46. That was a lie
FORTY-SIX
THAT WAS A LIE
Alessio
Most people know Guilia died when she was hit by a car. They don’t know we got into a fight that day because I’d questioned her about the large sum she took from the safe. Her boyfriend blew through her inheritance and sent her home for more, but I couldn’t get her to see reason. She loved him, she told me.
When I refused to give her more money, she got angry with me and told me I had no right to control her life. Guilia started to cry, and I let her take the cash.
We used to live in an apartment in a busy area of Rome, and Giulia ran right into traffic. I watched the car hit her, watched her body fly up in the air, hit another moving vehicle, bounce, impact with another car, and then finally land on the asphalt.
By the time I got to her, she was unconscious.
By the time the ambulance came, she was barely breathing.
By the time she arrived at the hospital, she was dead.
Because I remember how I used to carry her around the house in my arms when she was a baby, I always thought I would have time to tell her that, despite her poor choices in partners that have caused her and Leo pain, I loved her dearly. I only wanted what I thought my sister deserved, which was the very best in life.
I wish she was here now so her son could have experienced the kind of love Giulia could have given him. But she is not.
Often, I wonder what would have happened if I had simply refused to give her the money that day.
What if I’d locked her in the room and made her face the fact she was in love with an addict who would use her until she had nothing left to give? Who made her put him before the welfare of herself and her son.
I regret not doing that.
During the weeks following her death, I’d sit at my desk at work, and suddenly, an accident involving Leo would play out in my head. I would leave work and check on him. Some days, I would check on him only a few times; on other days, I would do so over a dozen times, until this vigilance about his safety began to interfere with my daily functioning.
I had to do something about it.
So I bought Isola di Monteverro and established it as a sovereign territory where I could control my family’s safety. I banned cars and brought business, which lifted people out of poverty, so crime went down significantly. Since I’m not into governance itself, the people elected the officials who govern the island.
And I lived my life.
A life I know Val started to resent. She liked the city, the people, the coffee shops, the lunches with her friends. She was a socialite, and I did with her what I hadn’t done with my youngest sister. I locked Val in the house. Monitored her movements because I couldn’t stand the idea of something happening to her.
She rebelled. Now she’s pregnant, like Gulia got pregnant, without a good man to support her, and the vicious cycle of my nightmare that I will lose my only remaining sibling have started again.
The way I think may sound odd to anyone who doesn’t place a high value on family.
But for me, family is everything.
When Lake came into our lives, I tried, for her own good and mine, to get her as far away from me as possible. But I failed, for several reasons. One, she had a lot to lose by leaving my house, so she played her best game. And two, I liked her from the moment I met her. I just didn’t know how different it would be with her.
Thoughts of her consumed me. I fought the urge to lock her in the house with me. Most times, I failed to fight them and actually locked her in. I almost lost my mind when I saw her with broken glass near her bare feet.
When it came to Lake, I gave in to some of the urges, especially the possessive ones. The way she received me and how she dealt with me filled my soul with love unlike any other. I was certain she was the one.
Lake consumed me in the most beautiful way. This love that she gave me started to heal parts of me I was sure would never heal. Although she resisted my need for control, she did so gently. Kindly.
But most of all, what Lake Wilder did was accept me for me. She saw the possessive, protective, obsessive beast in me, and she found a way to love me anyhow. Or so I thought.
That was a lie.
In retrospect, her perfume should’ve clued me in.
She smelled like a gardenia blossom, the scent I associate with beauty, innocence, and playfulness, which boldly demands I pay attention. She smelled too good to be true, but I couldn’t resist.
From my position in the middle of the vacant bar, I looked up from my third glass of whiskey and watched her walk toward the ladies’ room. Short, curly hair barely reached her shoulders and allowed a full view of her back, which had been sunburned sometime during her vacation. She was a tourist. I can tell them apart from locals right away. Even if I didn’t know every local on my island, the white, open-back bathing suit, jean shorts, and simple rubber flip-flops would have been a dead giveaway.
After she entered the ladies’, my gaze fell back on my whiskey. I swirled it, pondering whether I should break my two-whiskey-maximum rule. Three drinks impair my judgment.
There’s never been a time in my life when I didn’t need good judgment. Or restraint. Perhaps now more than ever. Which, in retrospect, was precisely why fucking her that night changed everything.
And why, right now, I’m standing in front of an abandoned warehouse under a flickering streetlight with a bloody machete in my hand.
Blood drips from a cut on my forehead. I blink, then wipe it away from my eyes so I can see the lights from the incoming law enforcement, whose sirens I already hear. They’re coming for me. Now I must decide if I’ll stay or run.
Although I run daily, I’m not a runner .
Perhaps I’ll stay.