6. Marie
6
MARIE
GIVING ORDERS TASTES BETTER THAN WHISKEY
M y skin buzzes with the thrill of touching Nico’s lips, the power that surged through my limbs as I felt his tongue under my finger. My heart is in my throat as I flee to my room.
I’ve been drunk since I was sixteen years old. A bottle of cabernet sauvignon—maybe two—and half a glass of whiskey aren’t a good excuse for my behaviour. No, I can only blame myself and the deep amber eyes of Nico Capaldi. How the silver hoop on his bottom lip and the metal on his brow enticed me to get closer. How his wet pink lips drew me to him more than any alcohol I’ve ever wanted to drink. When he looked up at me with ease, he emanated a darkness I wanted to drown in.
If this is what Lisa felt when she sneaked around with her bodyguard, I understand the appeal. I’d give up alcohol forever to feel this exhilaration again. At least, I think I’d try.
But as always, I’ve made everything awkward. Him, his brother and my cousin Giulia are staying four more days and I need to escape him. I can’t bear to look like a fool. I already feel like one everyday of my ridiculous useless life. I don’t need the reminder when I look upon his gorgeous rugged face with high cheekbones and perfect shaved jaw that could cut glass.
And all the piercings. They look like freedom and compliment his face so perfectly.
I pretend that I’m sick so I don’t have to face him for the next two days.
Mammona keeps sending soup and her delicious food to my room but it tastes ashen on my tongue. With my forced quarantine, I’m left to stay in a room that’s devoid of the one thing I can’t go without.
With Christmas and the festivities in the Moretti household, I was looking forward to not having to hide my little problem. Everyone drinks too much on the holidays. So I didn’t refill my hidden places with the miniatures I enjoy so much.
On the first day, my skin prickles with awareness and a pounding headache. I can ignore it by sleeping the day away. It actually looks like I’m sick so that’s perfect for Lisa to leave me alone.
Now, I’m on day two of no alcohol. But I devised a plan. Our family is composed of night owls, and crime doesn’t stop because it’s Christmas. At night, everyone’s gone to the clubs we own or do whatever it is they do. I wouldn’t know since I’m not privy to this type of information.
It’s the perfect time to strike.
Lisa sleeps soundly next to me, her soft snores filling the silent room. On featherlight feet, I get out of bed and open our door, closing it gently behind me. I oil the hinges regularly for this exact purpose. Me and motor oil are best friends, if one can believe it. All the doors in our homes are silent. And by now, I know where the creaky floorboards are. I avoid them all as I make my way down the stairs to the ground floor in the dark.
Out of the secondary kitchen, located at the very back of the room, there’s an old wooden door that leads to a wine cellar. The temperature drops when I step into the metal staircase and I shiver. The air smells of damp earth. The electricity in the light bulb emits a low buzz and a faint yellow glow meant to avoid any disturbance to the ageing process. My senses are ecstatic because this smell, this light, this cold settling on my skin, it means I’ll get what I need really soon. My body vibrates with need and my heart rate picks up as I walk deeper into the subterranean room.
Wine before bed isn’t my preference. The sugar in it can fuck up my mood the next morning, but this will have to do. And it’s no hardship to drink a delicious vintage Patrimonio .
On the back wall are shelves of the best wine Kalliste has to offer. A few spots are empty and I pick a bottle up from one of the lower shelves, hoping it won’t be missed. No one checks the collection down here anyway.
I take a closer look at the label, face downcast, and glide my free hand over the label to remove any dust collecting on the bottle. A small smile pulls up my lips.
“I’ve never seen anyone look at a bottle of wine so lovingly,” a voice that makes me shiver for a very different reason says behind me.
I startle and turn around, clutching the bottle in front of my chest as if I need to protect it from my attacker. A familiar silhouette leans against the door frame, a leg crossed over the other and hands nonchalantly in the pockets of black jeans.
How is he not in pyjamas at this hour? Does he even wear pyjamas? I blush at where my mind went. It’s innocent enough but also, not .
This artificial light shouldn’t be complimenting anyone. Yet, Nico looks like a Death God coming to collect another soul. The shadows across his face have his eyes look a little sunken, the undertone of his skin a little grey. But instead of unnatural, it gives him an extra aura of assurance. I want it for myself.
Then I realise I’ve been gawking for too long and my surprise turns to embarrassment, then to anger. I’ve had this ritual for years and no one ever dared to question me or step into my space. He’s been here three days and he thinks he can barge onto my private place of safety? Who the fuck does he think he is?
“What are you doing here?” I bark, but he doesn’t flinch. No, the bastard just shrugs.
“I saw you walking down the stairs. I was about to have a walk outside but following you seemed more interesting. Why are you picking up wine at two in the morning, Marie?”
He’s so bold that my mouth drops open.
“That’s not of your fucking business, Nico .” I emphasise on his name, hoping to convey how much I hate him in my space right now and need him gone, but it has the opposite effect.
Nico straightens and takes a step inside the cellar.
My eyes widen and my cheeks flush. It’s one thing to have someone I barely know witness my sins, and another entirely to have them so close to pick me apart while I do them.
I lift a hand up, and order, “Stop.”
Immediately, Nico stops in the middle of the room. He lifts his hands from his pockets and lets his arms rest on each side of his body, as though poised to obey my next command.
“You have no right to be here,” I whisper, my throat constricting around my vocal cords.
“Why not?” he asks, tilting his head to the side like he can’t fathom why this moment will bring me shame for years to come.
I press my lips tighter together to refrain from crying or lashing out. Or both.
“Is it because you don’t want me to wander around your home, or because you don’t want me to know you’re an alcoholic?”
I gasp. “You did not just accuse me of that!” I blurt out, offended. But not because he’s wrong. No. For once in my life, someone finally sees me. And I hate that they do. I hate this version of myself that has no control over her impulses. I hate this me that needs hard liquor every day to escape myself and every night to fall asleep. I don’t want him to see me. But his amber eyes, that could remind me of honey but look like the most luxurious whiskey to me, bore into mine. They don’t miss any details of my sins.
The silence stretches between us.
Nico remains still.
I can’t hold the tension occupying the space with us any longer. “If you tell a single soul, I’ll kill you, Nico Capaldi.”
He snorts and my ire grows. I approach him, my shoulder back, the bottle still in my hands, like it could be my weapon. Looking at him down my nose even as he towers over me, I lift a hand to his face but stay a hair shy of his cheek. Somehow, the absence of touch is more powerful than the heat of his skin against the pad of my fingers. I caress the promise between us. A thrill creeps up my spine when he doesn’t move, as if a puppet in my hands.
“Tell a soul and I’ll become what everyone is afraid I could be,” I vow.
“And what is that, Marie?” He can’t seem to stop saying my name.
“A Moretti.”