Chapter 1 #8
He warned me. He literally warned me.
Don't trust anyone, Rava. There are people who want me dead, Rava. And I, world's biggest clown, opened the door and let in two men who looked like prison is their summer camp, because I thought they were his friends!
Because I'm stupid enough to believe that if someone smiles and knows a couple of stories, they must be safe! They played me right in my face. And the worst part is that Antonio could've been here.
God. Antonio could've been here. They could've taken him and then I swear to God I'd be looking for a fucking rope because there'd be no coming back from that. None.
I hear the front door now. My breath stops. I cover my face with both hands, shaking, as I hear Gio's steps getting closer, heavier, faster.
"What the fuck happened in here?" his voice explodes from outside, and my stomach knots so hard I feel sick. "Rava?! Are you in there?"
"Yes," I manage, voice small and wrecked. He unlocks the door, pulls it open, and I'm standing there with my hand over my mouth, eyes red, shaking like I just survived a natural disaster.
"Gio, I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I thought they were your friends—" I start rambling through sobs and stuttering breath. I step out of the storage room.
Our bedroom is torn apart. Drawers open, clothes half on the floor, half hanging out, stuff thrown everywhere.
Gio's office looks untouched, thank God, it's locked.
Probably didn't have time to crack it. The living room is wrecked.
Couch cushions flipped, shelves half-empty, TV gone, things on the floor that definitely weren't on the floor before.
Antonio's room. All his toys are out, scattered, like someone shook the room upside down and left it like that. I grab my head with both hands, dizzy, trying not to throw up from the guilt and panic.
"Wanna explain to me what the fuck happened?" Gio snaps next to me.
"There were two guys," I say, words tripping over each other. "Older. They said they were your friends—"
"You let two fucking strangers into our house???" he yells.
I nod, wiping my face, hating myself. "I know. I know, I was irresponsible—"
"Irresponsible?!" He laughs once, bitter. "That's a light word for this shit. Do you realize what the fuck could've happened???"
His voice cracks on the last part, more rage than volume, and it makes it worse. "If the fucking kid was here?" he shouts. "If our kid was in this house while you were playing host???"
He has every right to scream at me. Every right. And I stand there and take it, staring at the floor. "Gio, I know," I say. "I swear, I had no idea, they talked like they knew you, they—"
"Rava, how many fucking times have I told you NOT to trust randoms unless I already told you who they are?" he fires back. "Are you out of your damn mind?? Have you completely lost it?" He gestures around at the chaos.
"You could've fucking DIED, you get that?? Do you actually understand that? You could've fucking died like this."
I nod. Again. And again. And again. Every word hits like a slap, and I let it. Because he's right. It hurts like hell, but he's right. He drops down onto the floor and grabs his head with both hands, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
"I can't fucking believe this," he mutters. "Swear to God, I thought you were smarter than this, Rava."
"I told you I didn't know!" I snap. "They said you borrowed some books and you told them to return them here—"
"Oh my God HAVE I TOUCHED A SINGLE FUCKING BOOK IN THE LAST FIVE YEARS?!?!" he yells, eyes snapping up to mine.
"IT COULD'VE BEEN FOR WORK, I DON'T KNOW!" I shout, voice cracking.
He lets out this hysterical, disbelieving laugh and shakes his head, side to side, like he's trying to rattle the whole scene off his brain. "I don't fucking believe this," he says again, quieter but so much worse.
I don't know what to say. My mouth opens, closes. I look up at the ceiling because if I look at him any longer, I'll fall apart completely.
"If you want to break up, I get it—" I start.
"Shut up, Rava." His head snaps toward me. "Seriously. This isn't about a fucking breakup. Even though your level of cluelessness is fucking terrifying."
That one lands right in the center of my chest.
"When you have a fucking family," he goes on, "you are not nice to strangers at your door. You don't play polite. You don't invite them in. How did you even let them inside?!?! Why?!"
I swallow hard.
"He… said he needed the bathroom," I mumble. "One of them. And then he yelled for toilet paper and when I went to grab some, he locked me in."
Gio exhales, like he's trying not to explode. "Jesus fucking Christ..." We both just sit there in the wrecked house, surrounded by the mess. "Maybe we can find them," I mutter. "One of them was called Duke. He had a tattoo on the back of his head, like a cross, and a scar near his eye—"
"You seriously think," Gio cuts in, staring at me, "that he gave you his real name, Rava? What even is Duke?! A nickname? A dog? A fucking brand of cigarettes? Come on."
I shrink a little. "I'm just saying—"
"Just stop," he says, dragging a hand down his face. "You're making it worse."
Right. Of course I am.
"For starters," he goes on, tired and furious all at once, "we need to change fucking houses. I assume you get that much."
I nod. "At least temporarily," he says. "We're either going back to Trentino or to my mom's. I don't know yet. But not here. Not until I'm sure those two are rotting in a cell somewhere." I nod again, faster this time. "Okay." He doesn't look at me.
His eyes keep scanning the room instead. Antonio's toys on the floor, the drawers, the chaos. His jaw keeps clenching.
I want to ask what's going to happen to us.
To me and him. Because right now it feels like he hates me. He won't even look at my face. He looks up suddenly, like something just clicked in his head.
"Why the fuck is my helmet here?" he mutters. I follow his gaze. It's on the floor by the hallway, tipped on its side like someone kicked it.
We look at each other for half a second, and then we both move at the same time, straight to the garage door next to us. He yanks it open.
The spot where his bike should be, his shiny, perfect birthday present from the guys is just... air.
No BMW. Just the oil stain on the floor where it usually rests. He laughs. "Fuck this, man," he says, and walks right past me, out of the garage.
"Gio—" I try, following him back into the house. He heads for the front door. Opens it. "Should I come—" I start, reaching out. The door slams in my face.
I flinch back. I stand there, staring at the door.
And yeah. I deserve that, too. I swallow hard and step back, looking around the house. I really let this happen. I lean my head against the wall, eyes closing for a second as my brain replays everything frame by frame.
Honestly, I want to bash my head into the wall until the image of it disappears.
I can't believe how stupid I am. Like actually, genuinely, clinically stupid.
If I had just stayed quiet. If I had just pretended I wasn't home.
If I had looked through the peephole, seen two guys who look like tax fraud in human form and thought, yeah, no.
If I had just let the dude piss his pants at the door. If he was even telling the truth about needing to piss. Nothing would've happened.
The bike would still be here. The house wouldn't feel see-through. Gio wouldn't have that look in his eyes. Instead, I invited them in. I literally walked danger into the center of our fucking life and said, "Bathroom's down the hall."
Now we're standing in a house that doesn't feel like a house anymore. It feels exposed. Like the walls are made of glass and everyone can see in. And it's because of me. Because I couldn't say no. Because I wanted to be polite. Because I thought being kind was always the right answer.
Turns out, sometimes it just hands your husband's keys and his fucking bike to a stranger. This is my fault.
This is my fault. This is my fault. This is my fucking fault. I look at the mess again and it feels like I'm watching a crime scene of my own stupidity. They went through everything.
If Antonio was here... My vision goes blurry.
If Antonio was here. They could've walked in, smiled at me, smiled at him, told him they were Gio's friends, and I would've believed them.
Antonio would've believed them because he trusts me.
Because I'm the idiot that keeps telling him, "Say hi, be polite, don't be rude. "
They could've grabbed him. Walked out. And I would've been locked in that closet listening. Now there will be a new space between us.
The: I don't trust you.
I replay it in my head.
Swear to God, I thought you were smarter than this, Rava. Your level of cluelessness is terrifying. When you have a fucking family, you're not nice to strangers at your door.
I thought I was doing the right thing. That's the worst part. I opened the door because I didn't want to be rude. Because they smiled. Because they knew his name, they knew about the races, they said "your husband is a legend" and it made me feel... proud.
I wanted to be the kind of person that people trust around our house. The kind of husband that can handle stuff when Gio's not here.
Instead, I locked myself in a fucking storage room and let two strangers tear through our life.
I drag in a shaky breath and it breaks halfway, turning into a sob. I clamp a hand over my mouth, but it's too late. The sound already slipped out.
I ruined everything. If we move, it'll be because of me. If Gio never feels safe at home again, it'll be because of me. If he never lets me open the door again, if he never leaves me alone with Antonio again, if he never looks at me the same way again.
A sob punches its way out of me. My shoulders shake. Tears fall, dripping off my chin onto a pile of fucking scattered papers I probably destroyed too.