Chapter 10
ROMI
It’s not until I’m at the bottom of the stairs inside the apartment building that I look back. Dante has crossed the road and is speaking with whoever is on that motorcycle. I recognize the bike but don’t know from where. All I know is whoever that person is, they’re trouble.
But so is Dante.
I know this, and yet I can’t help but use him. There’s something about him that pulls me in. It might be the danger that I seek, but part of me instinctively knows I shouldn’t mess with someone like Dante. And I certainly shouldn’t be curious about him.
Borris is excited when I open the apartment door.
I’m shivering and shaking from the chill of the night as I pick him up, desperate for a shower.
I cuddle him, giving him kisses and praises as I find myself gravitating toward the window and balcony instead of the bathroom.
I hide behind the edges of the curtain, looking down as the two men shake hands.
“I don’t know about this one, Borris. Something just isn’t right.” I know this, yet I keep giving Dante attention.
I’m playing with fire, and for the first time, through the haze of pushing everyone away, I understand that—and I’m certain that’s what draws me in, as if I know this man could be my undoing. Do I truly want to ruin myself entirely?
It feels like what I deserve, but I have reservations as to how much I’m willing to let myself fall. At some point, I have to pick myself up, right? But what if I choose not to?
I step away from the curtains and set Borris down the moment the motorcycle rides off, and Dante turns for the building. I unzip and strip back the leather jacket, curious about the lump in the inside pocket.
I pull out his wallet, the mischievous thought crossing my mind to steal his money for my own personal amusement, but it’s the small, black leather case that draws my attention.
I open it and pull out not just one, but two perfectly polished scalpels.
What the fuck?
Doctors don’t have a need to take surgical instruments home with them, do they?
Something about all of this just feels off.
The door opens, and I hold the blades up accusingly. “Do all doctors take these home with them?”
Dante spares them only a glance and then unzips his boots, seemingly unbothered. “You’re awfully interested in me lately, Cattivella. And, no, not everyone is attached to their blades. I personally don’t feel right without mine.”
I frown. It sounds kind of sadistic, and I’m still certain he’s not even a real doctor.
“Any other questions you have for me? I’m happy to answer anything you ask.” It’s the way he says it, the way he’s so open to my prying, that makes me pull away from his beacon of sunlight every time I ask about him.
Dangerous, I remind myself. It was only meant to be a one-night stand, and you’ve already failed yourself to leave it at that. Numerous times.
I put the blades back into their leather pouch and then throw the leather jacket onto the counter. “Whatever, I’m having a shower first, if you’re able to take Borris out for a tinkle.”
He chuckles, repeating “tinkle” as he picks up Borris and all but coos at him and takes him downstairs.
It strikes me as odd how accommodating he is.
That no matter how much of a bitch I am, he still does the things I demand as if he’s enjoying it, whereas I’m so used to people being pushed away because of it.
It irritates me because it would seem the one person who wants to gain more access than I’m able to give, is most likely a psychopath.
I sneeze, almost dislodging my sunglasses from the top of my head, as I hang with Borris this afternoon.
I’m sitting in the dog park, sober, watching him play.
This is the worst hangover I’ve had in weeks, since it’s the only time I’ve been sober, but the mere thought of having a puff rips at my lungs, and drinking gives me an immediate headache. Because now I’m fucking sick.
Turns out it wasn’t a good idea to jump into the frigid lake. Who knew? My impulsive decision has reminded me that I’m only mortal after all.
I unlock my phone and, for the first time in six weeks, I pull up Instagram. I used to post regularly, but after the incident with Lorraine, I haven’t been on any social media. Didn’t want to focus on the noise or expectation of my return or the scrutiny around my involvement in her death.
I scroll through comments and pause at a recent one from my last post, with me standing beside my favorite piece from my last collection.
I look different with my bright, shoulder-length red hair.
The photo was taken in Florence, which feels like a lifetime ago.
I’m poking my tongue out, but I see the playful spark in my eyes and don’t even recognize her.
Does anyone know where she went? I haven’t seen any posts recently, and she canceled a guest appearance at my college. I was really looking forward to meeting her. Is she okay?
The next comment.
I heard she was accused of murdering her roommate.
A chill runs down my spine. It’s not the first comment I’ve read along those lines, and I know my agent has worked her hardest to maintain the blow-up and hearsay from Lorraine’s funeral.
I close the app as that lingering pressure resurfaces.
My agent's concern rings through again, but I’m not ready to face the reality she wants me to step into.
To go back into that studio. To open up my world to color and a clear space.
My head is too messy, my heart too heavy, and my self-loathing toppling over any type of love I might be able to put elsewhere—including my work.
And the moment I step back into the spotlight, I’ll have no choice but to address the rumors. I don’t usually care what people think of me, but this hits differently. I just don’t have the energy or fight in me anymore.
I continue to watch over Borris. He plays with a puppy, confused by its spurts of energy but also trying to keep up with the little guy.
My mind drifts back to being on the back of Dante’s bike.
It’s been so long since I've ridden that I almost forgot about how invigorating it feels. The free and thrilling drift of the wind whipping at my hair. It reminded me of distant memories with my father. Of a time when I was a little girl, and all the things he taught me on the farm, most of which I’ve forgotten by now.
I only visited the farm two times after my parents divorced.
The last time I was there was twenty years ago, after he died.
I try to recall what my father looks like. I remember mousy-brown hair, strong hands, and a soothing voice. I remember him as being my hero, but everything else I’ve forgotten.
I have photos somewhere. I think at my mother’s house?
I look at the time on my phone. It’s four in the afternoon, and I have no particular interest in going home or facing Dante yet.
There’s just something about him that unnerves me. Not that I think he’ll chop me into tiny pieces or anything, but also… maybe?
“Come on, Borris,” I call, deciding to do something I didn’t think I’d willingly choose anytime soon—visit my mother especially because she’s one of the main perpetrators of trying to coddle me.
My mother is out when I arrive, but one of the house staff lets me in, despite the fact that I have a key.
It’s not that I dislike returning to my mother and stepfather’s home.
It’s simply that they value materialistic things more than I do.
I wanted to explore the world on my own two feet, instead of being held tightly to an expectation within their inner social circle.
They live in a big mansion, like she always wanted.
I recall her urgency and demand, arguing with my biological father about the things she dreamed of having when they only knew debt.
My mother came from old money, and marrying for love and adjusting to a humble life were hard for her.
I only found out that detail in my late teens, because as a child, I thought we had everything we needed.
I find it ironic that I forget the finer details of my father’s face, but I recall their arguments about money.
The mansion is beautiful, but this life my mother built with my stepfather always felt too polished.
My stepfather is an influential plastic surgeon, and I suppose being raised around beautiful people quickly made me understand that it didn’t necessarily translate to their personality or level of sincerity.
I walk into my childhood room; it's decorated in an array of dark purples and black. I smirk, grateful that despite my grunge aesthetics as a teenager, they kept it as it was. I look up to the rock band posters, almost laughing at how hot I found the lead singer—because he’s wearing a mask.
Borris jumps on my deep-purple silk blankets as I walk to my closet, which still contains more clothes than I ever knew what to do with.
I loved my life, loved being spoiled, but there was also a deep yearning to explore the world on my own, which is precisely what I did the moment I graduated.
When I came back to New York, I'd decided it was time to get my own place.
After trying a few different places over the years, in between traveling the world for my exhibitions, I'd finally settled in my current apartment.
It's where I'd lived with Lorraine, and it had felt like I finally found a place to call my own.
If anything, maybe it was only because I had her to return to.
I turn on the light in my walk-in closet and admire the clothes.
A few I set aside, having forgotten about them, but I had every intention of bringing them back to my apartment.
I step into another closet, this one I used specifically for shoes, handbags, and jewelry.
I ignore all of them and drop to my knees to a bottom drawer on the right-hand side.
When I open it, I find the black box I came here for.