Chapter 17
17
SOFIA
G ideon watches me. I’ve gotten accustomed to it over the last few weeks, I suppose. Gotten used to the feeling of his intense gaze on me.
Sometimes, he studies me. His eyes roam over me slowly, pausing every once in a while on something he must find interesting. At first, it made me self-conscious of every imperfection I’ve dwelled on— how my two front teeth are a little too big, or the scar on my chin that looks like a lopsided indent, and the cowlick on my forehead that makes my hair stick up at a weird angle— but now I let it go. If he doesn’t like those things, he can look away.
Other times, Gideon scrutinizes me, his brows furrowed as if he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. I’ve also let this go. If I can’t figure myself out, he certainly never will.
Thing is, I watch him too. I’m forever aware of his presence in the house. It’s become a habit of mine, always knowing where he is— the study, the kitchen, the bathroom. My bed when he comes to me in the middle of the night.
He takes up so much room, that I instantly feel his absence when he steps outside the manor. There are times where he leaves on his helicopter to enact his revenge on some poor soul. Other times, he walks to the forest and disappears into the woods, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
What’s out there? Who is he delivering those flowers to? Certainly, it’s not the men that guard the perimeter of his property.
Right now, however, he’s watching me without seeing. It’s as if he’s so accustomed to doing it, his eyes are glued on me, but his mind is somewhere far far away.
I’d been sitting on the couch in the great room, flipping through the pages of a book on black and white landscape photography. It had been in a stack of them he brought a few days ago for me to go through.
He came in, a glass full of whiskey in his hand, and sat on the other side of the couch, his back against the corner so that he was partly facing me. I pushed my feet against his leg, not so that he would move, but so that they could get warmer. Days like today are so cold that five of the cats that live here have given up the comfort of Gideon’s bed and are lying on the floor by the fire.
We sat in silence for a long time, only the sound of the crackling fire and the purring to fill the quiet. Then I turned and caught him staring blankly.
“What are you thinking?” I finally ask.
He blinks, his attention returning to the here and now. “Planning.”
“Mmm. Evil things, I’m sure.”
A chuckle escapes him, and it does more to warm me than the fire ever could. “Not everything I do is evil.”
“Pfft. That’s doubtful.” I flip the page and as nonchalant as I can.“Tell me about it.”
He narrows his eyes. “So you can judge me?”
“I’ve already judged you, so you needn’t worry about that. But maybe I can help you plan. If in fact it’s not some misdeed.”
“You’ll think it is.”
“I’m sure I will. So, what is it?”
It takes him a moment, where his lips part but nothing comes out, as if he can’t decide whether to trust me. Finally, he says, “I took out an enemy a few days ago. Clive Maxton. He was one of the men involved in my father’s death.”
“Good for you.” My words drip with sarcasm and regret that I asked.
“That’s not what I’m thinking about.”
“Oh?”
“In order to get to him, I had to use someone as hostage. My second in command watched over her and unfortunately seems to have grown attached. Last night there was an attack. The girl called my second for help, and she responded. Could have gotten herself killed.”
“She?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Your second in command is a woman?”
Gideon’s lips pull up. “Jealous again, are we?”
“Not at all. Go on.”
“I’m concerned that this will be a problem. It’s a weakness. When I put them together, I never considered that they’d form a bond. If she was willing to risk her life, would she be willing to betray me?”
“Is your second able to do both? Remain loyal to you while maintaining a friendship with this girl?”
He considers this. “To an extent. Her older sister is with Arran Maxton now. He’s a part of Luca’s alliance.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Exactly.” He nods.
“How much do you trust this woman… What do we call her?”
“I trust her,” he replies, conveniently omitting her name.
“You’ve known her long?”
“Yes.”
“Is she a blood relative?”
“No.”
I don’t allow it to bother me, this close relationship with a woman who isn’t related to him. Why would it? He’s nothing to me but a means to keep Luca safe.
“Well…” I think about it for a second. “If I were in your position, which obviously I’m not a villain so it’s hard to exactly put myself in your shoes, but if I was, I’d monitor her. If she’s proven to be loyal for years, then she might be willing to sacrifice herself without compromising you. Put a tracer on her. Have someone else you trust as much follow her. That’s what I would do.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?”
“That’s exactly what I was planning on doing. I just wanted to see if you had a devious mind, like mine.”
“We aren’t alike, Gideon.” I roll my eyes.
“So you keep on reminding me.”
I choose to ignore him. Standing, I shut the book and place it on the coffee table. “This was good. It makes my hands itch to do some of this myself.”
“Would you like to?”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Take some outdoor photos.”
“Outside? Here?” I glance out the window and the idea of the outdoors suddenly seems daunting. It feels like an eternity since I’ve been under the big blue sky, have suppressed any desire to do so by immersing myself in the dark room.
“The estate is large. There are many points of interest. I can take you to them.” He sits up as he considers it further. “There’s a spot, a small clearing, where the sunsets cast the most beautiful shadows. Or, we can visit a cave I discovered years ago, on the south side.”
“Is that where you go every day?” When his brows pinch, I clarify. “I’ve seen you going into the woods with flowers. What site are you visiting?”
“Ah. That. I can take you there too.”
“All right.” I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. Yes, going outside seems suddenly overwhelming, as if the world is too big and I might float away without the manor walls to keep me grounded. But becoming prisoner to my own fear on top of being Gideon’s captive is far more terrifying. “I’ll grab my things.”
Gideon had a few hoodies and jeans with him the last time he went to Philadelphia. I tug on the Eagles one, my blue jeans and a new pair of hiking boots that must have cost him a fortune. Then, because he’s yet to bring me coats, I take one from his closet.
“I’ll get you your own coat this week,” he says, resting against the door jamb of his bedroom, a bouquet of daisies in his hand.
“Don’t. It makes me think you don’t plan on letting me go.”
“Interesting thought.”
I follow him out, into the bright sunshine and crisp air. Damn, it’s beautiful here. If nothing else, I can say that. Were it not for my circumstances, I’d love to visit a place like this.
We go around the house and toward the edge of the trees where there’s a path I hadn’t noticed from my balcony. It goes in a long way, perhaps half a mile. Then, little by little the trees give way to a small clearing. Within, there’s a tall brick wall, too high for me to see over.
“You once told me photography is a way to tell a story. Here is one for you to capture,” Gideon says when we stop in front of an intricate iron door set in the center of a brick wall.
“Is there a garden in there?” I peek through the bars to discover that, while there are flowers within, it’s not a garden at all, but a cemetery.
He opens the door for me and extends his hand, indicating for me to enter. I do so hesitantly, my camera held firmly against my chest.
I’ve never been a fan of cemeteries, perhaps because I’ve been to them more times than I care to. First, for my mother. Then Pops. My sweet Tony. And last, Carina’s sister, Alma.
However, they are buried in a semi-enclosed part of St. Joseph’s in New York. It’s open and big, somewhere you can see all of life’s casualties. All the death.
This is different. I never imagined that the words magical and eerie could be used to describe the same place, but I can here. Sunlight filters in streams through the canopy of trees, little motes floating through them, glittering like fairies. Green moss covers most of the ground, and branches of a floral vine, perhaps honeysuckle or jasmine, have taken over the fence that surrounds five graves and the large marble Celtic cross standing guard behind them.
“I had no idea there was anything in the woods. The trees seem so dense from above,” I tell him.
“Hiding things well is a specialty of mine.” His mouth pulls up to one side as he gives me a pointed look.
“Ha. Very funny.” I move closer to the cross. “You’re Irish.”
“Born in Dublin.”
“May I?” I lift my camera in question.
He nods and I approach, the Leica already to my eye. I take a photo of the entire site, then of each individual grave.
The first headstone reads, In Memory of Stephen Grant Black . Beside him lies Wendy Lynn Black, Beloved Wife and Mother . The other three remain blank.
“Who are they?” I ask, though I already know.
“My mother and father.” Gideon sets the bouquet of daisies on Wendy’s grave, his gaze unreadable as he stares at them. “The others are meant for my second and I.”
“You’re prepared,” I say.
“I suppose you can call it that,” he replies somberly.
“Does she know you have a hole set up ready for her to fall in?” I ask, unable to keep the venom from my tone.
“She asked me to so that she wouldn’t end up buried alone somewhere. It was actually her idea to have the plots set up. She says people like us don’t live to old age. That we are living on borrowed time as it is.”
“Oh.” That actually sounds kind of sad. I capture some images of the nameless graves and a chill crawls over me. “The Sinacores have a family plot too. I want to be buried there, but I hate knowing that there’s already a place waiting for me. Seems like an invitation for death.”
“I agree.”
“You said the other two are for you and your second. What about the third? Who is that for?” I walk around, getting different angles and lighting. When I look back, he’s doing that same thing he’d been doing earlier, staring off blankly, only this time, his eyes are on the tombs.
“A brother I lost, long ago.” Something about his face, the way the shadows mark the lines of it as he remains so still, seems appropriate for this place. So melancholy and so beautiful at the same time. He’s like the statues of angels placed in cemeteries. A dark, sad angel.
“What happened to your mother?” I watch him through the lens of my camera, capturing each tiny change in his expression as he takes in my question.
For a moment, I’m not sure he’ll reply. Why would he?
But after a few seconds, his lips part and he sucks in a breath and releases it. “I was very young. I’d just turned four.”
“You were there?”
“Yes.” His brows pinch tightly together as he tries to recall what happened. “I’m not sure how much of it is my own memory, and how much was formed from the story my father told me. We’d just moved to the States from Ireland. He was working at the post office in Chicago at the time, and an opportunity to make extra money came up. A shipment.”
“An illegal one.”
“Mmm. It went wrong and the product was lost. The man he’d done business with broke into our house. I heard her scream, I think. Screams from her bedroom. When I went in, she was dead and the window was open.” He pauses and turns slightly toward me, not to look my way, but more to not see the graves. “Father stormed in minutes later, but it was too late.”
“You saw her dead?”
“There’s an image of her body in my mind. I can see her in a pool of her own blood. Her clothes tattered from the sheer number of knife wounds.” His eyes grow distant and his features mimic the horror he must have felt then, as a child witnessing his mother slain. “That’s the only thing I see clearly. Like a fucking picture.” Turning to me, he asks, “Do you remember anything from when you were four?”
I shake my head. Sure, I know what my life was like, but just like he said, it’s all memories formed from what I’ve been told. None of them are really mine.
“I’m sorry, Gideon,” I say, and find that I actually mean it. “What happened to the man that killed her?”
“My father went to work with Giuseppe Tadesco. He helped him take care of the problem in return for his shipping services.”
“Guiseppe Tadesco,” I say. I’ve heard of him in passing. As much as my family tried to keep me from their business, it was impossible to completely shut me out. “He was in Chicago.”
“Yes.” He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mother was buried in Chicago. When Father bought the estate, he had her moved here so that I could visit her when he was gone. At first, he’d bring daisies with him when he returned from a business trip. They’d often be wilted. I began to grow them myself so I didn’t have to wait.”
“Now you take them to her every day.”
“They were her favorite flowers. That’s what I was told.”
We stay here for a while longer. I don’t take any more photographs. I don’t ask any more questions, though there are so many of them swirling through my mind. What was his mother like? Stephen’s headstone says In Memory of . That tells me he’s not buried here. So, where is he?
No. I don’t ask anything else, not because I don’t want to, but because the man beside me isn’t Gideon right now. There’s a longing in his expression that’s almost childlike. An ache that belongs to someone young that has experienced loss. No matter how much I want to hate him, in this moment, I can’t.
Later. I’ll ask later. For now, I stand beside him and pay my respects to his mother.