55. Adalina
Chapter 55
Adalina
I stopped counting meals somewhere around twelve or fifteen. It was boredom at first that made me count; then it was desperation. Counting the number of meals I received made me believe I had some semblance of control over my situation. But after a few days, I realized I didn’t have control over anything.
My only source of entertainment in this dull and lifeless place is the daily conversations between my father’s former bodyguards. I often find myself teasing and provoking them, but even their reactions are starting to grow stale and repetitive.
The sound of a metal key sliding into the rusted lock is followed by a loud click, and someone’s gruff voice breaks the eerie silence of my cell. “Get up, Adalina.”
I hastily leap out of bed to greet my visitors. As I run my fingers through my tangled hair in a futile attempt to tame the unruly locks, my hands get caught in knots. “Enzo,” I breathe a sigh of relief when he walks through the door. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Frankly, anyone besides the guy who drops off my daily meals would be a welcome sight. Hell, even my dead father’s ghost would be a refreshing change of pace.
Enzo is followed by the familiar face of Silas Stone, the doctor who treated us a few weeks back after my father’s attempted home invasion. His eyes bounce from my still bandaged wrist to the conditions I’m being housed in. If he has an opinion, he’s paid to keep it to himself, but I can see disgust growing in his wrinkle lines. “Good afternoon, Adalina.”
It’s afternoon. This is the first time since I was locked up that I’ve known the time of day. “Doctor,” I nod.
“This is for you.” Enzo pads across the room to give me a change of clothes. They are freshly laundered, and I want to bury my face in them. “That should make you more comfortable.”
Every aspect of this situation is unbearable. The cold walls that are always a little bit damp. The pungent smell of mold and mildew lingering in the air that makes every breath feel heavy and stale. And then there are the people I am forced to share this space with—criminals and outcasts, each with their own stories of desperation and sorrow. But I show my appreciation with a flash of a smile and a simple, “Thanks.”
Silas wheels in a portable X-ray machine, its metal frame glinting under the dull, fluorescent lights. “Dante informed me that you may have caused additional damage to your wrist.”
I cradle my casted arm close to my chest, feeling a dull ache throb through my bones. Despite the satisfaction I got from beating the shit out of my abusive father, it’s been hard to ignore the constant pain in my wrist. I’ve told myself it’s a small price to pay for justice, but it’s a constant reminder that my life above ground was easier than my life below it. But frankly, I haven’t had anyone around to complain to. The guy who drops off my daily meals doesn’t even look at me, let alone talk to me. “I think it’s fine. I’d like to get the cast off, though.”
Silas pulls an item out of his bag that looks like a mechanical pizza cutter. “Good news. I can do that,” he says with a cheery smile.
Enzo positions himself in front of the door, arms crossed over his broad chest and feet planted firmly on the ground. “If you’re good for the doc, I’ve been instructed to allow you some leisurely activities. Dante picked out some books and a puzzle you might be interested in.”
Nothing is presented to me. Maybe it won’t be brought down until I prove I can be a good girl. What a typical Dante thing to do. “Where is he, anyway?” I ask as Silas gently pulls my arm away from my chest. “He hasn’t come to see me.”
The bodyguard wavers for a minute before answering. “He’s away from the compound.” His voice is deep and authoritative, but there is a hint of worry laced around the words.
“He locked me down here and then left ?”
“Oh, no.” Enzo clarifies. “He’s been busy the last few days. He’s away from the compound today , though.”
That doesn’t shed any light on the situation whatsoever. “How many days has it been, Enzo?”
His eyes shift back and forth, uncertain if he should answer my question.
“What was the point of coming down here if you aren’t going to talk to me?” I ask him with a glare. “If I wanted silence, you could have left me down here to rot like you’d been doing.”
“Don’t blame me for this.” His glare matches my own. “You being locked down here was not my preference, but I didn’t get a say in the matter.”
Silas works with quiet determination as we spar, his focused breaths matching the rhythm of our movements. Once the cast is fully sawed off, he sets down the tool and gently cradles my injured wrist in his hands. “That isn’t good,” he mumbles.
I narrow my eyes and shift my gaze to where his is fixed. Upon closer inspection, I see dark, angry bruises circling the base of my thumb. “Son of a bitch,” I growl in frustration. Pain throbs through my hand, sending sharp jolts up my arm. “Is something else broken?”
He remains silent and focuses on the injured area instead, applying gentle pressure as his gaze studies my reactions. The pain intensifies with each probing touch, and I grit my teeth and try to remain still; my body betrays me with involuntary flinches and winces. “Let’s do the X-ray to be sure, but I think you’re going to need surgery and a re-cast.” The doctor brings the equipment over and starts adjusting it.
“Nine days,” Enzo says after a few minutes. “You’ve been down here for nine days.”
A week. Almost a week and a half. “Why won’t Dante visit me?” I want to squeeze as many answers out of Enzo as possible before I’m left down here to rot for another nine days.
“He’s been taking care of some things.”
I scoff at the response; I’m being brushed off. “When I was upstairs, Dante had all the time in the world to come see me.”
“That was before he had to prepare for a conversation with his betrothed’s family.” I am silenced by the gravity of Enzo’s words. “He is breaking his engagement with Lucrezia,” Enzo confides. “It may get him killed.”
A curious and unfamiliar sensation fills the void in my chest. I can’t put my finger on the foreign feeling that engulfs my senses.
“Just as I suspected.” Silas breaks the silence with a heavy sigh. “The additional trauma caused the bone to heal incorrectly. We’ll need to re-break your wrist, realign it, and fix it with a plate and screws.”
I yank my wrist out of the X-ray machine and nick it on the edge. A cold, searing sensation radiates through my entire body. That’s when I realize what I felt when Enzo said Dante may get killed. It was unfamiliar at first, but it quickly becomes apparent.
It’s pain. It’s the realization that if Dante is killed, a piece of myself will go with him.
“Here you go.” Without making a sound, Silas delicately extracts a crisp white handkerchief from the depths of his front pocket and discreetly passes it to me. “Your wrist will be fine. You’ll be under sedation when we break and repair it.”
I hold the handkerchief, confused by its offering, until I realize I’m crying. The tears streak down my cheeks like they’re racing to the finish line. I dab at them, and Enzo pretends not to notice. “Thanks,” I tell Silas, but I don’t correct his assumption. I’m not worried about my wrist; I’m worried about Dante.