Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ANNA
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
I set the cup on the drip tray under the hot water machine and threw a glance over my shoulder. Isidora stood at the doorway. Beautiful and seductive in a tiny red dress that screamed for the hearts of men.
“No.” I shook my head. “I’m too tired.”
“You know he’s not home, anyway.”
Not this again. “And?”
She shrugged and looked behind her, checking for Magda, who appeared at the most unfortunate times before whispering loudly.
“Your crush is pretty obvious. Not that I blame you. I mean, my panties soak every time I hear him in another room. I don’t even have to see him.
He doesn’t have to talk or touch. Just be there. ” She sighed.
A foul taste filled my mouth. “Basta ya. We’re grown women. We have more dignity than to swoon over an asshole’s good looks.”
She frowned, taken aback by my sharp tone. I didn’t apologize. The way she fell all over herself to please the man pissed me off. I turned around and jabbed the button for the hot water. “And I don’t have a crush on him.”
“Hmm… of course you don’t. That’s why you keep asking about him. During dinner, Magda asked me to take you out. I think, she thinks you need to get laid.”
I glared at her.
She grinned. “I agree with her. Come out with me. We’ll find you a man to hump.”
“?Vete a la mierda!”
“I love that language of yours, but there’s nothing nice in those words, is there?”
I ignored her and stabbed the button again. A stream of hot water gushed out and started dripping down the machine. “Mierda, lo olvidé.” I raced to the sink, grabbing the cloth to clean up the mess, already dripping down the cupboard to the floor.
“I got mierda. What’s with the rest?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. You stay home and think about your non-existent crush. In the meantime, our boss is probably fucking a cute European girl while you’re…” She faltered. I turned. She was observing me with interest. “You’re European and cute—”
“Seriously?” I threw my hands up. “So are you.”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t look at me like that.”
Well, she wasn’t planning on killing him.
She backed away from my glare. “All right. All right. I’m going. Have fun with your boring tea.”
“It’s not boring,” I snapped, soaking the hot water with the cloth. “It’s chamomile to calm my nerves.”
“I wonder why you need it.”
“Because I need to—” I bit back the words. ‘Kill the man’ wouldn’t go down well with my new friend. I stalked to the sink and wrung the cloth out, wishing it was a blue-eyed-six-foot something man in my hands.
“Ah, ah. That’s what I thought. You take care of yourself. Oh, maybe you should do that. You know, to ease that tension. It will work better than your tea.”
“It’s not what you think—”
She pointed to her head. “No thinking here. Just fun times. Bye, girl.”
She took off before I could correct her.
I threw the wet cloth into the sink with more force than necessary. I was as carefree as Isidora when Papá was alive. I couldn’t even relate to what it felt like anymore.
Frustration coiled in my chest. I came here with an endgame. Tried thrice. Failed thrice. He was still alive. Worse, he seemed to be having fun at my expense, and everyone else thought I had a crush on him. I wanted to crush him to his death.
It should have been a deed of a few agonizing minutes, like it had been with his father. I’d throw up afterward. I knew that. But I’d go through it. Done it before. Could do it again. Hell, I was a serial killer in the making. How hard could this shit be?
Yet here I was. Nearly three weeks had passed. He was still breathing. Papá’s death was still unavenged. The duration of my visa was still running out. Along with my patience and reputation. The only thing stocking up were my questions.
And my clumsiness. After drying the water from the outside of the cup, I carried it to my room.
He’d known my intentions probably from the moment I’d applied for the job.
I had thought I didn’t want to know the why and when of it anymore.
But it was killing me not to know. Instead of all the possible things he could have done with that information, he’d decided to taunt me.
Push me, train me even? It was almost as if he wanted to be killed.
Presuming the Mafia dealt with guns like candy, it meant only one thing. He wanted to be killed by me.
Why though?
My head thumped with that question. Kept me awake at night, loomed in my nightmares, and haunted me in daylight.
He was pushing me toward something. What did Niccolò Martello want from me?
He was a paradox. I had a better chance of coming up with information about dark matter than the inner thoughts of that man. He kept them so well hidden behind the cold shutters of his eyes. Except for that one time in his office, when he’d almost seemed annoyed with his reaction.
Calling me a fucking asshole is only going to get me harder, Anna.
Those words still vibrated in my skin. They crept up on me in the darkness. Made my toes curl. The fact that he’d had no control over his words made it even more appealing. It was ridiculous.
It was only because I needed to get laid, as Isidora had so politely pointed out.
I’d not had sex for so long that I probably wouldn’t know how it worked anymore.
I should have joined her. Instead of lying in my bed, hearing his rough voice, and feeling it slide over my skin. I was clearly losing my shit.
Each encounter with him made me lose a few IQ points.
He taunted me and riled me up as if that alone were his purpose.
Thankfully, except for the two times in his office, he didn’t hang around for long.
It was almost as if he was afraid of staying too long.
As if he counted the seconds before he could get out of my sight.
Why then did he seek me out? None of it made any sense anymore.
I knew only one thing. He rattled my nerves and brought me back to the girl I had been. Eleven years ago.
Walking into my room, I set the teacup on my nightstand.
I missed that girl. She didn’t know much of anything. Grief, abandonment and responsibilities had changed all of that. I’d thought I’d never be her again. But sometimes he made me so enraged that I barreled toward her. Irresponsible, without caring for the consequences.
Lying down in my bed, I stared at the raftered ceiling.
Because the house felt so familiar, I constantly felt as if I was home.
The style, the colors, the star. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the ocean, and perhaps, if I allowed it, Papá’s voice.
But that was a step too far. Just like it was to go near the grand piano in the living room.
It wasn’t the same as Papá’s. Of course, it wasn’t.
But it felt too intimate. Almost as if I’d find the AV I’d carved into all my favorite things when I was ten and had a tantrum when I’d been told I was having a sister.
Time ticked away as I gave myself a pep talk.
I’d be able to sleep again once I dealt with him.
Not toss and turn until it was… I peeped at my phone…
three a.m. I stared at the wall, the ceiling, and into the darkness outside the window.
I sat up with a frustrated groan. El gilipollas. He’d taken sleep away from me.
It was at least nine a.m. in Marbella. Giving up on sleep, I picked up the phone and called Mamá.
Just the sound of the ringing across the ocean on the other end was enough to make guilt thaw in my heart.
I should have been with her. I should have finished this a long time ago.
Mara visited her once a week, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t me.
“I was just talking about you.” Mamá never bothered with hola.
“Hola, Mamá.”
“I was telling about your music.”
She didn’t take the subtle hint. She never did. I smiled to myself at the familiarity of it. Knowing someone well enough to know their habits. I missed knowing Papá’s. “Are you telling my life story to one of the nurses?”
“Nurses?” She giggled, and it was so girlish and young it surprised me.
“Yes. You said you were talking about me.”
“No, no.” I imagined her waving her hands around in denial. “When he’s around, they aren’t allowed to come. He takes care of me, you know.”
I sighed. “Is your Italian friend there again?”
“We’re going to have breakfast together.”
The first time she’d spoken of an Italian man visiting her, I’d been hiding with her and Mara.
I’d thought the Don had survived. That he’d sent someone to warn me by talking to Mamá.
Some kind of indirect Mafia message. I didn’t have to be a genius to know that an Italian man telling her to be careful sounded like a full-blown threat.
But she’d kept talking about him, even months later, when the danger had passed.
Then I wondered if it was one of my cousins from my mother’s side.
When I’d asked Sonia, she told me to let Mamá have her happiness in her own way.
“Those visits bring her a lot of joy,” she had said.
And she was right. With that, ultimately, I was forced to face the truth.
A man who visited her only when her children were not present and didn’t want his name mentioned.
Worse, the nurses never mentioned anyone else visiting.
It meant only one thing. Even though sometimes I still tried to believe she wasn’t losing it altogether.
“Is one of my cousins visiting you?” I played along with her.
She scoffed. “Your cousins aren’t this good-looking.” Then she spoke to her invisible friend. “She thinks you’re one of her cousins.”
Only silence hummed on the other end. Then she spoke again. “I agree. I think you two will be perfect together.”
“Why don’t I video call you, Mamá? You can introduce me to your friend?”
“No. No. No need.” Her voice went flat. “He’s here to see me now.”
Tears burned the back of my eyes. I nodded even though she couldn’t see me. “Okay.” Why was I trying to take the little joy she had away from her? “I’ll be there soon to see you. You can tell me all about him then.”
“Where are you?”
“New York, Mamá.”
“Why are you there?”
“To continue with my music, Mamá.” I’d lied. Telling that ugly lie again when I couldn’t even bring myself to listen to music twisted my stomach into acid.
“Your papá would have liked that.” Mamá spoke the truth.
He would have, but I feared I’d never be able to touch a piano again. Papá would have hated that. He loved hearing me play. I knew that much.
Her voice dropped, and she whispered to me. “You make sure you don’t get caught, sì?”
“Sì.” Her mind had wandered again.
“He’s brought me a lot of things. Tostada con tomate, churros con chocolate, mollete antequerano…” She listed another ten of her favorite dishes. There was no way she had access to all of those in the institution. Then she hung up. Just like her. No hello. No goodbye.
But it was what I needed. The motivation to get the job done.
This had to end.
That night, my hands didn’t tremble when I wrote in my diary.
La próxima vez que Niccolò Martello se me acerque, lo apunalaré.
The next time Niccolò Martello comes close to me, I will stab him.