“Well, for starters they killed my mom and dad.” I try to hide any emotion, but I feel it in my words. I’m also sure it shows on my face.
He searches my eyes. “But what did they do to you?” he asks, leaning in closer. His eyes are so intense and as blue as that vast sea was this afternoon.
I turn to look over my shoulder at the painting of his mother on the far wall. Electric blue eyes. Like his. When I turn back to him, I see that his gaze has followed mine and there’s something sad in it. Something broken.
“You have her eyes,” I say before I can stop myself.
For the briefest of moments, I see surprise on his face. He’s quick to school his features and shift the conversation away from himself. “Are you embarrassed to say?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
I shift my gaze slightly so I’m looking at his forehead, not into his eyes. He’s too intense. Too focused.
“No.” But I feel my skin get clammy. It’s the truth. I’m not embarrassed. I am ashamed. There is a difference. A big one.
He narrows his eyes and studies me like he’s considering whether or not to pursue this. There’s nothing to pursue. He’s not a friend. Not a confidante. He is my jailor. I will not tell him more.
“All right,” he says like he’s finished with it, but I get the feeling he’s not.
“Your aspirin is expired.” I want to change the subject.
“What?”
“It’s ten years old.”
“You looked through my medicine cabinet too?”
“I had a headache from banging my head on the wall when you broke into the tower to kidnap me.” I’m making a point.
“Ah. The maid must have missed it.” He’s either missed the point or is ignoring it. “Do you need some now?”
“Would you give it to me?”
“Why not?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
It’s quiet again for a long time before he finally pushes his chair back. “Alec,” he calls out and the soldier who’d brought me upstairs earlier appears out of nowhere.
“Sir.”
Cristiano stands. “Take Ms. De La Cruz upstairs,” he says without warning.
I feel my face pale, the blood draining.
Alec nods, not quite looking at me but waiting for me to get up.
Cristiano turns to me again and he looks like a giant from where I’m seated. Without another word to me, he takes the bottle of whiskey and disappears down another corridor.
7
Cristiano
I don’t look at my mother’s portrait when I pass it, but turn the corner into a darker corridor. I make my way to my study thinking about what Scarlett said. That I have my mother’s eyes. A strange comment to make, I think, especially from her.
Once inside, I close the door. The desk lamp is on. I set the whiskey bottle down, pull my sweater over my head, and sit before pouring another into a glass Lenore left on the desk. She worked for us before, too, and has been living with her family for the ten years since the massacre. She was one of the few people who knew Dante and I were alive.
I took three bullets during the attack. Two to my torso, one to my head. They’d mistaken me for a soldier or I’m sure I would be dead now. No execution style killing for me. But I did watch from my place on the bloody marble floor that mom loved so much. I remember how cold it felt, even in the July heat. How that small, inconsequential detail stood out.
My older brother and father were already injured when they brought them in. My mother had been seated in her favorite chair. I watched the tears slide down her face as her husband and sons were made to kneel in a line facing her. Michael, the heir to the throne. Luca and Gianni just kids, scared and trying hard not to cry. The soldier they had mistaken for me, my best friend Jonah. My sister Elizabeth they killed in her room. Lenore’s granddaughter, Mara, is the one body we didn’t recover.
My family must have thought I was already dead, and I guess I was. Bleeding out while Marcus Rinaldi, the leader, Angel and Diego De La Cruz and their army of soldiers stood in our house, desecrated it, bloodied our floors.
They killed Michael first. Bullet to the back of the head while my mother watched. While we all watched. Even injured, he was a threat.
I think, though, that it was a blessing for him given what followed.
Fuck.
I forgo the tumbler and bring the bottle to my lips, forcing down big gulps of burning liquid even though my throat has closed up. Even though it feels like I’m already choking as sweat coats my forehead.
Opening the drawer, I take out the machinery. I made it myself, my home tattooing kit of sorts. I’m not half bad when I’m not drunk. But my tattoos aren’t meant to be pretty. They’re meant to never let me forget what happened. Never forget those who betrayed us. Those who will be made to pay.