Tangled Webs

by Bibiana Krall

“Auntie, where are we going now?” The guardian aunt knelt down next to the teen and gently pinched her chin.

  “We are going to Paris, my sweet, Gabi. It is time for the House of Bonheur to reign supreme!”

  Gaby smiled as she took her aunt’s hand and walked over to the limousine where Jean Claude held the door open for them to enter.

  It was slowly dawning on me that I was receiving the final act of the curse that had destroyed my life. I drifted higher and higher, hovering over the hotel.

  To my surprise, the set room with the carved vignettes next to the common area had disappeared, its icy walls and sets had seemingly melted away.

  How could this be? Where did it go? It’s freezing…

  The next thing I knew I was floating above the detective’s office. The police in the room looked rather green in the face as they gazed at the photos spread out on the table. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—it was Caroline, Olivia, Catherine, and Octavia in their beautiful outfits, but they were covered in blood in the various vignettes.

  They had been brutally murdered, that was quite obvious. The phone that I had turned over to the front desk for safe keeping was wrapped in an evidence bag.

  How did these pictures get on my phone?

  “We’ve found the fiend’s body, Sir. It washed up a mile down river. It’s pretty beat up from the bedrocks and shards of ice.”

  The policeman showed the detective the picture on his cell phone.

  I stared in horrific disbelief, it was me, battered, bloody and blue. My hair had turned gray and I had patches of blood spots on my scalp where my hair extensions had been plucked from my skull. My face was drawn-in like a prune, with dark circles carved under my eyes.

  “A fitting end for such a pathetic killer. Get her out of my sight We must find the location of where these pictures of the brutalized models were taken. In all my years I have never seen such a despicable, crime scene.” The detective made the sign of the cross and shook his head.

  My days of fashion influencing had come to a grisly end…if I had only not released that one picture of the kid…click…click…click…

  * * *

  Fini

  Taranto

  “The world might indeed be a cursed circle; the snake swallowed its tail and there could be no end, only an eternal ruination and endless devouring.” ―Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  Ragno Dazante

  by Bibiana Krall

  The curve of the sea sent a salted arc of Ionian blue, as gentle waves caressed stone steps leading to a jewel-pink dahlia maze and a walled garden.

  Something moved in the warm Tarantian air, creeping through the scrub as lemon trees flowered and ocean birds soared above an ancient, stone castle.

  “Where are my sandals? My favorite ring is missing too. I took it off to put lotion on earlier... I can’t get any relief.” In disgust, she tapped the intercom with the emergency beeper three times, trying to rein in her anger.

  Aurelia Wolf was endlessly peeved and perhaps she always would be.

  The fuchsia-foil cocktail dress hugged her size-four curves and she fidgeted in front of a full-length, Venetian mirror once owned by Orso Ipato, the very first Doge.

  Hmm. The glamorous extensions in her cherry-red hair looked almost natural and the soft waves enhanced her slim neck and aqua-colored eyes.

  None of it was natural, but who cares about that anyway?

  The mirror and beauty boosts were an early, twenty-first birthday gift from her father. The 59th Count of Barbulus, royal by birth and wealthy beyond measure, thanks to his nose for crypto and emerging markets in need of fearless investors.

  Darting inside the suite, but clearly not in a hurry, her dour-faced assistant, Pietra, plunked a pair of high-heeled, Prada sandals on the bed.

  Her dress was horrid, as it usually was. Always in black, a shapeless shift made of cheap cotton.

  If she were a smidge less selfish, she might consider paying Pietra more just to wear something less atrocious. Ugh!

  Pietra was quick to reply, as her number one job was to solve problems and unruffle Aurelia’s feathers. “Oh, the unusual ring that looks like a bent nail? It’s on the kitchen table next to the mineral water. The shoes were exactly where you left them too. In the landscaping, beside the pool cabana. Now they’re here. You look magical, like a mermaid from space. Every man will want you and every woman will want to be you.”

  “Thank you. I think? You’re so kind. And everything.”

  The last sentence, she mouthed a tiny bit slower. Letting Pietra know she still hadn’t forgiven her for making her wait.

  In an hour or less, hundreds would be here to celebrate her special day.

  Sweating, fetching, solving and feeling stressed out was Pietra’s job.

  She remembered it all now.

  Last night. A champagne fountain with mounds of strawberries, endless cubes of tangy and salty Don Carlo cheese, sweet rolls and fresh melon balls served on small plates to nibble.

  Too much sparkle was her kryptonite.

  Her father’s latest clients had shown up unannounced on their ridiculous super yacht.

  The men had terrible table manners, considering the size of their boat and clearly had never been to the Mediterranean or Taranto before.

  Father had pulled her aside, requesting for her not to swim in the Venus pool until after they left.

  He laughed often and was most amusing last night, but his piercing eyes watched her closely on the terrace until she was inside the villa and safely back upstairs in her suite again.

  Some of the older men had stared inappropriately and stood closer than was considered acceptable.

  Even as she threw a childish crank and purposely said things to upset and manipulate the conversation, she realized that he was right.

  Her mother had never taught her how to navigate these important moments, as she was rarely home anymore.

  Busy with each new fashion season in Milan, cutting fabric, posting unrealistic videos of herself doing Pilates on InstaGlam and currying favor for her upscale lingerie line, Bachiami.

  Bored and admittedly spoiled rotten, Aurelia had pouted next to a potted palm and drank an ocean of champagne until a servant quietly whisked her crystal flute away.

  Why was she always under so much scrutiny?

  People looked at her everywhere she went, and they openly envied her, but she never got to have any fun.

  A prisoner in a golden tower, she was suffocating.

  Tonight though, she had a plan.

  Perhaps a way to show everyone that she was ready to take over the family business, things would be quite different with an ambitious young woman, with her at the helm.

  Her father wanted her to marry an oil sheikh that she hadn’t even met, but she longed to be important, to live the lush life forever and most importantly…without a stupid man bossing her around.

  The problem was she couldn’t concentrate long enough to do anything noteworthy.

  No one took her seriously and she wanted that more than anything, beyond what she already had.

  “Well, what do you think?” Dizzy from having to lean down and hook the delicate strap around her ankle, her shrewd gaze took stock of Pietra again.

  Too skinny, and not a stitch of mascara. Flyaway hair cut in a classic shag to tame her natural, black curls.

  “Perfecto!” There was something sly and hidden about her assistant’s smile. As if she had many secrets and wanted more than anything to see her employer fall on her ass in the five-inch stilettos.

  “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”

  Her heart, if she one, went out to the young woman who worked for her. With a little makeup and the right dress, she might be presentable in a dark, Italian sort of way.

  “Yes. It’s all I have. I work for you most of the time, so why would I need something lavish to wear? Trust me. No one will be looking at me tonight.”

  Again, that shadow, a glint behind her golden eyes, joined a
slight smirk, as if she thought that couture and Aurelia worrying about looks was vapid and meaningless.

  “Perhaps that’s true.” It was almost a sick compulsion for her not allow Pietra have the final word.

  Is it spiteful to agree when someone derails themselves?

  Aurelia didn’t really care anyway, but she did feel more generous than usual, it was her birthday after all.

  “Hmm. It is my celebration and you work for me. Borrow anything you wish from my closet, except the Valénte-Krueger with the feathers, but be sure to drop whatever you choose at the cleaners tomorrow. Plan on spending the night as well, I might need help getting this dress off later and want you to talk to me while I soak in the tub. Oh, this dress is so tight. Barely breathing. Please, burn the awful one you’re wearing.”

  If a person can flounce in stilettos and a dress made of buttery chain mail, she did.

  Aurelia’s depressing shadow tinged with cruelty departed with a dramatic descent down the marble stairs.

  “Good riddance.” Pietra tossed her head in defiance.

  A priceless mirror returned the image of a slender and tall woman with hair black as soot and emotive eyes to match.

  The physical opposite of Aurelia, Pietra looked increasingly like her mother every day.

  She was a little bit older than her employer and eons wiser, as she’d had to earn everything in life by doing and rarely took a day off for fun or pleasure.

  Why once she’d considered this job an opportunity was beyond her.

  Now it was a terrible chore, a weight on her soul that she tried to pretend wasn’t slowly making her become someone she didn’t know and certainly didn’t admire.

  In the end, we all do what we must to survive and her family needed the money.

  Her parents had not calculated well for the future and suffered from so many maladies that their downstairs had become a hospital room.

  The formal sofa and grape-cluster chandelier had been placed upstairs in the reading lounge, connecting to a master bedroom that no one used anymore.

  Each night, Pietra returned home on her bicycle and made her parents orecchiette pasta with broccoli, olive oil, fresh tomatoes and blanched almonds.

  Cutting each of them a sliver of salami, hard cheese and bread to fill their stomachs.

  She always sat between them, a devoted daughter, and loving nurse, as they ate dinner from their beds.

  Nibbling on her bread, she would beg them to tell stories about ancient ships, mysterious islands and the Spartans.

  It was romantic and chased their troubles away for a time.

  Visions of the past filled her dreams with poetic beauty.

  Constantly, her parents reminded Pietra who she was and where she came from.

  They were seafaring people. Ancient seers from the land of gods who traveled with the Greeks and were meant for something much greater than this.

  Reminding her with each story not to be ashamed of their family legacy. Their constant assurance helped ease the pain of knowing that everything would change when they faded away and she must carry on in this world without them and to be strong.

  It was necessary to embrace who she was meant to be, to always be fearless and sure of herself when destiny played out.

  Her solemn reverie was broken by a catering van backfiring in the courtyard below.

  Workers scurried across the flagstone terrace, in and out of the grand ballroom, carrying vases of white camellias, magnolia blossoms and of course flamingo-pink dahlias in the same exuberant shade as Aurelia’s dress, crates of wine and chairs for the intimate tables.

  Silvio spotted her and waved an energetic hello.

  She held up her hand in a greeting and smiled back at him from the upstairs window.

  Wondering if he ever wished that he lived in this castello and felt the same envy that she fought day and night?

  No time to ponder more, she quickly cleaned up the mess of perfume bottles, lotions and cosmetics.

  She hefted a pile of designer dresses to the closet to hang them back up.

  The fabrics were in colors of the rainbow, the finest silks, buttery suede and sleek satin. A peacock would pale in comparison.

  Inside the massive closet, her hand brushed a midnight-black gown. Feathers, Swarovski crystals and mulberry charmeuse so refined that it was liquid-cool against her fingertips.

  It was forbidden, but it was otherworldly and so gorgeous.

  She wanted the dress so badly that she almost cried.

  The famous designer, Sino Valénte-Krueger had personally come to fit the gown on Aurelia only months before.

  He was a genius, an artist that even the fashion icon, Daniel Lorento claimed would be more famous than him one day.

  “I can’t. I just…”

  Her hands were traitorous as she slipped the designer original off of the hanger and pressed it against her body.

  She was thinner than Aurelia, but her ample hips made them almost the same dress size.

  The mirror presented a fantasy woman she had never been, a femme fatale with mysterious secrets and a passionate lover, a bold woman with the world kneeling at her feet.

  Knowing that if anyone caught her doing this, she would immediately be fired and blacklisted.

  No one would give her access to their elite homes again.

  Many would not understand her pawing through personal items and she would end up waiting tables at a local pizzeria until her feet hurt too much to work or she was so haggard in the face that patrons would feel ashamed to ask for more parmesan or extra water.

  A haze, an uncontrollable urge, and a whisper. Deep longing to break the rules rippled up her spine, “No!”

  She slipped the decadent ballgown back onto the padded hanger and finished her work. There was much to do, and daydreaming is wasteful.

  Clicking off the overhead light, she noticed a dusty web in the corner and brushed it away with a fingertip, reminding herself to have the housekeeper air out the shelves when Aurelia left in a few weeks to frolic and ski in Verbier for the season.

  A sparkle, a shimmer and a wink.

  The closet was shrouded in gloom, but the dress called to her once again, as a noir feather drifted and floated in the light reflecting from the mirror.

  The door was closed behind her and her body trembled from fighting the urge.

  Her feet remembered the dance steps.

  One, two and three. High above her head went her arms, and one knee bent in a graceful half-bow, as she spun into the move.

  Much like Flamenco, this dance is sterner with a dash of Italian flair. An enigmatic set of movements, the Tarantella held her beginnings and perhaps her future too?

  The intercom buzzed again, “Stai scherzando. Are you kidding me? Okay. I’m coming.”

  Pietra scurried downstairs towards the kitchen, knowing that if she did not take the moment when it came, she would never have the desire or the courage to ever try again.

  The party was a huge success.

  Everyone on the A-list had finally arrived, and even a few American film stars showed up with stylish entourages.

  An army of private bodyguards played dice and smoked cigarettes behind the bushes, while a security detail walked the grounds to help protect their famous guests.

  “Oh, Daddy! It’s absolutely amazing.” Aurelia gushed, as she flung her arms around his waist and gave his cheek a daughterly peck.

  “I would do anything for you my dear. It’s true.” He looked dashing in his Armani.

  Cameras flashed and everyone was texting and uploading photos to their pages. Even the palm trees had fairy lights.

  The ground-level doors were flung open, so the guests could move freely from the ballroom to the outdoor terrace; even the pool had floating candles in the shape of her favorite flower, the pink dahlia.

  Soon she would make her announcement and her father would be so proud of her.

  The sound system was ready. Her new manager, Enzo was enjoying the carv
ing station for the second time.

  Even Pietra seemed more enthusiastic and chatty than usual.

  It was difficult not to guzzle the champagne. Her nerves were shot, but finally she got the nod and afterwards, she could drink all night without worrying.

  “Be right back.” Aurelia squeezed her father’s hand and flounced away, “I have a wonderful surprise for you.”

  She ducked behind a rose bush and checked her lip-gloss and hair in a tiny compact, “It’s now or never.”

  The dance floor was raised slightly from the edge of the terrace and she glided over to tap on the microphone. “Good evening. Hello friends. Thank you for coming to my birthday party.”

  Knowing it might take a few tries to get their attention, she smiled demurely and waited, even though she wasn’t known for her patience.

  Wiggling her risqué dress down over her hips, she took a deep breath and began to sing.

  The sexy song had been written for her on the back of a cocktail napkin in Zermatt the year before.

  So sad.

  Aramis wasn’t part of her life anymore. Supposedly he’d become a spiritual being in rehab and was living with his yogi in a cave somewhere on Sardinia.

  Her legal team made sure this song and the lyrics were one hundred percent hers. A gold record would soon hang on her bedroom wall next to the Venetian mirror.

  The crowd stopped milling around when the band began to play. An electric guitar, a violin, a cello and an electronic piano accompanied her solo.

  Her backup singers had bailed at the last minute, but she didn’t need them anyway.

  Crooning the fantastic pop song, electricity raced through her body and she reveled in it.

  The hook was perfect and addictive, Aramis had serious skills.

  They clearly adored her. They loved her.

  She was going to be the next big thing. It was exactly, as she’d imagined. Perhaps even better?

  Her father was not the sort of man who could easily be surprised and he stood there stunned, and totally enchanted, as if he could hardly believe how talented she was.