They were never cold-blooded killers, but they all had blood on their hands, and I share in that secret now.
Though I searched the web for endless days of any report on what happened in this house, I came up completely empty. Not a word was spoken, no reports on any media outlet, not even an obituary or service announcement for Dominic, which infuriated me.
I have no knowledge of what transpired after I left, but it was covered up in a way that is unfathomable to me.
For months I checked the papers, the web, searching for clues, arrests, anything pertaining to that night and drew a blank. I also checked Miami papers as well and got nothing. Not even in the nearby counties. It was eight months later that I finally stumbled upon an obituary for Delphine, who’d finally succumbed to her cancer.
And after that investigation, I checked out. I had no choice. My health and sanity were at risk by that point, and I had to give in and do their final bidding.
I had to try and move on, start to live some semblance of a life.
I’d spent months and months between grief and anger in the waking hours before I made a decision to try. I never returned Roman’s inquisitive emails on my well-being or progress at school, avoiding him altogether until the day he died of colon cancer two years after I left.
Not once after, had I tried to contact anyone in the brotherhood. I knew it would be pointless. Anger and resentment had helped me with that task.
I played along for the sake of self-preservation, despite my eyes being pried wide open by what went down here.
It was the decision of preservation that helped me forge ahead and finally yanked me from the spiral. But shortly after, the dreams took over, threatening to destroy every bit of progress I made.
I’m declaring a new war by coming here, and I need to be ready. It’s not just my sleep I want back. I’m not certain of exactly what my motives are. But my dream last night set this into motion, so for now, I’m going with it, knowing the truth will never really set me free, but maybe it will close a few doors, and I’m hoping it’s enough.
Shaking off the freezing rain and unease of being back at this house, I take a step in and close the door behind me as history threatens to come at me from all sides. I shiver in my jacket and rub my arms, making my way over to the thermostat and cranking it up. Peeking over the couch in the formal living room, I note the board still intact sitting where it rests on the lip of the fireplace. Unbelievably, the pieces are set up from the last time Tobias and I played chess.
“Your move,” he prompts after taking another of my pawns.
I sip my wine and gaze at him bathed in the amber light of the few candles I lit when I came downstairs after my shower. We’d shared an intimate smile when I spotted him from where he stood, uncorking a bottle of wine. After lathering myself up in juniper lotion, which I learned was his catnip, I’d chosen an off the shoulder, thin sweater, and nothing else. I don’t own any lingerie, except for the nightgown he bought me that I decided to save for our last night together, which will be the night before I leave for school, which I refuse to think about. The clear approval of my choice shines in his eyes as he sweeps me appreciatively while passing me my wine before we take our seats. The board rests diagonally on the fireplace, where we sit across from the other, very little space between us. The game itself, I still find incredibly boring, but the beauty and mystery of the company I’m playing with make it more than bearable. And if I’m truthful makes for some intoxicating foreplay.
“Is there another game you would ever play?”
“Non.”
“And you never watch TV aside from the news?”
“I do when I’m sick.”
“How often do you get sick?”
“Once every three to five years.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t suppose we’ll be bonding over any sort of binge-watch then.”
He glances over at me, the touch of vulnerability evident in his gaze. “Is that what we’re supposed to be doing?”
His question is serious. As naïve as it is for a man his age. Over the last week together, I’ve learned that much like his brothers, the man truly doesn’t at all run in any circle, or include any norms of his life that would indicate standard ‘American’ living. Though he went to school abroad, he was raised in the States for a long period of time, but it doesn’t seem to have rubbed off on him in the McRib way, which is crazy ironic for a man with his finger on the pulse of current events. A man who is so in tune with the world yet so far removed from it in a personal sense. One, he’s very much a hermit and a creature of habit. His touch of OCD making his routines hard to deter from. Two, he lectured me endlessly when I told him I was craving said McRib. In fact, he went full-on French snob. I barely got away with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and now have to hide my junk food.
The man’s indulgences include expensive coffee beans, his food must be nothing less than fine dining standards, and his wine choices—though delicious—are very, very, expensive. And every one of his suits is designer and tailored, that much I knew, but I have yet to see a repeat in the two months he’s taken me hostage. While his tastes maybe a little over the top, I don’t at all fault him for spending his money on the finer things because he didn’t grow up in a house like the one we’re occupying, he grew up enduring a ‘wrong side of the tracks’ type of lifestyle answering to an alcoholic aunt who considered cockroaches a part of the family while trying to play father to his little brother.
He hasn’t lived a charmed life, and I’m happy that he gets to not only experience these things but demands them for his daily life. If he’s selfish about anything, it’s these little indulgences that bring him joy. He’s complicated, yet simple. And he doesn’t seem to require the stimulation of the average man. He seems to consider most things an experience, not music, but a single song, not food, but a feast, not wine but a tasting. And sex, that he takes even more seriously. For him, it’s an art form, and one he’s mastered beautifully.
“What?” he asks, flicking his gaze to mine while contemplating his first move.
“I don’t hate you anymore.” I don’t miss the slight lift of his lips. “You smile, but I really did hate you, Tobias.”
“I know,” his smile only grows.
“You love my opposition.”
“You’re the only woman in the world who’s good at making me really angry.”