Chapter 4
Dante
A VOICE MADE OF SMOKE ROUSES ME from one of my soul-abusing dreams, drenched in sweat and with an irregular heartbeat. A feminine voice I know, but not with the familiarity that comes with the passing of years. Damn, everything hurts.
Vertigo along with nausea dominates my senses, the dark room slipping in and out of focus. As if that weren't enough, a dreadful brand of dizziness I've come to know since I was born makes itself known with ferocity. It all comes in vicious waves only because I'm currently struggling with my body to cooperate. Good times.
I hiss in pain, involuntarily touching the fresh wound on my side, needing to feel for myself how bad it is. Apparently I'm still here, and that bastard's just as mediocre with the blade.
My last mission. Sullivan. Her .
The memory of Ophelia freezes the blood in my veins along with the barely fathomable reality that I've finally found her – the woman in and of my dreams. And here I am awake, welcoming the pain because she's so close that I can reach her.
She asks for water, I would hand her the ocean.
Ombra has given me a third life, and it probably won't be the last I'll need from the way I choose to lead my existence.
Sharing words with her seems surreal and, in a bizarre twist of fate, inevitable. This, we've always been, it was just a matter of time. Of life.
How did I find you? Or was it you who found me? When all I ever wanted was to catch a glimpse of your ghostly silhouette on an unremarkable Thursday and have you be as starved for me as I am for you. To hold your hand in the middle of an abandoned graveyard where there's no one for you to mourn. For me to have you and never let you go from then on.
I would have chosen any reality where we would be reunited at last – anything but you having his despicable marks on your skin and fear coating your insides.
For you, for me, for them – I will tear him apart, limb by limb. I swear.
Ophelia may not understand my mother tongue or why I call her my shadow, but one day she will. Though I fear no words could ever encapsulate the way she became the lingering smoke in the corners of my mind, the impact she had on my life, the way she saved me from a distance.
On that sacred day, long ago, something deep inside me recognized her. And now that I've found her again after all these years, I can't conceive the thought of ever losing her.
She is visibly panicked and confused, as she should be, given the circumstances in which she woke up. I'm even partially surprised that she manages to keep her composure enough to react so calmly in a situation where she is at an obvious disadvantage.
I want her to never feel this way again. I'll make sure of that.
She has no way of knowing that, with me, from now on she will forget the meaning of fear and replace it with safety.
Marizia, my mother's half-sister, comes by and asks Ophelia if she remembers anything, her question drowning the room in funereal silence for the next few minutes.
For a second I wish that memory would fail her, that her mind would somehow choose to compartmentalize last night’s events. But as ugly as it may be, the truth will always be the wisest medication, the easiest path to recovery. Or at least something resembling it.
Pain will tear any individual apart, but it will also add layers upon layers of strength. Ignorance is bliss only for the weak, and after last night, I know with certainty that my shadow is anything but.
I loathe that we are separated by a curtain, leaving me unable to look into her eyes as she fights the memory of her demons, but I still thank my aunt for her consideration.
I will never be ashamed of my inked scars or my choice of an unconventional appearance, because after all, my skin is a map of my personal history; a palpable reminder of my wars. Both the internal and external kind.
That aside, I'd rather have her know me in the depths of her bones, without the distractions of the visible. To want me for what's hidden underneath, along with the danger lurking on the surface.
However, the main reason for choosing to stay hidden for now is that the inevitable questions will come, and I don't think she's in the mental frame nor the emotional space to carry that weight at this time.
To delve into this part of my personal history would be too much for both of us. And I know, only by feeling her so close to me, that I could not refuse her curiosities.
She needs time to heal and recover and I suspect she doesn’t have the necessary resources to deal with the ramifications of whatever spell she put me under. No, not a spell; just her, the one who had breathed life into my dead soul just by sheer existence.
"I took five units of her blood, combined it with what we had during the night, and your stubborn ass made it," Marizia whispers from beside me in our thick Sicilian dialect.
Instinctively, I tilt my head in Ophelia's direction, silently asking my aunt how she feels.
"Poverina is weak, but stable. She'll be in decent shape in a few days," she replies in an even voice, but her eyes study me wearily. We're not going there.
I nod in response, raising my finger to my mouth and silently letting her know that Ophelia needs to rest, seeing that one question has unbalanced her into catatonic silence.
Just before she walks away, I tug on her sleeve, asking her one last question whose answer I already know, but want to hear nonetheless "Sullivan?"
"He's in the basement of the summer house, barely conscious. Tommy did a number on him," she says, trying to hide her fondness with a frown at the passing mention of my best friend.
"Two vests, huh? Where's that daredevil who would risk his liver for a better angle these days?" she teases, referring to the extra precaution I've taken tonight and probably one of the reasons I'm not currently at the morgue.
"He’s tired of patching himself up in the middle of a field at four in the morning," I say, overcome with exhaustion.
"We're getting old," she muses, looking pensively at the floor.
"We are the lucky few" I say, thinking of the howling call of death, the scarcity of life. When what I actually want to say is 'Or are we? The lucky ones?'
Drained to the bone, I sink into the silence that follows after the door closes behind her, finding myself breathing easier knowing that my shadow now has the privacy she'll undeniably need when she resurfaces.
I wait for what seems like a small eternity for her to show a sign of life, and when she finally does, the sound of her panicked breathing dissolves me.
Driven by pure instinct to protect her, I lean over the bed, ignoring the searing stab in my side. I take her wrist in mine, desperately wanting to rip out her torment and absorb it as my own until no sign of its existence will ever know the light of day again.
My shadow feels so fragile and yet so right, as if she was created to mold into me like water on clay. Am I really touching her or am I hallucinating? I'd take it over any reality, now and always.
I let my fingers roam freely on her soft skin, getting a high that no drug could ever offer, just by that innocent touch alone. I press on her pulse point, feeling the life flowing under her veins, the blood rushing under my fingers, now part of me too. Was there ever anything more primal, truer in its eroticism?
To know that we share the same life source, that, albeit unknowingly, she granted me the most priceless gift there is, makes us intrinsically vital to each other; the craving to have her becoming almost unbearable.
After all, I know in my bones that she is the wine to my bread, and I am famished to have her both in flesh and in dire need to possess her further than the soul.
But now is neither the time nor the place to unleash the starved thing she makes of me. Her mental and emotional needs remain my only priority in the chaos of our newly intertwined lives.
As well as the fact that on the surface we are virtual strangers, an aspect I will soon take care to erase for good.
I can't explain the connection I feel with this otherworldly woman. All I know is that I need to protect her with my life, to breathe in the same air as she does; preferably the one slipping past her parted lips as she loses herself in me.
Fighting the urge to kiss her knuckles in silent pride as she regulates her breathing is a battle in itself that leaves its mark, but I do it regardless. And so, inevitably, the questions cascade over the next few minutes.
How I long to see you, to hold your gaze as you fight your demons, as you tame them all with a flick of your tongue. Patience.
She is truly gifted, intuitively sensing that I had something to do with her being here and not on a hospital bed giving a statement to a cop.
I can't force myself to lie to her, but providing her with the truth would open another can of worms and that's a story for another day. One where we can at least stand upright without needing a needle in our veins.
As much as I crave to bury myself definitively in her soul, I need to see if I can trust her mind at this stage with the path I chose to follow, horrific as it is. Reliance is a two-way street, and she doesn't even know my name.
Digesting who I am won't be easy to stomach, especially for someone with her apparent moral code, but I'll make it happen. There was never another way for us.
I find myself faintly smiling even though I haven't in years, not really. She's a curious creature, trying to dig deeper than her arms will allow, most likely wanting to establish rapport with me in order to build a bridge. That's my rationale speaking.
But deep down I know she's an empath who genuinely cares for others, perhaps because no one else has done it for her.
I will be her remedy, mend all that was undone, be the balm to her wounds, while ruining her in the most decadent and profound way.
Naturally, she raises questions about the man who almost destroyed me for the second time around and how I wish she had no memory of him. I'll take great pleasure in draining the last drop of hope that clings to his soul, making sure he pays for every second of pain he brought into her life and onto her skin.
I feel her distress when she mentions him and for that reason I choose to give her the straight facts, even if I barely offer any information.
The more I have her near me, the more I find the thought of lying to her laughable and treacherous in nature. I am already lost.
Sleep takes hold of her and I know I must leave the room before she wakes if I am to remain just a transient in the back of her mind for now.
Sullivan needs to be taken care of and Ophelia needs time to recover. One thing is certain though; she will never be alone with her pain again.
As the hours pass, I keep my eyes focused on the ceiling and my hand wrapped around her wrist, my fingers never leaving her pulse. Already, the need to soothe her overcomes my constant inner fatigue, which has become more faithful than any other mental state.
I pulled back the curtain a while ago, the sight of her looking so fragile, so distinctly human compared to the way I had seen her hours before – but just as beautiful, making my chest tighten.
Her eyes move feverishly behind delicate eyelids, an anguished expression covering her porcelain face. Nightmares.
As bad as they may be, I hope they are of a fantastical nature rather than the realistic kind.
After all, hell has always been here, the devils embodying both the image of innocence and that of smiling executioners.
I sigh heavily, bracing myself for the stabbing pain that will soon follow, but still welcoming its familiarity as I sit up and pull out the IV.
Crawling towards someone has never been more soul purifying, as I lean over and inhale her rose scent.
I caress her bewitching face, careful not to touch the raw skin and tender bruises. Utterly captivated, I take my time studying her features from a closer distance, basking in her ethereal vibrancy that calls to both me and my demons alike; a sensation that feels divinely torturous.
Unable to contain my incessant need, I lean down, planting my lips on her milky collarbones. Instantly, I feel myself growing hard at the contact, my instincts begging me to finally find my resting place inside the feminine shadow who is now more real than anything I've ever touched in my barren existence.
My breathing becomes shallower as I brush my fingers over her silky neck with feathery touches, finding it almost impossible to resist the overwhelming urge to squeeze it gently in a possessive grip.
She fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. So beautiful.
"Rest, mia ombra. I'll be back for you soon," I whisper in her ear as I force my unwilling fingers to let go, before backing away towards the door.
With eyes refusing to desert the image of her curled up on the narrow bed, I grudgingly close the door behind me. Nothing had ever felt more unnatural, more wrong. Time, we need time.
Silently, with one hand on my abdomen and the other on the wall holding me upright, I slowly make my way to the left wing of the villa, where I know my family is most likely to be right now. The freshly stitched wound hurts like hell with every step I take, but I don't pay it any mind, it was all worth it.
Their bickering stalls the moment their caffeinated gazes land on me, as I silently enter the room and drag my feet towards the couch. The first hint of morning light touches my bare feet while I pour myself a healthy amount of whiskey, needing the sting after this night that has gone so poorly, but in other ways unconceivably well.
"Frà, for the thousandth time, what’s wrong with you?" Tommy asks, raising an incredulous brow as he sits down on the low coffee table in front of me.
"The usual," I reply, gesturing for him to pass me the pack and lighter.
I don't have to explain myself, there's no point. I will never complain or back down from any of my actions because I implicitly take responsibility for any choice I make. Fully and unapologetically.
Last night I was impulsive and tired to the bone from constant mental exhaustion. I could never have anticipated that my original plan would overlap with finding Ophelia and, concomitantly, almost losing her. Nevertheless, there is no excuse; she has suffered because of my mistake.
Drunk from lack of sleep and a cocktail of painkillers, I look at Tommy and see understanding in his eyes, followed, predictably, by his characteristic laugh, which could cure seasonal depression if consumed in moderation.
Behind his usual shenanigans lies visible gratitude, but I haven't done anything he wouldn't return in a blink of an eye if the opportunity arose. That's what family's for.
"Leave the boy be, he saved your ass, Tommy. What the hell were you thinking when you left your vest at home?" Marizia asks as she hands me an espresso and lowers the volume of the soap opera that has somehow spanned over twenty years to date.
I can still remember how she and my mother used to watch it in the summer weeks we spent here. I hated it with a passion. What I wouldn't give to go back for at least an hour and recoil at the sound of the intro.
"What is life without a little danger? I know you secretly find it sexy as hell," he flirts, dramatically running a finger across his chest like a mistress in need of attention. Il povero pazzo will never give up trying to seduce her, and I both pity his unrequited efforts and want to knock his teeth out for hitting on my aunt ever since puberty. It's been a tough sixteen years and counting.
"The only time I find you remotely sexy is when you keep your mouth shut and you’re at least eleven thousand miles away from me," she says with feigned harshness as she gives him a stern look, though nine times out of ten there is always fondness behind it. The kind that is meant only for him. And this time is no different.
"You, beautiful woman, just admitted that you adore me and for that I will finally let you make a man out of me," he says, batting his eyes.
Inwardly, I spit out my espresso in a choked laugh as my aunt throws her gin and tonic directly into Tommy's lovesick eyes before storming out of the room with a string of profanities.
"She wants me so bad," Tommy says with unflinching affection as he wipes his face with the bottom of his shirt. Just a typical Saturday morning.
I shake my head, this time not hiding my smirk at their banter. As much as Marizia doesn't want to admit it, she and Tommy do fit together in their own dysfunctional way.
"How bad is it?" I ask as I lower my eyes to my gauze-covered torso.
"Better than it looked. That little joyride through the woods took three times as long as it should have by the time we got home; you just lost a lot of blood. That girl saved your life."
"I need all you can find out about her, preferably by tonight," I say as I light a cigarette and exhale the smoke towards the ceiling.
"Why?" he asks with interest, raising an eyebrow.
"Because she's mine," I state simply, since nothing else could describe what it feels like. In all these years, I've never told anyone about her, and I'm well aware that the way our first meeting unfolded wouldn't justify the impact she had on me. However, I knew then, just as I know now, that she was it for me. What else is there to say?
"I'll be damned, is it the blood? You want to make her your personal bank?" he asks on the edge of a crazed laugh. I've heard it too many times to let it faze me, but at the sight of my grim expression he stops immediately. "Minchia, I'm sorry man. You're serious."
I nod in understanding, crossing my arms despite the pain, "I'll let it slide, but next time fists will fly, capisce?"
"My bad. It's just that you've never shown any interest in a woman for more than one night once in a blue moon. What was I supposed to think?" he asks, now treating the subject like the man I know him to be when there's no one to perform for.
"They weren't her," I say it like a fact because that’s what it is, as I down the rest of my whiskey.
"Why is she so different to you?" he asks, genuine curiosity covering his sleep deprived features.
Different isn't the right word when it comes to her. It would mean that she is part of a whole, only slightly altered. No, she is singular, unique, made solely for me. Once a man sees that in a woman, there's no turning back. Ever.
I don't need to know if she prefers black tea or if she's an insomniac to read or feel her. My soul knows and that's enough for now.
"That's only for me to know," I say drowsily, running my finger over the rim of the china cup just so I don't fall asleep mid-talk. It’s not really working.
"Santo Dio!" Marizia says as she approaches us, her eyes glinting at my words before she pushes a glass of what smells like vodka into Tommy's waiting hands. "I don't want to hear it," she says in his direction while stretching her legs on the table and crosses them at the ankles.
"She loves me," Tommy mouths before swallowing the hard drink like water. If illusion were in liquid form, my friend here would be floating in it. But who says my aunt doesn't own a pool?
"I spat in it," she retorts calmly, pretending to examine her nails.
"Fuck, that's even better," he says, provoking her further by licking his lips and running a hand through his buzzed hair.
One thing is clear; he won't rest until she chokes some sense into him.
"What's the plan with Sullivan?" she asks me instead, blatantly ignoring him.
"Beckett's people started looking for him?" I question her, even though I'm worry-free since we made sure the surveillance cameras were on loop the whole time.
"Yes, they heard about the incident and the shooting. They're probably looking for him as we speak, for their benefit of course. Who knows what kind of intel he might have on them. In any case, we're in the clear," Kane replies from behind the couch, running a hand over his face still showing pillow marks. "Feeling better, son?" he asks, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I nod and pour us both a drink. After last night, God knows we need it.
"I'll pay the vermin a visit before I leave and arrange for his safe travels later today," I say, with a bitter taste in my mouth at the slight mention of him.
"Why don't we end him now and call it a day?" Marizia asks, visibly confused, "We've all waited for so long."
"I want to take my time with him, and there's still urgent business Tommy and I need to take care of. This intervention was a last-minute thing."
I'm already dreading having to spend the next few days negotiating sensitive data for money-hungry tycoons, but this is how a generational thief keeps his stained reputation without having to break into vaults. Yeah, while snapping necks I also honor my word. I am not my father's son.
"After tonight, he's also Ophelia's; you saw what he did to her," I say through greeted teeth, cracking my knuckles.
"You really got it bad, Dan. What if she doesn't want you?" my aunt asks, raising an eyebrow in challenge, though I can easily tell she's asking from a good place, trying in her own way to protect me from what I can't control.
"She's mine," I say, leaving no room for doubt. I knew it when I first laid eyes on her; as I opened that trunk, when our fingers laced for that split second, thirteen years ago as she sobbed and begged for the sky to hear her.
Marizia nods with a knowing smile, so different from my mother's, yet uncanny in the emotion hidden behind it.
"I'll be gone by lunchtime. If she asks, don't tell her anything about me. Keep me updated and look after her as if she were your daughter," I sigh weakly, the wave of exhaustion finally catching up with me.
"Your mother would be so proud that you inherited her stubbornness," is the last thing I hear before a hand spreads a light blanket over the lower half of my body. "And God help that girl."
Poverina, it. n. (feminine) poor girl, poor thing.
Minchia, it. (vulgar) expression of a wide range of emotions: gratitude, joy, anger, worry, fear, contentment, wonder and so on.
"Il povero pazzo" it. (sarcastic remark) the poor fool.
"Santo Dio" it. adv., "Holy God!"