A wave of nausea rolls through me as I undress and slip into the chemise. I can’t think about him as the man I’ve come to know in my time here, so instead, I think about him as my enemy. That’s how I’ll do this. That’s how I’ll harness the necessary rage to end his life.
With the nightgown secure on my body, I glance in the mirror, unraveling my hair and combing through it once more. Just the way he said he likes it.
There’s a pit in my stomach as I head for the bed, grabbing the knife from beneath the pillow and slipping it into my palm, tucking it discreetly against my body. It’s already past midnight, and I suspect I don’t have much time to get upstairs and settle in.
Quietly, I shut my bedroom door behind me and creep down the hall, the marble cold against my bare feet. There’s a maniacal part of me that half expects Angelina to jump out of the shadows as I turn toward the banister, parroting her favorite line.
The third level is off-limits.
Tonight, it’s not. I grab the iron railing with my free hand, cautiously working my way up into the darkness. When my feet hit the landing, my eyes are already darting around nervously, seeking out traps. It appears much like the second floor. There’s a hall leading to Alessio’s suite, and the only noticeable difference I find along the way is a series of paintings hung on display. I pause to look at them, noting the details I’m able to distinguish in the dim light. It appears to be a woman and two children. His family, perhaps?
I’m not sure what to make of it, but I don’t linger. Looking for too long will only humanize him. It will make this harder than it needs to be.
As I approach the suite with large, solid French doors, it occurs to me that they could be locked. But to my relief, I find that they aren’t. When I open them, the first thing that hits me is Alessio’s scent. It’s clean and masculine, and admittedly, I could see how women might find it intoxicating. I try to forget how to breathe as I examine the room.
I think I was expecting some type of dark lair, but surprisingly, the space is light and clean. The curtains, walls, and area rug are all shades of white and soft gray. The massive bed in the center is cloaked in the same luxurious bedding I have in my room. So white and fluffy, it looks like a cloud. The room consists of the basics, much like all the others in the house, and I doubt he’s hiding anything important here. I do my due diligence regardless, snooping through his drawers and peeking into his closet, touching everything I can get my hands on. I’m not worried about leaving evidence. There won’t be any way to hide that it was me regardless.
After twenty minutes, I’ve concluded whatever secrets Alessio may have, they aren’t hidden in here. With nothing else to do, I try to determine which side of the bed he sleeps on by checking all three sets of pillows. There is no indication anyone has ever slept in this bed. I opt for the middle ground, carefully tucking my knife under that set of pillows, hoping I’ll be able to reach it when the time comes. Then I make myself comfortable in a plush gray chair near his bed. My eyes drift to the clock periodically, watching as the minutes pass. Those minutes soon turn into an hour and then two. By the third, I’m irritated. Where the hell is he?
The first thought that comes to mind is the most obvious. It’s the middle of the night, and he hasn’t come home. He must be out fucking someone. It’s an idea that stirs an unrecognizable emotion in me. I don’t want to believe it’s jealousy, but the bitterness on my tongue makes me think it must be. Imagining him looking at someone else the way he looks at me is bothersome, to say the least.
I’m not completely emotionally bankrupt. I can recognize feelings when I have them, and I know suppressing them only gives them more power over me. I can admit if I had met Alessio under different circumstances, I wouldn’t be so opposed to his uncivilized charm. But acknowledging that feeling and accepting it are two different things. I’m not supposed to like the bad guy, and if I do, it means there is something deeply wrong with me.
He should repulse me. I should hate him with a passion that leaves no room for any sympathy, but I have witnessed him struggle with his humanity. I have seen the way he looks at Nino, the way he wants to protect him and do right by him. That alone has softened me toward him. The way he looks at me … like he never wants to stop, it has softened me too.