6. Siena
Siena
I sit on the couch with a glass of wine in my hand, staring at the pile of Emily’s stuff.
The bottle of wine on the coffee table is almost empty, but I don’t feel it at all.
I’ve been sitting here drinking slowly and thinking in silence for hours since I got home from helping the girl at the Victim Advocacy Center.
Setting the glass down, I let out a deep sigh. All the fire I felt at the office is waning, and in its place a cold, creeping dread has settled and grows deeper with every passing second. Still, I know this is something I have to do.
I walk over and sink to my knees in front of Emily’s stuff. Each of the plastic bags is stuffed and overflowing. I take one and dump it out, dragging my fingertips over the things spread out across the floor.
Some of it didn’t belong to her. There’s a charred t-shirt that wasn’t hers, the back half of a waterlogged paperback book that she would never read, part of a man’s watch.
Through the mess, I spot her phone in one of the clear bags.
My stomach twists. I snatch the bag and dump it out, grabbing the phone.
My thumb moves instinctively, tapping the screen, then pressing the side button over and over.
It doesn’t light up. Of course it doesn’t.
The last time I heard her voice, she was talking to me on this phone, right before—
I hurl it across the room, the crack of plastic against the wall hollow. Crumpling to the floor, all the tension bleeds out of me until I feel boneless, weightless. Empty.
My sister . Without her, I feel so completely alone. I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’ll never talk to her again, never get to hug her, or hear her laugh. The finality is unbearable.
The uncertainty gnaws at me, too. Did they find her body? Was there a funeral? If so, where was she buried?
These are all questions that I could call my mother and ask, but not knowing is better than finding out that she simply had Emily cremated and moved on. Given that she hasn’t reached out to me at all since Emily’s death, it feels like I’m dead to her as well.
It’s a thought that doesn’t bother me as much as it should.
Emily and Franco are both older than I am, and Emily was more of a parent to me than anyone else after our father died, while Franco held our mother’s attention.
Moving on without them is very similar to pretending that they are actually a part of my life but without the stress.
Emily’s scarf peeks out of the pile, its fabric faded but familiar. I reach for it, dislodging a cascade of plastic bags that tumble down around me. Without thinking, I lay down in the midst of the mess, curling up with the scarf pressed against my chest.
It doesn’t smell like her anymore. It reeks of diesel and stagnant water. But I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend. I pretend she’s still here, hugging me, and let the wine and the memories lull me to sleep.
**
I wake a few hours later, my back aching from laying on the unforgiving floor, and I wince as I sit up. Emily’s scarf is still clutched in my hand, and I lift it to my lips.
“She’d kill me if she knew I was touching it when it’s like this,” I mutter to myself, almost laughing as I picture her watching me with a horrified expression. Setting it aside, I make a mental note to wash it later.
The toppled pile of her belongings stares back at me, and I force myself to move, sorting through each item methodically.
One pile for the unrecognizable wreckage.
Another for things that clearly belonged to someone else.
A third pile for Emily’s belongings—things to clean, fix, or share with my cousin, Sophie.
It’s not long before the mess is organized into neat stacks and bagged piles, but as I begin to push each one back toward the wall so that I can deal with it when it’s not 3 o’clock in the morning, something shiny catches my eye.
It’s the piece of a man’s watch.
I pick it up gingerly, examining the broken band and shattered face. The hands on the clock face are missing, the clasp is broken, and the other half of the band is gone. Absentmindedly, I trace the jagged edges, wondering who was wearing this when the plane went down.
Turning it over, my breath catches in my throat.
An engraving of a cypress tree climbs the watch band, its leaves curling and twisting to form the letter “B. ”
Our Bellamorte family crest.
My chest tightens painfully as I stare at it. The symbol is unmistakable.
But this can’t be Emily’s. It’s a man’s watch.
I guess it could be Mikey’s, but Mikey would never wear a Bellamorte symbol.
If anything, he would have worn the symbol of the Demonio family, the snake wrapped around two crossed scythes that I saw all over the paperwork in Alexandra’s office. But maybe Emily had it made for him?
A date carved along the back edge of the face catches my attention. It takes me a moment to place it, but then it hits me—it’s my parents’ wedding anniversary.
Shit, this was my dad’s watch.
My heart constricts in my chest, and I feel nauseous. Squeezing the watch in my hand, I stand, walking over to the window, and stare blankly out into the dark night.
The sleet falling outside the window is illuminated by the one working streetlight. The icy pellets hit the pavement with soft, rhythmic taps, and I wonder absently if the fancy sports cars I’ve seen parked on the street recently will be dented if it turns to hail.
I look down at the watch band in my hand and shiver. It’s like I’m holding the ghost of my father in the form of his broken watch, a message from him on the other side.
But why would my dad’s watch be on that plane?
My mom had it after he died and swore she’d never give it up, and she certainly wasn’t on that plane.
She might have given it to Franco at some point, but he too is very much alive.
She hated Mikey, so there’s no way she gave it to him, and if she’d given it to Emily, Emily would have told me.
Or would she, especially if she thought I’d be upset? She didn’t tell me that Mikey was connected to the mafia. She never shared whatever was going on to make them go on the run, and I doubt that happened overnight.
I feel like I’m going to vomit, and I drop to my knees on the floor in front of the window. One knee lands on something hard. It’s Emily’s phone, and I pull it out from under me, sitting down on the floor heavily.
The screen is now cracked, and the case came loose at the top when I threw it against the wall last night. Something is sticking out of it, folded and discolored. Wedged between the phone and its case is a slip of paper.
I carefully pull it out, mindful of its water-damaged edges. Numbers are scrawled on the top, smeared but legible.
Another fucking mystery, and no answers to the questions I started with.
I need to get into this phone.
There may be something—an email, a text, a note—that can help me make sense of all this. Maybe even provide me with the proof that Matti planted the explosive device or Aurelio ordered her death. And why.
Who do I know that can fix a phone that’s water damaged?
Valentina’s name immediately comes to mind, and I cringe.
Under any other circumstance, I would never consider asking her for help, but I honestly don’t know anyone else.
I’d have to pay her, of course, but when you don’t do anything with your money but pay the mortgage and buy takeout chicken, it’s pretty easy to save.
Fleetingly, I wonder what the “project” was that she did for Matti the night I met her on the plane. How much he paid her or if he didn’t have to because—
It feels like a gut punch to think about the two of them together, but I’m immediately hit with a wave of guilt as I look at all of Emily’s things on the floor.
How can I miss him, feel anything for him, when he played a part in what happened to my sister?
It’s a good thing he threw me out, honestly.
It’s giving me a chance to focus on healing after losing Emily. That’s what’s important. Not Matti.
Forcing myself to stay focused, I shove the thought of Matti fucking Valentina out of my head and grab my phone, setting Emily’s to the side. My fingers fly fast over the keyboard as I text Olivia.
Hey, do you have Valentina’s contact info?
It doesn’t take long before I see the little bubble letting me know that Olivia is responding.
Hell no. Why the fuck do you want that bitch’s
number at 4 in the morning?
Oh shit, I forgot how late it was. Or how early. Fuck, I love Olivia. Other than my cousin Sophie, I can’t think of anyone that would text me back at this time of night without bitching about it.
I need some tech work done.
Oooh, cryptic. Hold on.
A minute passes, and then a contact card comes through from her. Vincenzo Demonio’s cell phone information.
What the—? Why does she want me to contact Vin? That asshole tied me to a fucking chair then lectured me on how great Matti is even after standing there while he groped me up against a wall.
Vin’s number? Do you think he’d help me?
Of course he will.
The bubbles appear again then disappear, but no text comes through.
Why do you think that?
Because he’d do anything for Matti, which
means he’d do anything for you. You’re
one of us, like I said. Trust me. He’s not a
bad guy.
Just don’t wake him up at 4 in the morning.
I roll my eyes. I love her, but she’s delusional when it comes to the status of my relationship with Matti and probably about Vin’s willingness to help me, too.
We text a few laughing emojis and I thank her, but I’m terrified of reaching out to Vin. What if he tells Matti? What if I set up a meeting with Vin, and Matti is there instead? My stomach twists into knots at the idea of seeing Matti again, my pulse fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings.
I squash the thought as quickly as I can. I have no other option. I’m no mastermind criminal. I don’t know hackers who can fix a phone and break into it at the same time. It’s certainly not something that can be accomplished at the Genius Bar. Valentina is my only shot. And Emily is worth the risk.