Like seeing him, seeing any one of them, that it would take me right back to those nights. To that basement. To that stench, to me lying in it. Me alone with them. With all of them.

  I did fight, in the beginning. They were just stronger than me.

  Men like that, like my brother, like them, they like it when you fight. They want you to fight. It gets them off.

  Giovanni is like them. He’s one of those men. Violence, to him, it’s like breathing.

  He betrayed me tonight, but that’s my own fault. I don’t know when I started trusting him, but in a way, I guess I did. Lesser of two evils. He said that. I guess that’s what I thought too, but it was a mistake.

  His words come back to me, his threat to those men. Does he really intend to hurt their women like Alessandro hurt me? Does he really intend to whip them? At least he doesn’t know what else they did. What would he do then? Would he do that to those poor women?

  No. No, he’s not a monster. He’s not like that. He wouldn’t do that. I don’t think Giovanni would steal a soul. Steal the life from it.

  It takes me a

minute to remember where I am when Vincent clears his throat.

  I look up at him, look around. We’re back at Giovanni’s house. In his garage.

  “I want to go home,” I say, even though I know it’s pointless.

  “Giovanni wants you here.”

  I shake my head. “He said home.”

  “I need you to go into the house now.”

  I look down at my lap, at my hands. At the seat beside me. “Where’s my purse?”

  “You didn’t bring one.”

  “Oh.”

  He clears his throat again. I climb out of the car and walk into the house because I can’t leave. He won’t let me. Once we’re inside, I go into the living room and go behind the bar to look for a bottle of whiskey. He has several. I find the brand I know, the one my father used to drink, and I pull it out to pour myself some.

  That’s when I see the shiny pistol hidden there, behind the bottles. I touch it, pull it forward. But I leave it alone and take my drink. I drink it down, all of it, forcing myself to swallow, to not choke.

  I then take the bottle and the glass and bypass Vincent, who is standing in the hallway, and climb the stairs up to Giovanni’s bedroom. There, I pour myself another glass and strip off this stupid dress and put my shorts and shirt back on that I’d worn earlier today.

  I go into the bathroom and wash off my makeup. I scrub my face so hard that it feels too dry afterward. I brush out my hair and pull it into a ponytail. It’s messy, but I don’t care. Back in the bedroom, I pour another glass of whiskey and lie down on the bed. I can smell us on it. I smell sex. I smell him. It makes me want him again.

  God, what is wrong with me?

  Lesser of two evils, but not really. Evil is still evil.

  I force myself to sit up, to stand. Looking around, I find my shoes and slip them on. They’re ballet flats. Soft and comfortable. They’re more for inside, but they’ll do better than the four-inch heels. Reaching into my pocket, I take out that scrap of paper Giovanni gave me and read the address where Nan and my father are, then shove it away and open the drawer in the dresser where I’d found the cash when he’d left me here alone all day. I don’t have my purse, my wallet. I don’t know where they are, so I have no choice. I only take what I need. Picking up the bottle of whiskey and my glass, I go back downstairs.

  I’m quiet. I know Vincent is here somewhere, but I don’t see him. With the pretense of replacing the bottle, I reach for the pistol, make sure it’s loaded, and slip it into the waistband of my shorts. It’s bigger than I’m used to, heavier too, and it feels awkward, but it doesn’t matter. My shirt covers it.

  Taking my glass, I walk quietly to the French doors that lead to the garden. There’s a slight breeze. It rustles the leaves of the trees.

  I walk toward the swimming pool, slip off my shoes, and dip one foot in the water. There’s movement inside the house. A glance tells me it’s Vincent, so I sit at the edge of the pool and let my legs hang in the water. I look down into it, into the deep end. It’s where I almost drowned. Where he saved me. Where he said he wouldn’t let me go.

  And where I’m sitting, this is the spot where Giovanni made love to me.

  He mostly fucks me, but sometimes he makes love. I like it when he does, but it’s strange. It makes me feel out of control, and at the same time, it feels right. Feels like that’s how it should be. Like when a man touches a woman, it shouldn’t always be to hurt.

  Giovanni doesn’t hurt me—no, that’s not true. He does hurt me, but because I want him to. Because he makes me come. He was right the other night. I can only come when I’m hurt.

  But tonight, he betrayed me, and now, Alessandro knows where I am. He’ll come for me. He’ll come to finish the job he started. I escaped him once, but that won’t happen again. My luck ran out that night four years ago. I used it up when I somehow managed to crawl out of that basement window. When I managed to move at all, to walk, after what they did.

  I shake my head, block the memory. Shove it back into its box.

  I can’t let it out. I won’t survive if I do. If I start seeing them again, seeing their faces, feeling the weight of them on me, their sweat, smelling their smells, feeling them inside me…I can’t. I’ll drown if I do.

  I drag one foot out of the pool, listen to the sound of water drip back in, watch the ripples.

  There’s a weight to water. What would happen if I just slipped in right now? It would take the slightest movement. A shimmy forward, just a shifting of weight. I could be quiet. Not make a splash like last time when he threw me in. I was scared then. Now, I could just slip beneath the surface and let myself float, let the water carry me, engulf me. Feel myself become weightless. I’d close my eyes this time. I don’t want to see. I like the sound of it, of water filling my ears. But I’m afraid it will hurt when I breathe in. Lungs aren’t meant to hold water, and I think it will hurt.

  And so, because I am a coward, I stand and dry my feet as best as I can in the grass and put on my shoes. I walk to the back of the garden where there’s a door. It’s locked, I know from the last time, but I take the pistol out of the waistband of my shorts and aim it at the lock, and I fire.

  It’s loud, and I know Vincent hears, but it doesn’t matter because I’m fast. When the door falls open, I run. I run out into the street, and I keep running. I don’t look back. I don’t look over my shoulder. Not once. I just run and run and run until I’m engulfed not by water but by people. By so many people that I can disappear.

  16

  Giovanni

  Kill hands me a glass of whiskey and pours a generous one for himself.

  “Hugo got a little more out of John Diaz, which eventually led to some photographs,” Kill says once he’s finished his glass.

  “Photographs?”

  He nods.

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “Yes. And you should know, it’s bad.”

  I feel every muscle tense. “How bad?” I need to be prepared. I’ve been unprepared with her once before.

  “I don’t know the girl, but after seeing what I saw, I hurt that motherfucker. I don’t know what kind of deal you made with him, but he’s wishing he was dead right about now, and the only reason he’s not is because you wanted him kept alive.” He points to an envelope lying on the table among several monitors. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  I hear myself thank Kill in a voice like my own but not quite mine. I stand there, holding my drink, not quite drinking, though, and watch as he disappears into the elevator. His expression is hard, unrelenting as the doors slide closed, and I’m left alone. I turn, set my glass down, and pick up the envelope. I sit behind the desk and open it. And I stare. I just stare at the grainy color photo. I guess it was taken with a phone. Blown up to 8x10. The quality is bad, or the camera was dirty. But not bad enough to hide this.

  It takes me a full minute to turn it over and look at the next one. I only do it after I’ve memorized every face in that first one, recognizing three easily. Emilia, John Diaz, and the asshole whose nose I broke tonight. The rest I don’t know. They’re in the other photographs as well. Just as I wonder who took the pictures, I see. A selfie. Alessandro and Emilia. Except he’s the only one smiling. And I know they’re in chronological order. I can see it on her face. I can see exactly when the fight went out of her. I can see when she learned to roll over and survive. Just survive.

  The whipping wasn’t what broke her.

  Five men.

  Five pieces of shit.

  Five pieces of shit and her brother, the grand master. And lying on the floor between them, one bleeding, broken girl.

  Rage churns in my gut. Rage and a burning need to do violence. To hurt. To break. To kill. Slowly. Painfully. To maim. To dismember. And finally, to wipe from the earth.

  I stand up. Push the button for the elevator. Get on. Music assaults my ears when the doors slide open. I step out, but it’s like I can’t hear or see anything.

  My hands are fists of concrete and my body is steel. A weapon more deadly than a gun.

  Hugo and Kill are waiting for me by the doors that lead to the downstairs rooms. I don’t acknowledge the looks on the faces of the people I pass. Of the sea that parts as I approach. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and I don’t recognize myself. My eyes are hard, like stone. Rage has turned them almost black. The tension in my muscles makes me look even bigger.

  Neither Kill nor Hugo speak, but they follow me down the steel stairs, the sound of three approaching men like a death sentence because each one of us, we’re lethal.

  One of the overhead lamps blinks. I keep walking. I know where to go. I know which door the asshole from tonight is behind because at Kill’s nod, a soldier opens a door, and I step inside.

  He’s leaning against the far wall, arms folded across his chest. When he sees me, he straightens, alarm stealing the arrogant assuredness of his expression. His nose has stopped bleeding, but it’s about to start again.

  “Leave us alone,” I say, my voice unfamiliar. Like that of someone caged and seething for too long. Like some rabid animal.

  The door closes behind me, and I’m alone with him. He’s putting his hands up, and I think he’s trying to say something, but I don’t hear him. I can’t. Rage is ringing too loud for me to hear anything but it.

  I move directly to him, take his hair into my fist, and this time, it’s the wall I smash his head against, and it’s not just once. This time, I don’t stop. I do it again and again and again. Blood is splattering against my face, in my nose, my eyes. It’s in my mouth, but I still don’t stop.

  He’s gone limp, and his face, it’s collapsing…collapsed. He no longer looks human, and there’s so much blood, but I only realize it when I drop him. When I see the pool I’m standing in, that’s stained my shoes and ruined my suit.

  But I still don’t stop.

  He’s dead. Long dead. But I kick his gut, his back, his broken face. I beat him until every bone in his body is broken and only regret I didn’t start with this. I didn’t start with the pain before killing the piece of shit.

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