23. Chapter Twenty-Three— Carlotta #2
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him look at me for a heartbeat or two, before he finally leaves, disappearing through the racks of clothes without a word.
Either for good, or for bad, I don’t get a second’s reprieve to dwell on my strange encounter. I have other customers to attend to, stock check to take and designer clothes to hang neatly on display, all before I clock off early for my appointment.
I can’t afford to be late, especially not when I’ve been on the damn waiting list for the past three weeks.
At four o’clock sharp, I collect my handbag and winter coat from the staff room, swiping my ID through the scanner to clock out.
I jog through the corridors as quickly as my heels will allow, picking up speed when I notice the elevator about to close.
“Hold the door!”
A large hand slides between the metal doors, creating a gap just wide enough for me to slip inside.
“Thank you,” I utter to the gentleman. He simply nods wordlessly, going back to peering down at his phone.
I do the same, distracting myself as I white knuckle the railing of the elevator with each inch we descend to the ground floor. It leaves my stomach somewhere still floating above, but I grit and bare it for the few minutes it takes.
Once outside, I navigate through the bustling streets, dipping my chin in the neckline of my puffer coat to keep out the chill.
With thirty minutes to spare until they close, I reach the tall, imposing building Google maps has led me to.
Gliding through the glass, revolving door, I cross the gold marble tiled flooring, coming to a stop in front of the imposing front desk. The suit wearing woman behind it doesn’t even bother to greet me; simply raising her head from her workload to stare at me until I open my mouth and speak.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Ruby.”
A series of typing on the keyboard kisses my ears. I fidget on the spot, shifting from aching foot to aching foot, while I impatiently wait.
Brown eyes flick to mine without any emotion behind them. “Unfortunately, Mr. Ruby had to leave early for a family emergency, but he’s left the paperwork here for you to collect.”
“Oh. Oh, okay.” I nod, sinking my teeth into my lower lip with disappointment.
Papers shuffle and then a thin, unmarked file is slapped on the desk in front of me.
“There you go.”
I grab the file with both hands, gripping it tightly until the edges of the papers slice into my flesh. I blink back the tears stinging across my waterline and mutter my thanks before I hightail it out from under the gold archways, decorated with giant red, white, and blue flags.
Out on the overcrowded streets, I start walking, one foot in front of the other, hardly even paying attention to the direction in which I’m going.
Is this even the way home?
The wind whips around me, tangling my long locks of red hair around my face, biting into any chunk of exposed flesh it can get it’s claws on.
Clinging to the unmarked file in my hand like it’s my lifeline, I tuck my chin in my coat and power on, swallowing down the ball of nausea rolling about in the base of my gut, threatening to escape from my throat with each unsteady step.
I round the corner of 8th avenue and 57th street before I stop dead in my tracks.
The classic black and white sign of club Nameless winks at me as if urging me to crawl inside.
Absolutely fucking not.
Keeping my head held high, I stride down the sidewalk, giving myself a mental pat on the back when I only turn my gaze to peer inside once.
I nod at the eye of the burly, heavily tattooed security man I meet, but I don’t stop my stride, heading for the subway and hopping on board the first cramped carriage I see heading towards the lower east side.
My phone vibrates in my coat pocket as we lurch to a stop, an influx of awaiting passengers having just left the office at 5 p.m., stepping aboard.
Packed in tightly the way we are—elbows in faces, bags and purses hitting stranger’s shoulders—I wait until I’m traipsing the last three blocks to my apartment on foot, to check the caller ID.
Jamming the pad of my ice-cold thumb into the call back button, I listen to the first two dial tones, before he picks up.
“Hey Princess, I was getting worried. You never rang me back.”
“Oh.” I reposition my hold of the file, pressing it to my chest as it becomes heavy in my hand, like a dead weight, with every word dripping from Cassiel’s lips. “Sorry, I got held up at work.”
“No biggie. Just wanted to hear your voice, is all. How was your day?”
My skin crawls with the lie I’ve just told Cassiel.
The truth sits heavy on the tip of my tongue, nearly spilling out before I swallow it down at the very last second.
“It was fine. The usual,” I say, dragging my legs up my apartment block flight of stairs. “How was yours?”
In all honesty, I’m only half listening to Cass talk about his day as I slide him to speakerphone so I can unlock the door, kick off my heels, and shove a microwave meal in to heat up.
The unmarked file, marred with indents of my sweaty palms, mocks me from where it lies on my coffee table, urging me to rip open the pages and begin reading.
But I want to be alone when I do.
Still in my work attire, I curl up on the couch, shoveling a few forkfuls of cheese laden macaroni pasta into my mouth.
“So, then I—”
“Cass, can I ring you back tomorrow?” I ask, unable to take waiting a second longer. “Sorry, it’s just I need a warm shower and an early night. I’m exhausted.”
“Oh. Yeah, of course, Princess.” The disappointment in his voice makes my skin itch, but I can’t help it. I’ll make it up to him on Friday night. “Do you want me to come around and—”
“No, it’s okay,” I tell him, swallowing back the bitter taste gathering on the back of my tongue.
“Well, you know where I am if you need somebody to chase the nightmares away, okay? I’ll see you Friday, Princess.”
“Friday,” I promise, moments before I hit the red button. “It’s a date.”
Dumping my phone and the still half-full bowl of my microwave dinner onto the coffee table, I pull the unmarked file towards me.
A spark of pure, unfiltered fear, snakes up my spine, causing my palms to sweat and my stomach to turn—the pasta turning into a hard ball in my gut.
I’ve waited all day to get my hands on this file and now here I am, stalling.
Gripping the first page between my thumb and forefinger, I take a shaky breath—here goes fucking nothing—and rip back the cover.
Miss Carlotta Bellucci,
Please find enclosed the coroners reports documenting Mr Cristiano Bellucci’s death. Here you will find photos of the patient’s body, as found, on your mother’s doorstep, as well as notes.
Signed, Mr. Ruby.
My eyes skim over the text at lightning speed before I’m turning to the next page.
I stare down at the graphic photos of my brother’s body, noting the distinctive tattoos covering his cold flesh and the close up shot of his missing pinkie finger on his left hand.
Even now, well over a month since I received that phone call from my hysterical mother, telling me my brother was dead, it still doesn’t seem real.
Dried eyed and detached from everything, I flick past the blue tinged photographs to the coroner’s scribbled down notes.
Patient found with high traces of class A narcotics in his system. Namely, cocaine.
Patient also found with bruising and cuts around his ribs, collarbones, neck and chest. Bruises are both purple, indicating a few days to a week old, while others are fresh.
I glance further down the page, my lips moving as I read.
Name: Cristiano Bellucci
Age: 31
Sex: Male
Height: 6’1
Weight: N/A
Eye color: Hazel
Hair color: Brunette
Blood Type: A
Contents found in blood: High quantities of alcohol and cocaine.
Rigor Mortis: Passed
Time of death: Early hours of the morning. Exact time N/A
Probable cause of death: Heart attack
I read the last line again; my tongue rolling over each word.
Heart attack.
Flicking back to the first page, I reach out and touch the shiny, still images of my brother’s body. The coroner has had at least the decency to cover Cristiano’s lower half with a white sheet, leaving the rest of him, multicolored bruises and blood dried crusted slashes all to be on display.
I trace the shape of his face, down the long Romanesque length of his nose, across the stubble coating his sharp jawline…
Mind racing, I rest my skull against the back of the sofa, peering up at the textured ceiling, dried eyed and detached.
Oh, Cristi.
What the hell happened to you?