Valentino Lastra, Romina's husband, had been taken in for questioning, and word spread around the Agosti house that they were officially at war with the Lastra.
From what I'd gathered, Rocco had been wont to do this because Lastra was one of his main distributors, but appearances dictated to respect the honor of the deceased, and avenge her memory. And so reluctantly, Rocco, too, had followed his peers in denouncing Lastra.
Only Enzo had been quiet. Watching, but not really interacting. He'd been the first at the morgue, and the last to leave after Romina's body had been sent to the funeral home.
And until now, he hasn't said a word.
Yet, I can see a deep disappointment welling inside of him, and I feel powerless to do anything but stand by and watch.
I'd seen his attitude towards Catalina and the affection he bears her, so I can only assume he has the same feelings for his other sisters, even the older ones.
The guests pay their last respects and finally, Romina's coffin is lowered to the ground. Lucia hurries to the pit, bawling her eyes out and yelling at the unfairness of it all.
Enzo is still rooted to the spot, staring at the fresh earth covering the grave. Even when everyone leaves, he's still there, the rain slowly falling on him.
"Enzo?" I walk to his side, worry eating at me. I've never seen him like this, and I don't know what to do to help him.
He doesn't answer, he doesn't even acknowledge my presence.
I sit by him, the dreariness of the weather only emphasizing the emptiness inside.
"I failed her too," his words are barely audible. "I saw her, you know..." he starts talking, and the pain in his voice is unmistakable, "her body battered and full of bruises. I kept thinking... what madman would do that to someone as sweet as Romina?" He shakes his head, swallowing hard.
"It's not your fault." How could he even think to blame himself?
"Isn't it? I vowed to protect them, and yet I couldn't. First Lina, and now..." he trails off, and as I lift my gaze to look at him he's thrown his umbrella to the ground. Head raised, eyes closed, rain is slowly dripping all over his face. But is it just rain, or is it also...?
There's so much anger radiating off him that I'm scared to approach, worried I might do something to set him off. But I can't not go. I need to show him he's not alone.
He still has me.
Abandoning my umbrella to the ground, I brace myself as the cold drops of rain hit my skin, fitting themselves to my hair. I move closer, and I just slide my hand in his.
It takes a second, but he gives my hand a quick squeeze, lifting it and bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss.
We stay like this for the longest time, wrapped in each other and the rain, neither speaking. I'd look back later and recognize this as the moment Enzo fundamentally changed.
I THOUGHT WE'D ESTABLISHED a connection, but as the days pass, Enzo becomes even more closed off. The few times I see him in passing he's always drinking.
I want to reach out to him and take his mind off the pain, but I don't know how.
Sighing, I close the book I was reading, standing up to pace in front of my window. He's probably holed up in his study, drinking even more. I hadn't had the courage to go in there yet, but seeing that he has no intention of giving me an opening, I'll have to make one for myself.
I'd already devoured most of the books we'd bought from the Strand, including the romance novels. Now, thinking back to what I'd read in those, my cheeks redden, but my resolve strengthens.
Maybe I can't do anything to take away his suffering, but I can help him forget it for a short period of time — like he's done to me.
Pulling a robe over my nightgown, I head downstairs. The house is eerily quiet, as both Lucia and Rocco had left on a trip, so I have no worries that I'll be run into any of them.
Hoping he's left the door unlocked, I turn the knob and push the door open.
With only a couple of lights turned on, the room is almost shrouded in darkness. As I step inside, I can make out the outline of Enzo's body, leaning back in his chair, a bottle of alcohol and an empty glass next to him.
I'm hesitant as I walk towards him. He's staring into empty space, and he barely acknowledges my presence.
Stopping by his side, I put my hand on his shoulder.
"What do you want, Allegra?" His voice is rough, his eyes looking anywhere but at me. Taking out a pack of cigarettes, he slips one in his mouth, lighting it up and inhaling deeply.
"I was worried."
"Worried..." He smiles cruelly, taking three consecutive drags of his cigarette and blowing a huge cloud of smoke.
"Go to sleep, Allegra. This doesn't concern you."
"Enzo..." I take his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. "It's ok to grieve, but please don't shut me out," my voice trembles with uncertainty, especially as I see the bleakness in his eyes.
I stroke his cheek tenderly, wanting to show him just how much he means to me.
"You can lean on me," I add, almost unnerved when he doesn't reply.
I take the cigarette from his hand, putting it out in the ashtray on the table.
Enzo is still watching me intently, waiting to see what I do next.
Before I lose my confidence, I lean down and press my lips to his. He's motionless under me, so I try to coax a response out of him. I open my mouth and I try to deepen the kiss. The taste of whiskey and cigarette coats my tongue as I probe deeper, trying to put into this kiss everything I'm feeling; trying to take away his pain with my love.
He's still not responding, and half-hooded eyes peer at me disinterestedly.
"Tell me how I can make it better," I whisper between kisses, "how I can soothe the pain."
Tilting his head to the side, he says the two words I don't want to hear.
"You can't."
Fitting my body closer to his, I don't give up. I wound my arms around his neck and I straddle him, one leg on each side of him. My center is right above his bulge, and I can tell he's not entirely unaffected. Still, he does nothing but watch me, waiting to see what my next move will be. I almost whimper at the contact, feeling him hard under me, but I try to ignore my own growing arousal.
This is all about him.
His white shirt is half unbuttoned at the collar, and I get a glimpse of his chest. Sliding my hands down, I fumble with the other buttons, spreading my palms over his skin.
"You should go, Allegra." his voice is quiet, his eyes unflinching.
I continue to kiss him, my mouth following a trail down his neck, imitating what he'd done to me in the past.
"Let me in," I whisper, nibbling at his ear. "I'm here, Enzo. Let me in."
He still doesn't respond. Like a statue, unmoving, he just watches me with disinterest.
Becoming bolder, I shed my robe, remaining only in my see-through nightgown. For the first time, I detect a trace of interest as his eyes zero in on my nipples. I lean forward, brushing my chest against his, barely able to contain a moan as I feel the slight friction.
"Go," he says through gritted teeth, his body stiff against mine.
"Enzo, amore," I whisper, hurting for him — hurting with him.
My hands move lower, my only goal to give him the same pleasure he's given me countless of times. I may not know what to do, but I'm sure I can manage something. My fingers graze over the zipper of his pants, his hardness unmistakable. I undo the fastening and I close my hand around him.
A gasp escapes me as I try to wrap my fingers around him, surprised at the size and texture — hot velvet pulsing against my palm. I stroke him lightly, watching his face for any cues.
"Let me make you feel good, Enzo," our faces are close together, our breath mingling. But as the words flow out of my mouth, his eyes widen — the first visible reaction. His entire body tenses under me, freezing for a second.
I frown, afraid I've done something wrong.
Out of nowhere, his hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around my throat and sto
pping my airflow. One moment I'm in his lap, the next I'm against the wall, my feet slightly above the ground. Tears gather at the corner of my eyes as I fling my hands around, trying to get him off me.
His mouth curls around the corners in a sadistic way.
This isn't Enzo... This can't be the same Enzo!
"Allegra, Allegra," he makes a tsk sound, but his hold on me loosens enough that I can breathe properly. "I really thought you'd be different."
"What do you mean?" I rasp out, and a cruel smile stretches across his face.
"You're really pathetic, aren't you?" He muses, studying me with disgust. "I wondered how long you'd last. How long until you'd open your sanctimonious little legs for me. But I didn't realize that all it took was a tiny bit of attention."
"Enzo, this isn't funny," I add, my lips trembling. But even as I hope it's all just a bad joke, his face tells me it's not.
And it's killing me inside.
"You're so eager to jump on my cock that it's not even fun anymore," he continues to mock me, bringing one finger to caress my cheek. "I hadn't realized you'd be this easy. Did you really think I'd be interested in you?" He raises an eyebrow at me, but I don't reply. The more he talks, the more I struggle to keep my composure, to not burst out in tears and give him the satisfaction of seeing me hurt. Because that's exactly what he's trying to do.
"Did you really think I'd be interested in a poor village girl who's been nothing but a source of embarrassment?" I shake my head at him, my fingers wrapping around his hand and trying to disentangle it from my neck.
I can't listen to this...
"Tell me, wife, have you looked into a mirror? You know, that reflective glass that shows you what you look like," his smile widens, knowing he's hit the mark with one of my insecurities.
"Yes, and I happen to like what I see," I reply, attempting to hold in all the hurt I'm feeling. I won't let him win.
He laughs, his whole body trembling with a nonexistent hilarity.
"You must be the only one," he continues to twist the knife in my heart. I blink twice, the tears almost forcing their way out.
"I have to say, it was fun while it lasted, but I can't muster the interest anymore. Maybe if you would have kept your legs closed for a little longer..." he trails off, his hand skimming the inside of my thigh.
I shove at him, kicking and punching, until his hand disappears from my throat.
I collapse to the floor, my breath ragged, my heart in pieces.
Looking up at him through misted lashes, I only see a smug man gloating at making a fool of the peasant girl.
"I'll even let you in on something," he kneels in front of me, his finger pushing my jaw up so I'm looking at him. "I won myself a brand new yacht with your easy surrender. Why do you think I was so nice to you?" He chuckles softly. "You thought a woman like you would be able to hold my interest?"
Amused, he shakes his head, getting up and heading to the door.
"On the bright side, I can stop pretending now and go back to my regular fucks, since," he looks down at me in distaste, "you're not even worth a pity fuck."
He leaves the room at some point. I remain in the same position, staring at the now closed door.
What happened?
Even as I try to rationalize everything, there is only one answer.
He played me.
Like I suspected he would. And yet, even with that small voice telling me that, indeed, why would a man like Enzo ever look at someone like me, I'd chosen to ignore everything.
For once in my life someone had been kind to me, and like a stray dog, I'd become enamored of the hand that fed me.
I really am pathetic, aren't I?
Chapter Fourteen
LET ME MAKE YOU FEEL good, Enzo.
The words keep replaying in my head, and no matter how much I try, I can't seem to make them stop.
Why did she have to say those exact words... Why? It had triggered something in me that I'd managed to keep bottled for years now.
I'd snapped. And the words had flowed out of my mouth. I'd wanted to hurt her, reach deep inside her and make her hate me — forever.
But her face... so full of desolation, probably hurt me more than it did her.
Reaching my room, I lock the door behind me, promptly taking refuge in the bottle of whiskey I keep in my drawer.
My only hope is to escape, but as I drink more and more, the memories become clearer than ever.
AGE NINE,
"AREN'T YOU HANDSOME IN YOUR little suit?" The lady in front of me coos, her eyes roaming greedily over my face and body. I tilt my head to the side, but I don't say anything. When I don't respond to her obvious attempt at getting a subservient answer out of me, she slaps me over the face.
"Rotten child, you think you're so much better than everyone, don't you?" Her lips pull in a thin line.
I don't fight it. I've learned to never fight it. It's not the first time she's tried to get a reaction out of me with violence.
"Get out of my sight! I've had enough of you for today." She dismisses me with a wave of her hand and I don't linger.
Mrs. Woods is not a kind woman, for all she'd want people to believe otherwise. Everyone at school loves her because they only see her charming side. But when someone crosses her, she stops being nice.
It had all started when I'd been indifferent to her compliments. When she'd seen that I hadn't batted an eye, nor had I said thank you or returned the compliment, she'd proceeded to insult me. It's become customary for her to comment on my looks, still waiting for me to be all smiles around her, before ending it all with a set down, just like she did now.
I sigh as I go to the back of the row.
It's not like I do it purposefully, but I've learned to differentiate when people are genuinely nice to me or when they try to get something. And Mrs. Woods would like nothing more than to be in my parents' good graces.
All of my classmates are in a line as we prepare to go on the stage, our end-of-year play ready to begin.
Since I'd been rude to her once before, I'd been offered the role with the least lines. But I'm not complaining since I would have rather not done the play at all. I hate it when the spotlight falls on me, and everyone starts complimenting my face.
It's like they can never see anything but my face.
I'm the top student my class, but I've heard the rumors — my parents paid for it, or teachers favor me. It's never because of my own achievements.
The play goes well, just as we'd rehearsed. But it's at the end when we bow to the audience that I hear the ever familiar words.
"Wow, what a beautiful child. He'll be such a handsome man when he grows up."
"Did you see his eyes? I've never seen that shade before."
"He sure hit the genetic lottery."
More and more comments of the kind, and then there's my mother, sitting in the first row with a satisfied smile on her face.
She's just showed off her precious son.
Next to her is my baby sister, Catalina, dressed in a pink dress that makes her look like a doll — mother's next project.
We make our way to the back again, and my mother and my sister are waiting for me.
"Enzo!" Lina beams at me, letting go of mother's hand to come running towards me.
I take her in my arms and swing her around, softly kissing her brow.
"I still can't believe she didn't give you the main role. I'll have to talk to her," mother grumbles under her breath and I sigh deeply, not wanting to be involved in another conflict.
"It's fine. I didn't want the main role." I tell her, hoping for once she'd listen to me and drop it.
"If only your father weren't so against it," she makes a tsk sound as she stares at my face, "you'd be the face of every modeling ad. With your sister next to you," she shakes her head, the disappointment clear on her face, "you'd take the country by storm."
It's not the first time I've heard mother say this. Since I was old enough to understand
adult talk, I'd realized that my mother had great aspirations for her beautiful children. She'd wanted to take us to Hollywood, get everyone to stare at us like we're some objects, not humans. But of course, her dreams had been quickly quashed by my father, who'd have none of it.
That didn't stop mother from taking us everywhere with her as her little dolls.
We head back home, and I hurry to my room, the events of the day already taking a toll on me.
Going to the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror, wondering what exactly causes everyone to obsess over my face.
Lifting my hand, I trace the contours of my face, looking for any imperfection but finding none.
What if I had one?
What if I weren't so perfect. Would people stop staring at me? Maybe this can solve all my problems.
I don't even think as I clench my hand in a tight fist, directing it straight to the mirror. It doesn't break, not immediately. But as I keep hitting at it, small shards make their way on the floor.
Wincing from the pain in my hand, I focus all my energy on a piece of glass. Taking it in my hand, I bring it to my cheek.
One slash.
And I'd stop being so perfect.
I'm about to dig the sharp end into my skin when my mother bursts into the room and slaps it from my hand.
"What are you doing?" She screeches at me, her eyes wide with horror. I don't react when she starts hitting me — always my body, never my face. I just let her do it until she tires of it.
"Don't you dare do that again!" She keeps repeating all over again, and even though I nod at her words, I know I will do it again the moment I can.
I don't know if it's my expression that's not convincing enough, but she adds something that gives me pause.
"Every cut you make to your face, I'll do the same to your sister. Do you want her to be ugly and scarred? Do you want her to cry in pain? Because of you?" I look into my mother's eyes, hoping it's all a joke.
It's not.
"I won't do it again." I say in a small voice, convinced she will make good on her threats.
"Good. Now come, let Maria clean you up." She hands me over to my nanny and leaves the room.
Morally Decadent (Morally Questionable Book 3) Page 19
