19. Zoe
Chapter Nineteen
ZOE
T omorrow is here!
Fidgety as I might feel about this, I also feel a new stream of enthusiasm coursing through me.
It’s a nervous kind of happiness that is also wedging a brick in my chest because it is likely to end like the last time.
I jump out of bed when I see the sunlight glinting on the glass pane.
I can see outside my bedroomnow that Master Ettore has shown me how to make it less dark, but I still enjoy the blanket of gloom. I don't want to dig into the reasons for this right now.
I step closer to the pane and press my face on it, beaming at the sun. The warmth creeps into my veins, electrifying every sense with a new wave of hope.
I might be seeing Valerie Moore today.
The last time I felt this way was fifteen years ago. When I knew I made it to the grand finale of the contest and was going to be announced the winner during Fashion Week.
I couldn’t eat that day, while Virgilio… I chuckle, stopping while I shower as I remember the light in his translucent green eyes. The way his lips had curved into the perfect shape of a crescent to smile at me. The way he pulled me off the floor and twirled with me in his arms.
I felt like I could reach for the sun that day.
He became a core part of my world. And I was already thinking of going to prom with him and our first kiss there. I thought about so many things with him.
But the last time also came with the most tragic events of my life.
My life taken away from me. I was turned into a sex slave.
The last time I felt this, I was wrecked. A shipwreck with my parts scattered in the ocean. No matter how many pieces of myself I collect, I can never be put together to become whole again.
I angrily apply the lather on my skin, wishing I could scrub harder and get some of the crippling feeling as I think of everything I was denied. Everything I could have had.
I could have been married with kids and a thriving fashion career. I was so close to it. I could almost touch it. I could taste it.
I could have created a life with my first love.
I sniff as a wave of tears swells past my chest, burning up my cheeks
I loved him. I was in love with him.
I didn’t know what it was then, but I loved him. I know it now. He was my first love and perhaps my only one.
He was the first person to truly see me, the first person to fight for and with me, and the first person to teach me the first thing about loving: acceptance.
Fifteen years have done nothing to blur the memories of him etched into the walls of my heart. Fifteen years later, I still remember the little things about him. Like how he circles his fork between his fingers before every stab. Something… something Master Ettore did during breakfast.
I shake my head at the sheer madness of it all. That the universe brought me to the house of a man who, in fragments, reminds me of him.
After bathing and brushing my teeth, I start to forage through the dresser for something to wear. I need something that doesn’t overdo it but that is still fashionable, classy, and gives a good first impression.
I find something to blend;a silk cream shirt with off-the-shoulder sleeves, denim pants whose sides I hurriedly cut into slits, a black corset over the shirt that I tuckinto the denim pants, and comfortable green pump heels that remind me of Virgilio's eyes.
I curl my hair and wear studded earrings, no necklace, and a simple pearl ring on my pinky.
I know Valerie will notice every detail.
I pick up my black clutch string purse from the bed and stomp out, eager to meet Master Ettore and see what he thinks about what I’ve done with myself. He might not say anything to me, but I will use his expression to get the compliment I want.
I climb down the stairs and let the waft of coffee lead me to the breakfast room like a spell.
I halt when I see someone in the kitchen, busy pulling something out of the oven. I didn’t think anyone else was staying here. Of course, someone else was responsible for the food and… I just never thought about them because of the way the house is structured.
The housekeeper is still bunched over, humming as she pulls out an oven tray, so I sway into the breakfast room. My mood sours the moment I see Cesare.
“Good morning,” I chuckle nervously, trying not to look as disappointed as I feel.
“Hi,” he sets down the newspaper in his hands, and I wonder what planet he is from. Who reads the newspaper these days? “You look good,” he smiles at me. “Please, sit,” he motions to the seat opposite him, which is the one I’m standing by.
“Thank you,” I sit, peeping over my shoulders as I feel a shadow encroaching. I'm disappointed again when I see it’s a domestic staff member coming to set a platter of coffee and baked goodies in front of me. “Thank you,” I whisper as she finishes and tips her head at me.
“I will be accompanying you today since Ettore is busy. I hope you don’t mind?” Cesare picks up his cup of coffee and sips from it, and I shake my head even though I do mind. A lot. “Eat up, please, and while at it,” he clears his throat, “Ettore told me you were kidnapped and trafficked,” he pauses for a split second, “And I hope you don’t mind… but I’m curious to hear your story.”
My story.
“Tell me about it,” he continues and my stomach flips over.
“Huh…” I nod, then pick up a fork to cut through some cheesecake, my body now ticking and my fingers making a mess of holding the fork. My voice is small as I say, “I was kidnapped by the Bratva fifteen years ago, and I have been working as a sex slave for them.”
I’ve never said that out loud before. Until now, it had felt like I was observing someone else’s life play out in front of me. But it is my story.
I’m the one who got kidnapped, raped, and abused in every dirty, gruesome way possible. I was the one who nursed her broken skin, bruised ass hole, and torn pussy, while gearing up to take another client. I was the one who became a shadow and begged for death to find me.
I’m the one who was starved for days… death by hunger is easier imagined than lived.
“How did they find you?” Cesare leans forward, curiosity bubbling in his green eyes that remind me so much of Virgilio, a fact that triggers my feeling uncomfortable around the man.
I gulp, breathing as deeply as I can to tamp the swelling sadness, “I won a fashion contest, and I left for Milan, and somehow…” I shake the horrifying picture of my father dead on the floor in that cold, dark room that still somehow haunts me when I let my guard down, “they found me, and that was it.”
I sound like I’m over it. But I can never be over it. It’s a part of me. It’s my shadow. No. I’m its shadow. That life became me and the real me became its shadow.
But I don’t know or trust Cesare enough to let him through my cracks so I pretend to be healed.
“And you have no one to go back to?”
“No,” I swirl the cake in my mouth and then sip the hot, creamy coffee. “He is dead. The one person who would have looked for me and tried to find me.” I take another large gulp of my coffee because this is the hardest part. “His name was Virgilio…”
If I had gone through all of this and come out to find him waiting for me, this would have hurt less.
“Virgilio,” Cesare says as if the name sparks something for him. “Who is…”
“We were supposed to go to Milan together, but then my father showed up at the airport, and Virgilio had to stay back and receive the beating of a lifetime so I could leave. Later on, my father died.” I’m quick with my response because I want him to drop the conversation but he looks invested in it.
“He was a teenager, too?” He seems more interested in Virgilio than my entire story put together.
I nod. “Yes, a very brave one at that, one who never backed down in the face of danger,” A small smile breaks out on my face as I remember my stubborn Virgilio. He was so sure we could escape the cruelty of our realities.
He was so sure, so life had to teach him the hard way.
I breathe deeply again, then hold my breath to tamp my anxiety, which is making my breakfast taste like tree bark.
If Virgilio were alive, what would he look like?
I narrow my eyes at Cesare, seeing a striking resemblance. He would have looked almost like him. Almost, if not. The same eyes. The same hair. The same lean athletic features. But I have seen Cesare smile, and he looks nothing like Virgilio when he does. So, almost it is.
“Virgilio,” there is that flicker of interest in Cesare’s eyes, and this time, it’s fanning into a full flame. “What can you tell me about him?”
I snap, “We won’t make it to the fabric store.” His face drops so I force a smile. “You remind me of him. A lot.”
“I do?” He says, his voice tinged with emotion. His eyes go wide open, and then he shrinks them, leaning back in his seat. He nods, sucks in a deep long breath, and then stands abruptly, “Time’s up, we’ve got to run.”
“Wait, what?” I spurt with a mouthful of cake, “I haven’t even had breakfast,” I squint at him, and he chuckles.
“You should see your face,” he snorts. “I will be in the car… I need a minute.” He doesn’t hover, and with his hands in the pockets of his coffee-brown pants, he stomps out.
I eat my breakfast slowly, nostalgia weaving around as I think of going to the store and then something else—the rush of having someone hurry me about breakfast. The last time I was in a hurry was with Virgilio before leaving for the airport.
I stuff more cake in my mouth and catch a glimpse of Cesare as he slips out of the door, his cream short-sleeved shirt matching mine. He is very fashionable and carries himself with ease. He reminds me a lot of Virgilio, and for a minute, I think, what if?
But no.
Something is missing.