When I’m done, I wipe the back of my hand across my face, my nose, but it only smears the blood, doesn’t wipe it away. I don’t feel anything when I look at the man on the floor. When I look at the mess I’ve made. I don’t feel good or bad or less human. And I don’t feel satisfied either.
One bang of my fist against the door, and it opens. Kill and Hugo are outside. They glance into the room when I make my way to the door behind which John Diaz is waiting to die.
The guard opens that door, and I step inside to find him drinking water through a straw. He’s sitting in his stupid fold-out chair, drinking his last water. When he sees me, he stumbles to his feet, knocking the chair down behind him. He drops the bottle, spilling the water, and falls backward.
I won’t make the same mistake with him. I’ll do it differently. Opposite. Slow. Although I can’t promise too slow.
One word keeps repeating in my head. One single word.
Rapist.
He mutters something as I pick him up, but he can’t talk because half his tongue is missing, and I slam my fist across his jaw and send him flying into the wall, and I don’t stop. I don’t stop until he, too, is a pulp of blood and guts and death.
17
Emilia
He’s gone.
He’s gone. No one is here. Nan. My father. The soldiers. No one.
The taxi is waiting a block away, and I think I should go back before he leaves. He’s already been paid. He can take off and abandon me here.
We’re a couple of hours outside the city in a town I’ve never heard of. It’s the opposite of the city—small and quaint and quiet. The address is a simple house in a normal neighborhood, and the only sign there was anyone here recently is that there are two empty bottles of beer in the sink and a half-eaten container of takeout that doesn’t yet stink in the fridge.
There are two floors with one bedroom downstairs and two more upstairs. I know he was here, my father. Or someone was who had to be wheeled in and out. I can see the tracks on the floor. What happened, though? Who moved him? If Alessandro found him, he’d be dead. I’d have found a bloody massacre if my brother had found him, so that’s not it. Did Giovanni move him? Why? Why would he? It makes no sense.
Or did he give me a false address, knowing I’d come?
I’m angry, but anger is good. It’s better than fear. To be afraid is to be weak.
I open the kitchen door and step into the backyard. It’s big and nestled between tall trees, a whole forest. It’s so dark here, I can see stars. I almost never see stars. I look up at them, listen to the silence. Silence does have a sound. Heavy, like water. It can be deafening. The noise of the city, I need it. This utter stillness, it would kill me.
It’s cooler up here than in the city. I hug my arms to myself, wishing I had a jacket or better shoes. I go back inside to take one more turn through the house before leaving, but when I’m in the kitchen, I hear a car pull up outside. Hear two doors open and close. I take my gun out of the waistband of my shorts and listen to the approaching footsteps. Men, I can tell. It’s always men. Their footfalls are heavy. I wish I could see from here, but the kitchen window overlooks the backyard. Whoever it is is coming up to the front door.
My heart is racing as I hear the door open. Am I expecting Alessandro? And what will I do if I see him? Shoot? Can I? Am I strong enough?
But I don’t have to think about that because at the same time the front door opens, so does the kitchen door, and I’m taken by surprise. I shift my gun from the man at the front to the one behind me, just processing Giovanni’s outline as I pull the trigger, the sound crashing through the clean, clear night. Tainting it.
Simultaneously I’m thrown against the wall, and my head hurts with the impact, disorienting me. He uses that instant to disarm me, catching me as I begin to fall forward.
The lights go on, and it’s too bright. Too artificial.
“What the fuck is it with you and guns?” Giovanni asks, keeping hold of me as he checks the chamber of the pistol, engages the safety, and tosses it to Vincent, who catches it.
“Let me go!”
“I feel like we’re on repeat sometimes, you and me.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, struggling for him to free me. He’s got me cradled against him and has both my wrists in one of his hands.
“I got this, Vincent. Wait outside for us.”
Giovanni turns his full attention to me. I hear the front door close and stare up at him. He’s taken off his jacket, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up. There’s blood on his clothes, but I don’t think it’s his. But it’s not his clothes I’m interested in. It’s the way he’s looking at me. It’s different. There’s something different in his gaze.
It takes him a full minute to let me go. I step back when he does, rubbing my wrists.
“Where’s my father?”
“I moved him this afternoon. This was just a temporary location.”
“Where did you move him to?”
“Why? You going to run off to the next house?”
“I have a right to know.”
“Why did you leave the house? I put you there for your own safety.”
“I can take care of myself. I don’t need you. And I don’t want you. Just leave me alone.” I take a step, wanting to get around him. But he stops me.
“Where are you going?”
“I have a taxi waiting.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do, he’s around the block.”
“I sent him on his way. You’ll go home with me when I’m ready.”
I take a step back, feel the sadness of earlier creeping back in. Feel that hopelessness. “Why? I don’t know what else you want with me. I mean, tonight, you set me up. You act like you’re putting me in that dress for me, telling me I have nothing to be ashamed of—”
“You don’t. What happened wasn’t your fault.”
I stop for a second. It’s his tone as much as what he says. It’s like he means so much more than he should mean. Than he should know.
But I don’t want to think about that, so I go on. “You betrayed me. You put me on display. You used me and humiliated me when I trusted you.”
“You don’t trust me. You never did. You said so yourself.”
“And, God,” I shake my head. “Would you really do what he did to me to someone?” I ask, thinking about the women he threatened to have whipped.
“Emilia—”
“Would you?”
“Let’s go home, Emilia.” He takes my arm.
I tug it free. “My home is separate from yours, and I have to find a new one now.”
“I told you, I’m not going to let your brother hurt you.”
“You can’t keep me safe forever. He’ll come for me. I got away once. I’m not getting away again. You think I don’t know that?”
He looks at me strangely, almost sadly. He touches my face, my cheek.
“I know what those men did to you.”
My brain processes his words in slow motion. Like his speech is slowed down on a recording or something. And no, it’s not sad, that look. I’m wrong. It’s pity. It’s pity I see in his eyes. I think about what happened before I left. Think about how that man, Kill, wanted to talk to him alone. Remember how he was looking at me. But there’s no way they know anything. It’s not possible.
“Did you hear me?” he asks.
I slap his hand away and back up, hug my arms to myself. “Get away from me.”
He comes closer to me. “Emilia, look at me.”
I didn’t realize I wasn’t, but I just look up at his chest. I can’t look at his eyes, not if he knows.
It’s colder in here suddenly, and I’m shivering.
Giovanni’s hands close gently over my arms, then he begins to rub them.
I shake my head, back up some more, hit the wall.
“I killed two of them. The one you saw tonight and Diaz. They’re dead.”
I shift my eyes slow
ly up to his. I saw him break that man’s nose. Heard what he said about popping out his eyeballs and feeding them to him if he continued to look at me. Apart from my father, no one has ever defended me before.
But that doesn’t mean anything. Not a single thing.
“They didn’t do anything to me.” My voice breaks.
“I saw the pictures, Emilia.”
God. Pictures. Alessandro took pictures. I had forgotten that.
But I shake my head.
“I need the names of the others. It’ll help to find them faster. Do you know them? Know their names?”
The floor is linoleum. It’s an ugly, dirty green. It must be as old as the house.
“Emilia. Are you listening to me?”
I look up at him, and he’s a little blurry at first, but I swallow back my tears. Swallow what I can around the lump in my throat.
“Do you know I came?” I say.
“What?”
“I came. When they fucked me. I came.”
God, I’m going to be sick. I turn to the sink, dash to it, grip the cold edge, but it’s just a dry heave. I don’t know when I last ate. I stand there and hug my belly and my hair’s falling out of its ponytail and hanging in the sink and I shove it back. Shove it in place. But it won’t stay away.
“Emilia.” He’s pulling me back, turning me to face him, but I don’t want to see him. I don’t want him to see me.
“I came every time. With all of them.”
He finally succeeds in turning me around, makes me look up at him, and I feel tears and snot on my face. It’s gross. But he’s just looking at me like he doesn’t care about that.
“Come here,” he says, pulling a paper towel from the rack that’s hanging on the wall and wetting it before cleaning my face.
“And then, when they were done, or when I thought they were done, they hung me from the ceiling and laughed and got hard all over again while Alessandro opened up my back.” Rage is nudging some of that hopelessness out of the way. But still, that feeling of nausea, of wanting to puke, to get everything out, it makes me clutch my belly, cover my mouth. “And then…then…”
“We don’t have to do this right now.”
“No, you should hear. You should know everything.” I shove away from him, wipe the backs of my hands across my face because it’s wet again. “It’s what you want, right? I mean, pictures can’t tell the whole story. I can, though. I was there for the whole thing. Guest of honor, I guess.”
“Let’s go home.” He reaches for me.
I shake my head, slip away into the living room. “After. After, they did it again. They each had a turn again. I was still strung up. I could stand on tiptoe at first, but then I couldn’t anymore. I couldn’t get a grip. Everything hurt too much.” I look down at the floor, at my pretty shoes so out of place here. Note the ugly brown carpet. I bet it’s rough to the touch. And full of germs. “I had their cum inside me. Their disgusting cum. I can feel it sometimes, you know? Feel them. It makes me sick.”
“That’s enough.”
I shake my head, because it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
I climb up the stairs. They have that same carpet on them. I didn’t notice it earlier. I didn’t notice any of it. The bedrooms up there have been closed up so long they smell.
“Come here, Emilia. We’re leaving.”
“Why don’t you leave me alone?” I go into the bedroom with a mattress on the floor. It’s gross, stained and filthy, but I need to lie down, and I don’t care anymore. There is too much dirt. I can’t do anything about it anymore. “Why don’t you go away.” I try to close the door, but he doesn’t let me.
“I’m not leaving you alone. And certainly not here.”
I stop. A strange laugh comes from my mouth. Like a sound a crazy person would make.
“Emilia, come here. I’m not going to tell you again.”
“They need to open the windows. It’s too dank in here.” I shove at one. It doesn’t give at first, so I shove harder. It goes flying up, and I stumble, catching myself on the sill. The wood is rotting, and a splinter buries itself in the center of my palm.
“Emilia! Get away from the fucking window!”
That laugh is there again. I don’t understand why he’s still here, and I don’t really know why I’m leaning so far out. It’s only two stories. It’s not a bad fall. Not even close. I probably wouldn’t even break a leg.
“Jesus Christ!”
His hand around my arm is like a vice. It hurts when he tugs me back, the wood scratching my hands. I crash into his chest. He catches me, but when I look up at him, he’s nothing but mad. He gives me a hard shake.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I shove at him, shove at his chest. Because I’m mad too.
He shakes his head and, with just a nudge against my chest, he shoves me against the wall.
“Don’t roll over. Don’t fucking give up!” he yells at me. “You fight. You get fucking mad. You hit someone. Hit me.”
I do, I slap my hands against his chest. I know not to slap his face. I make fists and pound him with them.
“Good. Harder. Hit me harder.”
“So you’ll hit me back?”
“I told you, I don’t hit women.”
“You did.”
“That’s a spanking you earned, Sunshine.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It wasn’t ever meant to harm you. Not like what they did.”
He kisses me, smashes me against the wall, his lips pressing against mine. His body smothering mine.
“Hit me again. Fight me. Get fucking angry, but don’t fucking roll over. That’s not you. Not even close.”
I grip the sides of his head, pull his hair, let out a wicked, animal like roar as I wrap my legs around his middle. He’s kissing me and telling me that’s it. To keep going. To keep fighting.
He drops me on the mattress. It’s hard, and the springs dig into my back, but I don’t care. I’m tearing at his shirt, and he’s already ripped my shirt open, is taking one breast out of the bra while his other hand rips my shorts and shoves them off. He kisses me as I undo his belt, his pants, slide my hand in to cup his cock, his balls. I want him. I want him inside me. Now. I need him now.
He gets up on his knees and shoves his pants down just far enough to free his cock. He shoves my knees wide, holds them spread open, and looks down at me, at my dripping pussy. Pushing my legs down to the mattress, he thrusts deep and hard inside me. I suck in a breath and fist my hands. It hurts, but it hurts so fucking good. Our eyes are locked. He thrusts twice more before pulling out.
I look at him, and he grins at my disappointment. A moment later, he’s at my other entrance and, his cock wet with my juices, he penetrates that tight ring. I close my eyes and arch my back. Fuck, I’m going to come so hard.
“Look at me, baby.”
Baby. I like that. I like it so much. And I do. I look up at him as he fucks my ass, each thrust deeper, my body stretching to accommodate him, wanting him. When he’s fully seated, he lets go of my legs and leans in close enough to kiss me.
“Come for me, baby.”
I do. It’s like my body wants to please him. He moans as my walls throb around him, and I feel him thickening inside me as he moves. Barely a moment later, we’re coming together, and I’m watching his beautiful face and he’s so close, so close. We collapse together on that gross mattress, and when he’s holding me, I feel myself go limp. I feel myself soften, and for the first time in a very long time, maybe in forever, I let myself go. I relax and my eyes flutter closed. I can smell him, his aftershave, and he feels safe. I curl my face into his chest as he slides out of me and wraps his arms around me. I don’t know what happens after that because I fall asleep. It’s like all this time, all this running, catches up with me, and I can’t stay awake another minute, not one more second. Right away, I’m dreaming. He’s holding me, and I’m safe in his arms. And I can’t be with
out him anymore.
Because I think I love him.
18
Giovanni
“I love you.”
I know she’s asleep when she says it, but still, those words jar me.
She doesn’t wake when I carry her out of the house, or on the long drive back to the city, not even when I carry her up the stairs and lay her in my bed.
I strip off my clothes, dropping them on the floor as I make my way into the bathroom and switch on the shower. I can still pick dried blood off me, and the knuckles of my right hand are bruised. They hurt, but that’s okay. It’s good to remember. And I’m not done yet.
I switch off the shower and reach for a towel to dry off. My work isn’t done yet. I won’t be sleeping tonight.
Two men are dead. Four more have to die. The three who raped her. And the one behind it all: her brother.
Four more men I’ll beat to death with my fists.
I put on a pair of jeans, make sure she’s still out, and go downstairs to my office. The house is dark, not a single light is on, but I like it this way.
I haven’t been this angry in so long. Hell, I’m not sure I’ve ever been this angry. Well, that’s not true. I was angry when I discovered my father’s deception. When I found the letter he’d hidden from me. The one Emilia found in the old Atlas in the library. If I’d received it in time, things would have been different. At least for Angelica.
But I push those thoughts away. There’s work to be done.
Sitting behind my desk, I lay out the photos again. All of them. I take a permanent marker out of my desk drawer and put a big red X over the faces of the two dead men. I do this in each of the photos they’re in. I pick up the one where they’re stringing her up by her wrists. Watch them as they pull the chains over a beam until her toes barely touch ground. She’s naked, and there’s already blood and cum between her legs. They’ve already raped her. All of them. All but Alessandro.
I want to know who took the photos of the whipping. It’s neither of the two I killed. They’re in the shot.
Giovanni Page 14
