Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ANNA
Six days passed, and even though his forehead took on the color of a rainbow, the monstruo who killed Papá was still alive.
I’d lain awake in the night, imagining him.
Chest moving. Then imagining him. Chest frozen.
That was my way of preparing. Every night without fail, I wrote in my diary, the same thing over and over again.
Tengo que hacerlo. No hay otra manera.
I have to do it. There's no other way.
The thought of it twisted my stomach. As it should. Taking a life was not a joke. But it had to be done. For Papá. For Mamá. Even Mara and for me.
I didn’t remember who’d killed him or if all three of them had.
The silver glint of a knife, a gaping hole, and blood, so much blood.
I could never wear red after that day. Even if the rest of that twenty-four hours was just a dark black hole.
Every time I tried to clear my memory, it felt like someone had thrust my head underwater and held me under forcefully.
Just the thought of that day was enough to turn my blood to ice.
It didn’t matter anyway. What I knew and didn’t. He had been there, in that room.
The night before, I’d dreamed of him. Rather, his voice. Both warm and cold. Calm and volatile. He’d said something on that day. The words were on the edge of my memory, but every time I reached for them, they slipped out of my grasp.
I had to accept that I would never know the truth. The words, the deed, the actions that played out on that day and well before it that set everything in motion… because even I knew the Mafia didn’t roll up to an accountant’s home to kill him if he’d been innocent.
You’re a fucking thief.
I quelled the doubt that rose to the surface like an ugly monster. Papá was good. He had to be. I’d lost everything. I couldn’t lose the image of him as well. No matter how faint it was.
It didn’t matter anymore. I couldn’t have it all.
I couldn’t know the story behind the past and get to kill the people who changed it.
I had to choose between the truth and death.
I’d chosen death. Besides, something told me the truth about the past would be the final brick to bring me down.
I didn’t need that when I so badly wanted…
no… needed to move on. For Mamá’s sake. For Mara.
They said revenge was best served cold. But I served it sizzling hot.
The kitchen filled with the scent of hot smoke and fresh garlic.
Magda had finally succumbed to the flu and disappeared into her bedroom.
She had informed me proudly that when she was sick, which had apparently only happened once before, they got food down from the Don’s cook.
The firstborn of Boris Martello, she’d informed me.
I’d listened as if Lorenzo Martello was a name I’d never known before.
Never came across in my internet search either.
What was new was the information that the Don was in Sicily with his wife, and the cook was on holiday.
Perfect time to commit my crime and get away with it.
So, I’d done the gracious thing. Offered to cook for the underboss. Signor Niccolò Martello.
Lo quiero muerto.
Lo quiero muerto.
I want him dead!
My hands trembled like empty tin cans in a gust of wind. I had made gāmbās pil pil a thousand times. But I’d never poisoned it before.
Gripping the sweet paprika, I squashed it flat and cut it into uneven strips. I needed a dead Martello at the end of this meal. Another dead Martello. My vision blurred. The knife slipped. The cut ripped through my index finger, and before I could block it, crimson oozed out of the deep gash.
“La puta madre.” I grabbed the counter with my uninjured hand, forcing my gaze away, keeping it on anything other than the blood that was probably pooling out.
“Joder, did she see all that blood?”
“We need to sedate her.”
“Put her down before she hurts herself.”
Sweat beaded on my forehead.
It had been years. My God, I’m such an idiot. Get a handle on yourself.
Eyes squeezed, I peeked at the cutting board. ?Joder! The white had stained with red. A sob burst out of me. I rocked on my knees as I felt around the floor. What was I even doing? Why was I on the floor?
I am better than this. Stronger. Get your shit together, Anna.
But I couldn’t. All I felt was a chill in my veins, a shudder in my body that wouldn’t stop.
“What the hell, Anna?”
“No,” I sobbed. Don’t sedate me. I tried to crawl away but someone pulled me up. Instead of a sting, cold water gushed on my hands. My insides shook the entire time.
“Hey.” A hand gripped my chin, and I shook it off. “It’s me, Anna. Isidora.”
Isidora?
I forced my eyes to pry open. Slowly, like smoke clearing after a fire, my vision came into focus. Isidora stood with a worried gaze in front of me. “It’s just a cut, Anna.” I couldn’t help the sob that ripped out of me. She frowned. “What happened to you?”
My “nothing” sounded as hollow as an echo in an empty cave.
Her lips twisted into a sad smile, but she didn’t push me for the truth. “Let me finish up. Just tell me what to do, because if I cook, the man will drop to his death.”
I grimaced. She cleared up the mess I’d made while I averted my gaze. I was leaning against the counter by the wall. The empty metal strainer was on the floor. I had no memory of throwing it, yet there was no other explanation for it.
“Okay. Let’s do this.” Isidora stood in front of the island, knife in hand, clean cutting board before her.
My voice shook as I gave her instructions.
She followed every step without suspicion.
A sharp pang of guilt bit into me. She was an unsuspecting accomplice in something that had nothing to do with her.
But once I’d started, I couldn’t get myself to stop.
The king prawns were already cooked. All she had to do was add them to the dish.
She set them in a clay pot and placed the crusty bread next to it.
But I put a stop to it when she made to pick it up.
“I’ll take it.”
She gave me a look. One that said ‘you look like shit and you are going to act like shit’.
“Just give me a minute to wash my face.”
Leaving her behind, I made my way to the washroom.
Three times in a row, I splashed my face with cold water.
Only after I had dried my face could I finally look at myself in the mirror.
Pale face, and red eyes that gave everything away.
He was going to know my intentions the moment I stepped into that room.
Over and over, I repeated the words. No somos cobardes. We are not cowards.
With a final deep breath, I walked into the kitchen and shooed Isidora away. Told her to take a break in her room.
I wanted her out of sight. No one should witness a dying man. I would know what it did to you.
After she left, I stood in the heavy silence of the kitchen and took three deep breaths. Then I pushed the door and walked into my mission. But the sight in the dining room brought me to a dead stop.
“I don’t know why you’re putting me in charge. Where are you going to—”
Two pairs of eyes turned toward me. One hazel, warm, and charming. The other a cold sheet of mystery. For a split second, something dark shifted in them before it vanished entirely. He didn’t want me there.
He was dressed entirely in black. Black pants and a button-down.
No tie nor coat in sight. He really looked nothing like his father.
Nothing like the Mafia. Although my only reference to the Mafia had been his father.
Still, he looked more like the CEO of a multimillion-dollar enterprise.
Capable of cold-heartedly firing people from his establishment.
Who was I kidding? Both these men were more than capable of taking a life. They would do it again and again.
His brother, Stefano, shifted to Italian. He asked something, and Niccolò answered him after a beat, his cold eyes still on me.
I chewed on my lower lip. When had he turned up? This was a complication I hadn’t predicted. It was clear from his looks that he didn’t want me meeting his brother. I considered my options. Retreat and try another time, or serve the dish and make a run for it.
Joder. It was time he choked on sesame oil.
They had something in common. Couldn’t be character because Stefano was a social butterfly.
Easy to find on any social media platform.
It was the sharp lines of their faces and the subtle danger pooling out of their bodies.
Stefano was almost as tall as the monstruo but his hair was longer, reaching down to his shoulders, and he was relaxed.
Like a friend you didn’t see as dangerous, but who was just as deadly or even worse.
“What’s on your mind, chica?”
He was a charmer, too. But I already knew that. Quite the womanizer.
“Stefano.” One word. A warning threaded within it.
Which Stefano ignored. “What? Whatever she’s holding smells good. I could have a second dinner.”
Unease gripped me. This would not work. I was already moving when his words halted me. “Get out. That’s mine.” For a second, I thought he was talking to me.
Stefano frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
But his ‘nothing’ sounded as hollow a lie as mine to Isidora.
Stefano’s gaze shifted into suspicion, swinging from his brother to me and back to him.
Then he surprised me. Walking right up to his brother, he gave him a hug.
One of those that wrapped him entirely in his arms. Niccolò stood as stiff as a board in his hold.
Stefano murmured something in his ear before withdrawing.
Niccolò nodded. Then Stefano made for the door but halted before me.
His eyes weren’t warm anymore. They were cold.
Calculating. It felt like his vision split right through me.
“Stefano.” Niccolò’s tone was crisp. It didn’t budge his brother from his spot.
“You’re going to look after him for me, aren’t you?
” It was half an order and half a threat.
His words sank into my bones. His gaze dropped to my hands.
I fisted them tightly around the tray, trying but failing to hide the tremble in them.
Time seemed to drag before finally, he brushed past me and walked out.
His footsteps in the hallway were loud. Hesitant.
Almost as if he didn’t want to leave. He couldn’t be that obsessed with my food. ?Joder! Did he suspect something?
Frustration bubbled inside me. I hoped Niccolò Martello couldn’t read my emotions as easily as Papá had.
The front door slammed shut. The only man remaining gave nothing away. My legs carried me to the dining table. I set the dish on the solid oak surface with trembling hands. Isidora had already laid out the cutlery, wine, and a leather underlay. It would all be ruined soon.
Everything slowed down. Except for the beat of my heart.
It fluttered madly in my chest like a captured animal.
Each step he took toward the food stretched, because strangely, his gaze was on me.
It drilled through my body, and even though his eyes were nothing but cold crystal, my blood thrummed with guilt.
I can’t be here. I wasn’t brave enough to watch him eat.
My stomach twisted with a sharp pain, and bile was already shooting up my throat.
I made to move. I didn’t even get a step in.
“Stay.” His word was a command and a plea.
I couldn’t handle it. My feet picked up speed.
“Anna Vales.”
I froze. He knew my name.
He knew my full name. Of course, he’d know it. Idiota. I couldn’t falsify my documents. I had to give my paperwork to get the job.
Hesitantly, I turned around. He was seated at the table. The clay pot settled right in front of him. “Stay,” he said again, and this time, it was clear what it was.
He didn’t ask me to move or come closer. But it was as if an invisible thread of command had tugged, and I was moving. A few panicked heartbeats later, I was next to him.
A soft sigh of contentment fell from him when he leaned back in the high-backed chair. “I’ve missed this.”
His tone was wrapped in a warmth that was new to me.
He said the words like a secret. My brow furrowed.
He looked suggestively at the dish. I followed his gaze.
“Gāmbās pil pil,” he murmured almost to himself.
He means the dish. “There’re so many memories.
” Why was he talking so much? He’d barely said ten words in the two weeks I’d been there, and now he was talking?
Did he know? Was that it? He picked up his fork. “All of them, sweet.”
?Qué pasa? Something had changed. It was as if a switch had flipped, and he was going in a different direction.
“It would almost feel like a sweet death to die while eating it.”
My eyes bugged. ?Qué demonios?
“No?” He cocked his head, his stare filled with a question. I shook mine wildly.
“I think it’s too sweet.” He said with such nonchalance that it spun my thoughts three hundred and sixty degrees.
“El gambas?” I choked out.
He nodded. “Too sweet. Too gentle.” His gaze sharpened. “Too fucking good for me.” The words pierced into my very soul. “Eye for an eye. Avenge your father’s death as he deserved.” He swallowed the air between us. “Stick a knife to my throat.”
The ground shifted. A choked breath of suffocation escaped me.
He knows.
He’d known from the beginning.
His hand froze, the fork halted in mid-air, the king prawn a hair's breadth away from his lips.
Both our gazes fell on his hand. My fist had curled around his. In a death grip. Stopping him from falling to his death.
Why the fuck did I do that?
The question reflected in his eyes when they came to me.
No sé.
I don’t know.
“No salt,” I choked out instead.
His lips started to curl. It was half amusement and half mockery. “Basta ya.” I yanked his fork out of his hold, fleeing to the kitchen, pot in my other hand.
His voice stopped me at the threshold, breaking through the insane buzz in my head. It sounded so calm that I wondered again if any of it was real. If all of it were in my head. Because buried in his words was a promise. “You are no coward, Anna Vales.”
No somos cobardes.
I made it past the door, but halfway to the counter, darkness came for me and took me captive.