8. Griselda
The soft morning light spilled into the room, gently waking me from the depths of slumber. As I stirred, a mix of warmth and the lingering scent of the night before reminded me of the intense passion we had shared.
I reached out, expecting to find Emilio beside me, but my hand met only rumpled sheets and space. Confusion settled in. Where was he? I called out his name, half-hoping he was in the bathroom or perhaps preparing breakfast, but there was no response. My voice seemed to echo in the quiet room.
Concern began to rise within me, and I pulled the sheets around me as I left the bed. The search for Emilio began in earnest, my footsteps echoing in the room as I called his name once more. I searched the suite, from the lavish bathroom to the sleek living area, but he was nowhere to be found.
The realization that he was gone, seemingly without a trace, hit me like a wave. My heart sank, disappointment seeping into my veins. Why would he leave without a word, especially after our passionate night? The empty silence of the room seemed to mock my unanswered questions.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I played over the events of the night in my mind. Had I missed something? Had he hinted at leaving? Nothing came to mind, leaving me with a perplexing sense of loss. Emilio”s departure felt like a puzzle, missing a crucial piece.
My emotions swirled within me like a tempest. There was no doubt that I was hurt by his sudden departure once again. Despite knowing Emilio for such a short time, I was strongly attracted to him.
Thoughts raced through my mind as I questioned myself. Was I just another conquest? Did he have no intention of staying, of building something meaningful beyond that one night? The doubts gnawed at me, and it felt like my heart was at war with itself.
Annoyance washed over me, too. He could have at least left a message or a way to contact him, but no. It seemed Emilio had left with as much mystery as when he arrived. This time, there was no person he could claim to recognize, no emergency to explain his absence.
Hurt coursed pierced my chest. If he wasn”t interested, why did he bother in the first place? How did I let myself fall for his tricks? I berated myself, feeling like a fool.
With a deep breath, I made up my mind: I wouldn”t allow him to occupy any more of my thoughts. If he could walk away from me twice without a word, then I certainly wouldn”t stick around for a third time. I stood up, feeling the stickiness on my skin from our passionate night. A reminder that we hadn”t even cleaned up afterward.
As I walked toward the bathroom, my steps slowed down. The reality of our unprotected encounter hit me like a punch to the gut.
”Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
We hadn’t used protection.
It was an oversight—a moment of passion that now carried potential consequences. I felt a surge of anxiety, wondering if I should seek medical advice or take some precautions. Regret churned within me, mingling with the hurt and frustration. How could I let myself be so reckless? But dwelling on it wouldn”t help.
Gathering my thoughts, I steeled myself. As I stepped into the bathroom, I made a vow to learn from this experience. I wouldn’t trust anyone so easily after this.
I couldn’t believe that I had let desire cloud my judgment.
The hot water cascaded over my skin, and I scrubbed meticulously as if trying to wash away every essence of Emilio. Was I being spiteful? No. I believed I was being reasonable. Why would I want to keep any trace of a man who abandoned me twice in a week?
As the steam and my frustration dissipated, I stepped out of the shower and began to dress, his scent on my clothes drawing me in like a siren’s call. I shook it off. Standing in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection, I vowed I wouldn’t let anyone take advantage of my emotions again.
As I went about locating my shoes, loud knocking echoed from the door adjacent to mine. My movements slowed with curiosity. The banging persisted, growing louder. I frowned, wondering when hotel management would step in to address the disturbance.
A voice in the corridor was speaking in Italian. My mother, being of Italian descent, had made sure I grew up with the language, although my proficiency wasn”t that of a native speaker. The angry voice demanded entry.
”Apri questa porta!”(Open this door!)
The occupant of the room responded, but their words were too muffled for me to discern. The situation seemed to escalate as the pounding became more insistent. Then it stopped, likely because the door had been opened, and a third voice joined the fray.
I halted in my search, the unexpected drama unfolding next door having caught my attention. It was unusual for such a disturbance to occur in a place that prided itself on luxury and service.
As the heated exchange continued, my ears caught something intriguing—the new voice had shifted to English, with a distinct American accent. A male voice, now demanding to know who the other person was. My eyebrows lifted in slight surprise. Was this some mix-up?
The man speaking in Italian persisted, demanding to know the whereabouts of Emilio. My heart skipped a beat. Emilio? Did I hear that correctly? Was this about the same Emilio who had shared a passionate night with me just hours ago? I strained to hear more.
The occupant of the room, clearly agitated, shouted back, demanding to know who had banged on his door and who this Emilio person was. The realization hit me —it couldn”t be a coincidence. Was Emilio in some trouble from last night, or was it a mix-up involving the room next door?
My mind raced, and I debated whether I should intervene or at least inquire further. I stood and approached the wall that separated our rooms, intending to knock on the connecting door and offer my assistance or at least gather more information.
Then I hesitated. What if it wasn”t related to the Emilio I had spent the night with? What if this was some private matter I had no business involving myself in?
My respect for personal boundaries wrestled with my inner curiosity. Just as I was about to knock on the door, a sharp cry sounded from the other side. Startled, I drew back, my heart racing in panic. My mind was suddenly bombarded with possible scenarios, none of them comforting.
Another voice joined the fray, recognizable as the companion of the first Italian man.
Their demand was clear—they wanted to know where Emilio was. The pieces started to fit together. The Emilio they were searching for, was the same person I had shared this room with. Was that why he had left without a word? Was he in danger?
Questions swirled in my mind, blending with worry and a sense of indignation.
”Why didn”t he tell me?” I whispered to myself, feeling a mix of frustration and concern for this confounding man.
I had opened up to him, mentioning my profession as a lawyer. If he was in some trouble, I could have helped.
As the commotion escalated next door, my worry intensified. More cries of pain and grunting sounded through the wall, leaving me feeling helpless and torn. The occupant of the room pleaded for them to stop, claiming he did not know who Emilio was.
I didn’t know what to do.
Should I call for help? Should I intervene? My mind raced, but I knew one thing—I couldn”t stay idle, not while there was someone in distress and potentially in danger just a wall away.
With my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I determined to head toward the escalating chaos. A loud bang echoed from next door, then silence. My hands flew to my mouth, and a gasp of horror caught in my throat, fear seizing me as I retreated to the bed. I couldn”t believe what I had just heard—a gunshot.
Time seemed to freeze in those dreadful moments. Silence descended, stretching into an eerie void, and my mind whirred with a thousand thoughts. Did they kill the man? Who were these men, and why were they after Emilio?
Oh my gosh! Did they want to kill Emilio?!
Panic gripped my throat as I struggled to make sense of what was happening. The idea of rushing out and confronting armed men felt not just dangerous but foolhardy. I sank on the edge of the bed. I was no detective, no action hero. Fear rendered me immobile as I suddenly realized I was in perilous proximity to at least one killer.
My imagination ran wild, conjuring up vivid pictures of bloodstained walls, helpless victims, and the cold brutality of the perpetrators. What if they decided to move to my room next?
Should I call the police? The hotel management? But what if they found out I had overheard everything? What if they decided to silence any witnesses?
I forced myself to take deep breaths, trying to steady my racing heart. I reached for my phone on the nightstand, preparing to dial for help. Pounding started on the door to my room with the same ferocity as before, and the dreaded words were shouted again.
”Apri questa porta!”(Open this door!)
My heart raced even faster, if that was possible. I froze in horror, clutching the phone with trembling hands. I prayed, hoped, that if I stayed utterly silent, they would think the room was empty and move on.
I closed my eyes and bunched up on the bed with my arms around my legs. The pounding and shouting continued. The sound of my breath was loud to my ears.
Would they burst in?
Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, the shouting stopped. The banging ceased, and their footsteps retreated. I stayed curled up on the bed, listening intently, afraid they might return.
When I dared to open my eyes and move, I felt like a survivor emerging from a battlefield. Trembling, I sat up, still holding my phone. My hands were clammy, and my heart still pounded, but the immediate threat seemed to have passed.
Now, the agonizing question remained—what should I do next?
Was it safe to leave the room, or should I remain hidden and call for help?