Chapter 57
Mila
Five weeks later.
Freedom doesn ’ t taste sweet. It ’ s sour and tart, causing my eyes to squint and my mouth to pucker.
I try to walk out my door and breathe in the fresh air without that tightness in my lungs. It ’ s never a smooth breath; it ’ s more like I am the engine of an airplane flying through turbulence, choking on thunderclouds and hail.
“ When will it get easier?” I shove my key into the lock, then wiggle the handle two more times to make sure it truly is locked.
Clothes flapping on the lines above create a breeze that cools my neck. I adjust my backpack straps before starting my walk to work. It ’ s only ten minutes down the uneven stone streets. My apartment is tiny, but it ’ s mine, and that means more to me than living in a castle.
I arch my back and begin to walk, feeling the weight of my backpack. A fake ID and cash were sewn into the bottom, along with the hidden phone I was given. Some mornings, it feels like the dead weight of a body around my shoulders; other days, it ’ s more like a feather.
The faint scent of early morning espresso fills the air as the open windows carry out Italian conversations over morning breakfast. Avery arranged for me to be relocated to a small town outside of Naples, Italy. It took me four flights and too many bus rides to get here. When I did arrive, I didn ’ t sleep until I became so exhausted that sleep kidnapped me and held me hostage.
The moment the sole of my shoe stepped foot on Italian soil, I began to shake; still, to this day, my fingers rattle throughout the day, and that ’ s because Dante lives and rules over Italy. I told Avery this when she handed me my Italian passport and a new identity. She quelled my fears and stirred them all with one response. “ I know Dante reigns over Italy, and just in case things go south, and it ’ s not Dash that finds you but one of his enemies, then at least you have a friend who can get to you faster than I can. Remember, Mila, your disappearance didn ’ t make you a target solely for Dash, but for others. Be smart, and for heaven ’ s sake, stop stressing out. It ’ s going to make people more observant of you. Stick to the cover story and do not call me again unless there is a gun pressed to your head.”
When I ventured out for the first time, I showed bravery by selecting a seat at the nearby coffee shop. I spent my time staring at the small espresso cup until it reached room temperature. The frothy top had all disappeared, revealing the substance. I felt like that expresso—bitter and acidic, ready to be consumed and digested.
My Italian is shit, a fact that stresses me out as I toss and turn in my non-air-conditioned room at night. But the silver lining is I work at a small cafe. I ’ m sure my Italian will get better once I start trying.
The canary yellow building, with an old brownstone framing the door and windows, stands out like old jewelry surrounded by shiny ones. Small tables spill out onto the street; a few are already occupied by the guests staying at the hostel across the street. The kitchen windows are open, and the scent of cornettos and espresso wafts down the block.
Growl! This is bad. I rub my stomach, but it only rumbles against my palm. If I give into my stomach and eat like this every morning, I ’ m going to have to be rolled down the street. But it smells and tastes so good! Just one more today, and then I ’ ll go back to my organic lifestyle as best I can.
“ Morning, Nonnina!” I shout as I enter the kitchen, spotting the freshly baked cornetto filling the trays for the customers. Nonnina, meaning little grandma, runs the place. Her son has tried to convince her to retire, but Nonnina said she will die in this kitchen. However, since the hostel supplies the majority of her customers, most of whom are traveling Americans, she needed to hire a staff member who spoke English. Nonnina knows English, but she only speaks it to the customers she likes, who are few and far between. She only serves two items: espresso and cornetto. Apparently, one American asked her for almond milk, and she ran her out of the restaurant with a broom. So, I was hired to deal with the obnoxious tourists who don ’ t respect Italian culture.
Grind! The coffee machine is working at full capacity as it grinds the beans we will use this morning. Nonnina turns, shouting over the machine, “ Buongiorno, mia dolce bambina.” She calls me her sweet child and often pinches my cheeks and tells me to smile. The first day I arrived to work for her, she told me it looked like I was running from a broken heart, and then she spotted the wedding ring on my finger. I never felt the ring Dash gave me. It just became a part of me, like he did. I should have taken it off, but the absence of it doesn ’ t change the fact that I ’ m married to him.
I bend down and hug Nonnina. For the first time in my life, I feel tall. Nonnina claims to be five feet, but I would put her at four feet eight inches. And that ’ s only in the mornings. By the end of the day, her old bones are rounded from having worked in the kitchen all day.
“ Am I hugging bones? I ’ ve hugged chickens fatter than you. Eat fast before they come to pillage us.” Nonnina smiles, causing her tan skin to fill with more wrinkles. She shoves a plate into my hand and then a shot of warm espresso.
Thump, my backpack hits the floor.
“ That disgrace of a bag is going to make you more arched than me, child. You live in Italy; you need an Italian brand, not that American sack on your back.”
I giggle around the mouth full of cornetto. “ I don ’ t like to go shopping.”
“ Says no Italian woman ever.” She shakes her head with such a fury it makes her stumble into the kitchen island.
“ I ’ m not Italian.”
“ You will be when I ’ m done with you.”
I kick the backpack, sliding it under her kitchen island. “ It ’ s not broken, so why change it?”
“ Life is too short to suffer in a bad fashion.” She pats down her skirt, spattered with a few oil stains and flour, as if she were preparing to walk down a runway.
The days go by fast, and our morning rush ebbs and flows. The Americans come first since they are eager to go into the city. Then the Italians come in leisurely, actually enjoying the taste of the food and drink. Nonnina’s cafe is only open for breakfast, so I get the rest of the day free.
That worries me because I have time to think.
◆◆◆
I slide off my shoes and walk down to my spot on the beach, sinking my toes into the turquoise waters and finally exhaling when I look at the lush green trees that surround me. Using my backpack as a pillow, I lean against it and curl my knees into my chest.
I ’ m not proud of what I did. I wanted to hurt Dash. I did.
I discovered something about myself. Blaze was correct when he said some monsters should remain hidden.
I ’ m capable of being a monster, of inflicting pain and heartbreak. I never wanted to be this way. Ironically, it started when I felt lonely years ago in high school; I was so numb I needed to feel, so I thought I could when I pushed a needle into my skin. Then Dash came, and he replaced the needle, then Dom, Dash again, and now…there is no needle.
No distraction.
If I want to feel and find control, it ’ s all in the power of my hands. For the first time in my life, I ’ m truly alone and in control. It might last only one more minute. As soon as I opened the door, Dash could be standing outside. Or, a week from now, when I walk into work, he could be standing at the table waiting for me. Or maybe it will last an eternity.
That seems the most painful.
Deep down, I want him to find me, crawl on his knees, and either denounce his love for me or shout it at the world.
Deep down, I ’ m not ready to be found yet. When I met Dash, I was so broken. He picked me up and made me stronger. I want to use that power for good. I want to do something memorable with my life and not just be called a daughter or wife.
I want to help. God, I want to be strong and not fear what I will have to do to help those I love.
Dash, Titan, Damian, and even Nova have killed and will kill to save me. I want to be strong enough not to fear the nightmares. I want to be able to save myself and not rely on others.
I want to be like Avery; fuck, maybe I want to be as sinister as Nova. I want to help others like me because not every monster chasing the other girls is like Dash. Some are purely demonic souls trapped in flesh, bound in bone, dead set on making others suffer.
◆◆◆
Do you know what was easy about performing? I didn ’ t have to think or worry. I just did as I was told.
Stop shaking! I mentally shout at my hand as I grab the doorknob. Bright lights and white walls contrast the night outside. The shuffling of paper and pencils makes my shoulders drop an inch.
I try to clear my throat, failing. Great, now I sound sick. No one is going to want to sit next to me.
Red lips pull into a cordial smile that makes my inside feel jealous. Is every woman a model here? Tall, curvy, fashionably dressed, and that hair…it ’ s so thick and shiny. I reach up and touch my own. Does she rub olive oil in it?
“ Buonasera.” The art instructor grins as she spots me. She ’ s talking to another woman in a robe, our model for the evening.
I repeat the phrase, but it ’ s clear I ’ m not Italian.
“ American?” Her thick yet beautifully groomed brow raises.
I nod and tuck my hair back behind my ear, forgetting that it ’ s much shorter now and often falls back into my face. Avery didn ’ t tell me I had to change my appearance, but as soon as I showered in my new apartment, I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut off six inches. I cried after because I had to cut off another inch to make it even. I ’ m now the proud owner of a shoulder-length bob. It ’ s growing on me; I can ’ t tie it back to my old state of comfort, my ballerina bun. That ’ s a good thing. Change is good.
“ My name is Camilla.” She offers as she continues to speak to me in English.
“ I ’ m Mila.” I ’ m thankful I didn ’ t have to change my first name when I became a new person.
“ Student?”
I shake my head. “ I live here now. I was born here, but my parents split, and my mom took me back to her hometown, a small town just outside of New York City. My father is Italian, but I have never had a deep relationship with him; he did send the best Christmas cards, but…” Oh god, stop talking! Nope, more comes out. “ After my dad died, I wanted to come back to his home and learn more about his culture. So I live and work here now, but I went to school for art and, well…my Italian is terrible but…yeah, I ’ m trying…” Stop! I just told her my entire cover story in one huge breath.
I sound like a babbling fool. I close my eyes.
“ Americans talk a lot,” Camilla replies, but a friendly smile greets me when I dare to look up at her again. “ But Italians love gossip, one might argue we talk more.” She winks. “Please take a seat and set up. We will begin shortly.”
I sink my shaking legs down onto the stool, claiming the corner as my spot. There, you did it. Just relax.
The room is filled with clean shelves that hold all kinds of objects to draw. In the center, there is a small pedestal for our model to stand on.
There are art classes everywhere. This is Italy, after all, but finding an abstract art class in this town was impossible. I ’ m not brave enough to travel outside of the town, so I ’ m stuck taking a traditional drawing class that focuses on live models and perfecting the skill, technique, and anatomy.
Only six other students joined us: four are older than forty, and the others are teenagers. We begin with a gestural drawing. I don ’ t mind this because my lines can remain messy as I try to capture the lines of the form. It ’ s drawing details that petrify me—looking too closely, seeing the demons inside of people.
“ What was your focus?” Camilla asks as she comes to look at my warmup drawings.
“ Not portrait drawing.” I joke.
“ Revealing your weakness already?” She crosses her arms.
“ I suppose so. I…I prefer abstract art.”
“ Why?” There ’ s a sour note in her voice.
I shrug. “ It just allows me more control. More ways to express myself. I just connected with right away.”
“ I take it you don ’ t like people.”
“ I…” this feels like an interrogation. “ I like people.” Some people. Actually, Camilla is right. I ’ d rather be alone with my art and music and, okay, yes, Dash, then surrounded by others.
“ Then why are you scared to draw them?” Her red lips tug up. “ Sorry for my blunt observation; my class is different from most. Art is about pushing boundaries. I don ’ t want my students just to be good artists. If you signed up for this class, you are already one. I want you to be extraordinary; I want you to make art that stops people in their tracks. I want souls captured on the canvas. That can ’ t be done through abstraction. There must be a reason you took this class and not an abstract one.”
“ That is blunt.” I cough, then curl my fingers in so she can ’ t see how much they are shaking. “ There was no abstract class close by,” I blurt out.
“ So I ’ m your backup.” Instead of being insulted, her lips spread wider. “ I think things happen for a reason, American. I think you picked this class because you need a challenge. You ’ ll get one.” She reaches out and rips the paper off my sketch pad. “ Start over; you lost the form in your lines. You had it. I watched you outline her body perfectly; then you scribbled over it with useless marks.”
Her heels click as she walks to the next easel. The older woman next to me snorts a laugh. “ When I first came,” she says, her accent is so thick I struggle to translate the English coming out. “ She kicked me out of her class and told me not to come back until I had passion. She is like a mother. She wants what is best for her students, and that is tough love and raw honesty.”
My exhale quivers.
She reaches out and touches my shoulder. “ Don ’ t give up. You ’ re young and have your whole career ahead of you.”
I grasp my charcoal and press it to the paper, determined not to give up or give in to my weakness.