Chapter 8 Violet
VIOLET
Iwake up when the door opens. No knock, no warning, just the mechanical click of the lock and then he’s there, filling the doorway like he owns the space. Which, I suppose, he does.
I’m still in yesterday’s clothes, the henley stiff with dried sweat and orange juice, and my hair a greasy nest I haven’t touched in days.
I probably look like something that crawled out of a dumpster, and I want that to bother him.
I want him to flinch at the smell, wrinkle that perfect nose, show some flicker of disgust I can use as a weapon.
But he doesn’t comment. He just pulls up a chair and sits down like we’re about to have coffee. Like this is normal. Like I invited him.
“The villa dates to 1547.” His voice is conversational. Pleasant. “The original structure was a fortified manor house, but the Baroque additions came in the late seventeenth century. You’ll have noticed the frescoes, Tiepolo’s workshop, though not the master himself. Still remarkable.”
I stare at him.
He crosses one leg over the other, perfectly at ease in his charcoal suit. The collar of his white shirt is pristine, not a hair is out of place. Meanwhile, I’m sitting on silk sheets in dirty jeans, my stomach cramping around the memory of three blood oranges.
“The marble in this hallway is Carrara, of course, original to the eighteenth-century renovation, which, honestly, is remarkable given what this region went through. But the real treasure is in the east corridor. There’s a Caravaggio sketch. Preliminary study for The Calling of Saint Matthew. “
What the fuck is happening?
“Get the fuck out of my room.”
He smiles. Not bothered. Not even slightly ruffled.
“I’ve been thinking about the bas-relief panels in the chapel.
” He continues like I haven’t spoken. “Fifteenth century, gorgeous work, but the moisture’s been eating them alive.
Lime mortar’s failing in at least three sections, maybe more.
” He pauses, and when he looks at me his eyes are actually bright.
Eager, almost. Like a psychopath showing you his butterfly collection and waiting for you to clap. “What would you recommend?”
I can’t breathe. My brain can’t hold both things at once, him asking about mortar composition while I’m his prisoner, starving in dirty clothes on his silk sheets.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
His tone is mild. Interested. Like I’ve made a particularly thought-provoking point about conservation ethics.
“The Japanese tissue method has its merits.” He shifts in the chair, settling in like he plans to stay awhile. “But I’ve always found ethyl silicate more effective for limestone substrates. The penetration depth is superior, and the—”
I grab my pillow and hurl it at his head.
He catches it. One-handed, without breaking eye contact. Sets it down on the mirror-polished marble floor beside his chair.
The marble is white, unblemished, and I can’t help but wonder how many people have bled on these floors?
“—binding properties maintain the original porosity of the stone.” He finishes his thought like nothing happened. “Though I suppose it depends on the specific composition of the original mortar. Have you had a chance to examine the samples I collected from the cathedral?”
I want to scream. Want to claw that calm expression off his face. Want to make him react, just once, just enough to prove he’s human under all that control.
But he just sits there. Waiting for my answer. Patient as stone.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stands, smoothing his jacket when after ten minutes I still haven’t spoken. “Same time.”
Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him. The lock engages.
I sit on the bed, shaking with impotent rage, and realize his calm is worse than violence would be.
I wait an hour before going back to the studio.
The bowl is gone.
I search the worktables. The shelves. The corners of the room where an orange might have rolled. Nothing. Every single piece of fruit has been removed, like they never existed.
Of course he knew. He’s watching everything.
I’m running before I finish the thought. Down the hallway, past the guard who doesn’t move, into my room. I drop to my knees beside the bed and shove my arm into the gap between the mattress and the wall.
Nothing. The oranges I hid against the wall are gone, not even a peel left behind. Someone came in while I was in the studio, took them, and left no trace.
He’s always three steps ahead. Always. I can’t even steal fruit without him knowing.
“FUCK YOU!” I scream at the ceiling. At the cameras I know are there. At whatever sick bastard is watching me lose my mind. “You hear me? FUCK. YOU!”
The room absorbs my voice. Gives nothing back.
I’m shaking as I shove my hand under the pillow.
The caliper is still there.
Cold metal against my palm. Sharp points digging into my fingers. He left it. Doesn’t see it as a threat.
That’s his mistake.
He comes back at dusk.
The light through the windows has gone golden, then gray, and my stomach has progressed from cramping to a dull, constant ache that makes it hard to think. I’m lying on the bed, staring at the stupid angels, when the lock clicks.
This time, he’s holding something.
My phone.
“You can call your mother.” He sets it on the nightstand beside me. “I’m sure she’d like to hear from you.”
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just stare at the familiar cracked screen, the purple case I bought at a gas station in Phoenix three years ago.
All my contacts. Right there. Mom. Danny. Sean.
“The line isn’t monitored.” His voice is soft. Almost gentle. “You can say whatever you like. Tell her about your work. Ask about her garden. She’s been worried about the tomatoes, apparently. Too much rain this spring.”
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists to hide it.
I want to hear her voice. God, I want it so badly my chest aches. Want to hear Danny’s laugh, that stupid bark that always made me feel like everything would be okay. Want to tell them where I am, what’s happened, beg them to find me.
But one wrong word. One slip. And he has their addresses. Their schedules. Their lives.
He’s watching me want it. Not even hiding it. Just sitting there with those dark eyes cataloging every crack in my resolve like he’s keeping score.
“Fuck you.” My voice comes out steady. Cold. “I have nothing to say to them.”
“Whenever you’re ready, tesoro.”
He leaves the phone on the nightstand. Walks out. The lock clicks behind him.
I wait until I can’t hear his footsteps anymore.
Then I pick it up.
Mom’s contact is right there. Her face smiling up at me from the photo I took last Christmas, flour on her cheek, rolling pin in hand. One tap. That’s all it would take.
Hi Mom. Just busy with work. The cathedral is beautiful. Yes, I’m eating enough. No, I haven’t met anyone.
While guards patrol outside. While cameras record every breath. While he watches me on a screen somewhere, waiting to see what I’ll do.
I can’t. Not yet. Can’t hear their voices and lie. Can’t pretend everything is fine while I’m trapped in this beautiful cage.
I hurl the phone across the room.
The screen shatters against the marble wall. The case cracks. The phone bounces once, twice, then lies still.
He’ll bring another one. I know he will. He’s patient. He has all the time in the world.
I fall back onto the silk sheets, my stomach cramping around nothing, and stare at the ceiling until the angels blur.
No food. No oranges. No phone.
But the caliper is still hidden.
I fall asleep clutching it in my hand, plotting where I’d strike. Throat. Eye. Femoral artery.
Somewhere to make him bleed.