Chapter 32 Katarina
KATARINA
Paolo, the kind old man with the creased face and perfect tea, refilled my cup for the tenth time.
“But I just don’t understand why I’m here,” I told him earnestly.
He simply nodded, full of understanding.
“I should get home. My mother’s house is near Cavoretto, if you know that area.”
He shook his head. “I’m not overly familiar.”
“Still, she’ll be worried about me,” I said. The words sounded like they must be true, even if I had holes in my memory the size of chasms.
“Massimo will take good care of you, Katarina. I promise you this,” Paolo said.
I slumped down in the chair beside the fire, disappointed by his dismissive tone.
The old man wasn’t going to help me, then, and I wasn’t the sort of person to try and break an elderly man’s hip, fighting to get away.
Besides, there was something about Paolo that warned me he’d be a better fighter than I assumed.
He might be old, but he was solid and spry.
There was real strength in his gnarled grip. While I was just me. As weak as always.
I sipped the tea and treasured the way the warm amber liquid slipped down my throat, soothing me from the inside out.
The day had turned gray outside, but inside this house, the warm, intimate atmosphere was only heightened by the darkness. I enjoyed the fire warming my side. The seat was velvet and overstuffed. I could close my eyes and sleep for a week, but I couldn’t afford to . . .
Because I didn’t know where I was or how I came to be here. Rationally, I should be more upset about that than I was, but there was part of me that was just resigned.
Confusion was something I felt instinctively used to, as sad as that was.
Also, there was something about this place that felt familiar. Not the house, or Paolo, or the view from the window, it was something else. The smell? That would be a weird thing to be used to. The man whom I woke up beside?
Yes. Him. There was something familiar about him. A thread I couldn’t stop pulling at to unravel the knots in my memory. He felt like the key to all of it. And while he was intimidating, terrifying, really, I wasn’t afraid of him.
I wandered around the room, taking in the rich, antique furnishings.
“Massimo had this entire place restored, brought it back from the dead. He stopped it all from being forgotten. Sometimes people ask to rent out the place, or to film TV shows here!” Paolo chuckled.
“I take it he never lets them?”
“Massimo is a private man. The most private I’ve ever met. You won’t catch him opening his home up to just anyone. In fact, you are the first woman he’s ever brought here.”
“Did he just move in?” I mused.
“No.”
Oh, okay. That knowledge made me feel odd inside, and I ignored it soundly.
I walked to a long sideboard and picked up one of the photos there. It was a group of men in military uniforms. They wore heavy helmets and sunglasses, but even then, I recognized Massimo. He was the tallest and broadest. While the rest were smiling for the camera, he was just straight-faced.
I set the frame down and glanced over the others. There was a picture of him at some kind of ceremony wearing a suit and collecting a medal.
Paolo appeared beside me. “For bravery. He was the only man, during a bombing at a school, to run back inside while the bombs were still falling.”
Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I saw him. Dressed in black, startling against a white backdrop, staring back at me for a moment before running into a burning building.
I set the photo down.
“He doesn’t like to remember the past too much, or his accomplishments, I guess, but I do. Since I’m the only person here most of the time, he humors me and lets me put up the frames.”
Next on the shelf was the medal, propped open in its box. The writing below the medal read:
Medaglia d’Oro al Valor Militare
Next to a name:
Massimo Lucciano
I stared at those words before my hand rose to my neck. I pulled the long chain out of the top of the cashmere sweater Paolo had given me and inspected the dog tags.
There it was. Massimo Lucciano. I’d noticed the necklace just a little while ago when I’d gotten dressed.
“Ah, his dog tags. I’m not surprised to see you wearing them,” Paolo said. “If he values you enough to bring you home, then he certainly values you enough to give you those. Now, are you hungry?”
I found myself nodding before I could help it.
Paolo beamed again.
“Brava. I’ll prepare lunch.”
After lunch, which I ate with wild abandon, Paolo left me alone, and I found myself drifting off.
I was stuffed full. The dining room of the townhouse was just as dark and Gothic as the rest of the place, but in here, deep-emerald velvet chairs and huge, jewel-hued threaded tapestries covered the walls.
The gigantic dining table gleamed under the wintry light flooding in through the long windows.
A whole wall was framed with Juliet balconies, and I could have stayed and gazed out at the white city streets of Torino all day as the snow fell.
It was the most majestic city view I’d ever seen, despite having lived in this very city for many years.
My neighborhood was nearer the bottom of the hills, much closer to Hallow Hall.
It had taken three buses to get into the city center, while I’m sure Paolo could amble along the gracious sidewalks to the markets and shops in a few minutes.
It was a level of wealth and luxury that I’d never experienced.
Massimo Lucciano might not actually be from the underworld, but he was certainly from a different tax bracket.
“How was your lunch?” Paolo asked as he brought me an espresso.
I just stared at it for a long moment before reaching out to take it.
“I could make you something else,” he started, seeming doubtful about breaking the unofficial Italian rule of only drinking espresso after eating lunch.
“No, this is perfect. I just think that maybe I haven’t had one for a long time.” I lifted the tiny cup to my face and breathed in deeply.
A hit of caramel and toasted nuts, then bittersweet dark cocoa from the deep roast.
I took a sip and closed my eyes, enjoying every second of the smoky sweetness.
A soft chuckle pulled me from my reverie.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone enjoy a simple coffee so much,” Paolo remarked. “Most people forget to enjoy the little things. They become commonplace and worthless.”
“Not worthless,” I mused. “Forgotten. People forget all sorts of things. I didn’t aways lose my mind over coffee. Like I said, I think it’s been a while.”
Paolo crossed himself dramatically. “A life without coffee? Che peccato! How is it possible?”
A soft meow saved me from having to explain why I had no idea when the last time was that I drank coffee. I glanced down, and my heart melted. A black cat was winding around my ankles.
“Nox, don’t bother your new mistress,” Paolo reprimanded the magnificent black beast.
I crouched beside him.
“He’s not! I love cats,” I enthused. Nox.
The Latin name for night, and this boy personified night .
. . just like his owner, Massimo. Dark and dangerous looking, so graceful and aloof it bordered on cruel, inhuman beauty.
But then Nox butted my hand forcefully, demanding attention and head scratches.
“Don’t say that around Massi. He already brings home any bedraggled strays he finds outside. You’d think we were running the world’s most expensive cat shelter.” Paolo’s sniff made his distaste known.
Massi. Paolo’s approval for his boss was clear. The stern and terrifyingly intimidating man from this morning who’d assured me that he was actually saving me, not harming me, by keeping me here filled my head.
My heart melted a bit more, and a twinge of discomfort moved within it.
Massimo collected strays. Was I just another stray to him?
A damsel who needed saving? What did he want in return for his help?
Was I another charity case to him? Wasn’t I a charity case in general?
I didn’t even remember the last few days, or months.
I could hardly afford to indulge in hurt pride right now.
Anxiety clamped its steely hand around my throat.
Nox was a sweetheart, rubbing around me and purring loudly. I stroked his sleek coat and tried to put my worries out of my head.
“Pax is jealous. She’s shier, but she’s my favorite,” Paolo said.
I followed his gaze to the stunning cat sitting on top of the sideboard situated across from the dramatic windows. She was white as the moon, with deep golden eyes. It was clear she was a girl. There was something delicate and feminine about her mannerisms as she straightened up and assessed me.
Gravy, I hope he’s okay. The image of a little moth-eared cat filled my mind.
The name and image came to me suddenly. The thought was so natural and effortless, I knew he was real. I stood, my heart suddenly racing. Was I remembering things? I remembered Gravy, the stray. But where had I met him?
“If you’re finished, I need to run out to the supermarket before it closes for dinner. I suggest a nap, after everything you’ve been through.”
I let Paolo lead me upstairs.
“You wouldn’t happen to know what that was and feel like filling me in, do you?”
Paolo patted my hand, tucked into the nook of his elbow.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’ll come when you’re ready to know.”
We got to the room I’d woken up in. The one that took up the entire top floor.
Lavish didn’t begin to cover it. The tub in the bathroom looked like one that ancient Roman emperors used to bathe in.
It only added to the mystery of the man who had taken it upon himself to care for me here, in this otherworldly house.
I went into the room and let Paolo fuss over me, because honestly, he seemed happier that way. He tucked me into bed and put a white noise machine on that was discreetly hidden somewhere on the marble bedside table.
“You rest, and then Massi will be home later, and you can ask him your questions.”
I nodded, tired suddenly beyond belief.
Paolo lowered the heavy velvet drapes around the bed, so the light was dimmed, and then the sound of the door shutting softly let me know that I was alone.
The bed was beyond soft. Dreamy, honestly. I started to drift away almost immediately, before a creeping feeling of anxiety came over me.
Lying there, I felt suddenly like a prisoner. It wasn’t rational. It made no sense. Regardless, I sat up and opened the curtains of the four-poster bed. The room was serene and cozy. It wasn’t a prison.
I thought about going back to sleep but knew that I wouldn’t be able to before I proved to myself that I was free to leave here whenever I wanted.
I got up and padded to the door, my feet sinking into the plush rug.
I reached the door and turned the handle.
It didn’t budge.
I tried it again, twisting it this way and that. It didn’t move a single inch. I was locked in. Just like a prisoner. And just like that . . . I lost it.
Panic clawed up my throat and made it hard to breathe. My skin felt like it was going to crawl off. It was an involuntary reaction. A trauma response buried deep. I didn’t remember why it sent me off so violently, but my body clearly did.
I banged on the door. “Let me out!”
Silence met my cry.
I banged harder. “Paolo! Let me out of here. Open the door!”
Silence, and then a throat cleared.
“I’m sorry, Katarina, but you’re not to roam free in case you leave and get lost.”
“That’s not your decision to make, or your boss’s. It’s my decision to make. I get to choose!” I banged on the wood, my hand starting to hurt.
“I’m afraid I can’t.” His tone wasn’t that of someone who would change their mind. He’d locked me in on his master’s orders, and there was no escape. I was powerless. Voiceless. Controlled. Imprisoned.
“If you don’t, I’m going to make him regret this!” I warned Paolo.
“So be it.” His final response.
That motherfucker. I turned around and headed for a lamp right beside the door and kicked it over before I could overthink it. It fell with a hard crash and shattering of glass.
There were no sounds from beyond the door. I headed for the sideboard and the decanter and crystal glasses there, picking one up. I threw one against the wall and then another. A scream left me, unbidden and unstoppable.
I lost track of how long my anger and fear raged.
Frustration filled me, so thick it choked me, fogging my thoughts.
When I finally exhausted that fury, the room was a mess.
Regret spread inside me. All the beautiful things in this painstakingly restored room hadn’t deserved to be smashed up.
But then, I didn’t deserve to be locked up and have none of my questions answered.
This shit was just things, and I was a person, not a possession.
After the anger passed, the tears came.
Endless tears. Rivers of salt. I made my way back to the bed and pressed my face into the pillow, crying and crying until it felt like my lungs might give out.
Somewhere in that torrent of feelings, I wore myself out. Sleep came on the heels of my exhaustion, and I thought no more.