Chapter 32 Allegra
ALLEGRA
Weeks pass and it slowly dawns on me that Enzo really doesn't want anything to do with me.
I try to fill my time with meaningful things, but even my outings have become few and far between.
I started writing more, and my diary has become a window to my soul.
Every little thing that happens finds its way inside.
Lately, it's been mostly my squabbles with Lucia, but as the next event approaches, I can't even muster the strength to fight.
Enzo's birthday is right around the corner, and I've been repeatedly told what an important event it is—that I should not embarrass the family. After the conflict with Rocco, I realized that I'd rather swallow my pride than get another discipline session.
And so I'd begrudgingly accepted getting fitted for a proper dress and having my makeup and hair done.
Lucia had been in charge of the details, and while I'd been skeptical about it, with Rocco in her shadow, she hadn't dared do anything unseemly.
"You've never worn makeup before?" The artist stares at me in wonder, and I can only shake my head. She purses her lips, her eyes studying my face.
"Don't worry. I'll make you real pretty," she says before she gets to work. I doubt she can work wonders, but I sit patiently in the chair. I know I've never been blessed looks-wise, so I'm not holding out hope that I'll suddenly become beautiful. I don't think anyone has that type of skill.
It takes well over an hour for her to finish, but then she suddenly tells me to open my eyes and look in the mirror. I do as I'm told, but when I see myself, I can't help but gasp.
"Is that me?" I whisper, my eyes already becoming wet.
Damn! I can't ruin this makeup.
I look up, blinking hard and waiting for the moment to pass.
"This is wonderful," I stare in awe at my reflection. For the first time ever, I see something different. I'm not by any means beautiful—not in the way Gianna Guerra is—but like this, I feel beautiful.
"Thank you," the words pour out of my mouth, and I take the makeup artist's hands in mine, trying to convey just how much this means to me. "Thank you," I repeat, and I feel tears overwhelm me again.
I'm still stupefied by my new transformation as I'm fitted for a dress—a black cocktail dress that, this time, has enough material to cover my skin.
When the dress is also done, the hair is the last stop.
But that proves to be a little more difficult as I engage in a heated argument with the hairdresser about the length of my hair.
I've never cut my hair before, only trimming it when necessary.
The fact that he's insisting on a shoulder-length haircut has me incensed.
"No, no," I put my hands up.
"Yes, yes," he makes fun of me before plopping me in the chair and cutting my hair.
Apparently, Lucia's been very strict with her instructions.
I try not to mourn my hair as I watch it pile on the floor. The end result, though, blows my mind.
Who knew that hair could change my entire look?
I'm back at the house just in time for the celebrations to begin. There's still no trace of Enzo, though.
Losing myself in the throng of guests, I start socializing and immersing myself in conversation. To my great delight, most of the people present speak Italian, so I don't have to make a fool of myself with my abysmal accent.
And so I start enjoying myself. Champagne flows freely, and discussions abound. The birthday party is in full swing, except the birthday boy is absent.
But I no longer care. This time, I'm going to have fun.
Fuck Enzo and fuck his family.
"No, I disagree," I say as I accept another glass of champagne from a server.
"You see, there's no scientific proof for the plague of Athens.
It could have simply been a metaphorical device to illustrate his disapproval of Pericles.
Pericles himself was the plague." I take another sip of champagne, ready to fervently defend my argument.
When was the last time I'd felt this free?
"Beautiful and smart," the man in front of me compliments, and I blush.
I've never been called beautiful before.
So I bask in his flattery, my laugh turning giggly from the bubbly drink.
"It's a little loud here. Why don't we go out on the balcony and you can tell me all about Pericles?" he says as he's already leading me toward the double doors.
I pay no mind to the change of scenery, my brain solely focused on the discussion at hand.
"He was exiled. He wasn't exactly Pericles's biggest fan," I continue, trying to make my argument as convincing as possible.
It's not often that someone talks to me about more intellectual topics—especially a man.
So I feel this need to show him that I'm not some airhead. That I can think for myself.
"That's very interesting. Tell me more," he urges, and a huge smile spreads across my face.
The champagne does nothing but enhance my social skills, and I continue rambling about Pericles and the plague, failing to realize how he keeps on getting closer to me, or how his hands brush against my naked arms, his palm slowly going down my back and over my ass.
It's a sobering enough thought to try to put some distance between us. But he's not having it.
Cornering me against the railing of the balcony, we're so far away from the crowd that no one can hear us and secluded enough that no one can see us.
"If you'll excuse me," I say, and I make to move past him, the situation too uncomfortable for my liking.
"Now, where do you think you're going, princess?" he whispers in my hair, close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin.
"Let go," I say through gritted teeth, surprised he'd try something like this in my own home with so many other people present.
"Don't be shy now," he says as his lips land on my cheek. I shudder at the disgusting feel of saliva against my skin and continue to push at him.
Then he's gone.
My eyes widen as I see a terrifying Enzo grab the man by the collar, dragging him into the center of the ballroom.
No… he wouldn't…
I run after them, only to witness a scene made for a horror movie.
Enzo starts pummeling the man on the floor, his knuckles stained with blood as he keeps hitting him. The man's face morphs from human to an unrecognizable mess, his words turning into incoherent grunts of pain.
Gasps surround us, with people asking him to stop but none daring to intervene.
He doesn't.
He keeps beating him until the man stops moving. Enzo's eyes are blank as he pulls a gun from the waistband of his pants, aiming for the man's head.
My eyes instinctively close as the shot resounds in the room, only to open to a sea of red. A pool of blood gathers around the body, slowly getting bigger and bigger until it reaches my feet.
I take a step back, feeling a little lightheaded—both from the champagne and from witnessing the massacre in front of me.
"You're coming with me, madame," I hear Enzo's harsh voice in my ears, and before I know it, I'm thrown over his shoulder as he exits the ballroom.