Chapter 53
Roxy
Ten days. That's how long I've been glued to this mattress because Damien refuses to let me get up unless he's by my side.
When I asked Stefan to help me stand so I could use the bathroom, he said he'd call Damien to come from the office because apparently he'd been threatened with losing skin wherever it touches my body.
Of course I rolled my eyes and got up by myself.
You'd think someone who's always joking around wouldn't react so badly when he found me alone at the bathroom counter.
Wrong.
His gaze darkened and a frustrated growl escaped him as his hands found my waist.
"I'm only a few feet away from you. Use me, Roxanne."
Without meaning to, a smile took over my entire face, because I would've used him. Oh, but not how he thinks, and apparently my expression was obvious enough, because the corner of his mouth curved up.
"Soon, s?onko," he said as he kissed my cheek.
Now, I'm no doctor, but since he managed to get up right after a gunshot wound, I figure after ten days of lying around, I'm good enough.
Especially since I need answers.
That's why I'm here now, with Stefan, Vasili, and Damien, in Marco Agosti's foyer.
Gianna's the one who greets us, and I think she can see on our faces this isn't a social call.
"Roxy, did something happen?" she asks.
I never noticed until now that we have nearly identical hair color and texture, because she always kept hers in a bun, but now that it's down, the resemblance is striking.
She's always been kind to me. Would I have been the same if I'd grown up in this family and not with Ivette, who reminded me at every turn that I was disgusting?
I open my mouth to answer, but no sound comes out.
"We're here to talk to Marco," Damien tells her, squeezing my hand.
Her eyes drop to Damien's gesture, and only then does she study my face. I see something in her gaze, but before I can figure out what it is, she waves for us to follow her to Marco's office.
A soldier stands at the door with a phone in hand, but the moment he sees Gianna and us, he straightens and gives a curt nod.
Gianna opens the black door, and Marco's voice echoes from inside. She leans in and calls out, "Marco, Roxy's here to talk to you."
Not Damien. Me.
She turns to leave, but when she reaches me, she grabs my hand, the one not in Damien's grip, and whispers, "Listen to him, please."
The knot in my throat doubles, but I manage to nod.
Marco rises to his feet and studies us until finally Damien breaks the silence.
"She found out, Marco."
For a second I look at my biological father, at his features, at how massive he seems, at how except for a few gray hairs at his temples, you'd swear he's not older than thirty-five.
I know almost nothing about him...
His surprise vanishes in moments, then he clears his throat.
"What do you want to know, Roxy?" he asks.
What do I want? Damien told me the basics: how he and my mother met, why she fled to the States, that he didn't touch her that night.
My husband believes him, and even though it would be easier to doubt, I have to admit I don't think he's involved in that tragedy either.
Maybe I'm naive because of this blood connection between us, but I can't see him capable of killing her like that.
"Why didn't you ever look for me?" is all my brain manages to formulate.
Maybe I was a disappointment to him too. Maybe he looked for me once, saw me, and just like my dad and the rest of the family, what he found wasn't enough.
He looks at me for a long moment, studying me from head to toe, and though I want to tell him to go to hell for not answering instantly, something in me aches to hear his explanation.
"Because I was a fool, Roxy," his voice trembles slightly.
"In my mind, you had a good life with a normal family that didn't know violence, blood, pain, loss.
When The Bloody Dahlia didn't claim any victims for a few months, I wanted to believe Elena was just another unlucky victim of a psychopath. If I had known..." His voice breaks.
If he'd known that all this time a serial killer was tracking me from a distance…
I understand he didn't want me to be another target for his enemies. I know from Damien what happened to his ex-wife, but all those years, I withered in that house. Not physically, but emotionally I buried myself so deep I didn't know how to claw my way back to the surface.
"You know, if she were here, she'd probably grab one of those ballet flats she loved and throw it at my head," he says with a laugh, lost in memories.
A smile spreads across my face because I know exactly which flats he's talking about.
Her feet always hurt from heels, so she wore either low-heeled shoes or ballet flats everywhere, the kind where you felt every pebble on the street, but she loved them.
Loved the feeling of almost touching the ground with her own feet.
"That's after she'd string together at least ten curses in alphabetical order," I answer, smiling with wet eyes.
"Absolutely," he replies, shaking his head.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I want to hate him, to feel something ugly toward him, but he's the only person, besides Henry, who truly knew her. Who probably knows she loved lemon ricotta cookies, board games, and keeping her hair always styled in curls.
"Roxy, if I could, I'd turn back time," he tells me.
"But you can't. You can't erase the memories of dance recitals where no one from my family showed up.
You can't erase the hours I spent creating a Taj Mahal model because it was Dad’s favorite monument, only for him to tell me I wasn't careful with the colors and details on the roof.
You can't undo the hair I lost until I was twelve, from being grabbed and dragged by his wife.”
He stands with fists clenched at his sides, and from my left and behind me I feel the tension in the bodies of all the men surrounding me.
But I don't take my eyes off the man in front of me, whose eyes are glassy and full of such rage. But I know that rage is directed at himself and at those who should have taken care of me.
Squeezing Damien's hand, I continue.
"But you can give me new memories. And that's all I'm asking. You don't have to love me. You don't have to want me in your life. I even understand you already have a family and don't need everything I would bring right now into your lives..."
"I loved you before I even knew you existed.
Your mother was the love of my life, Roxy.
You're my daughter and you'll always find a place in my family, in my arms, in my life.
I don't need to make room for you, because from the first moment, you had your place reserved—right here. " And he puts his hand over his heart.
My chin trembles and I shake my head slightly.
I can't stand sentimentality, but I searched for those three words from my dad for years.
I elbowed my way in, I changed, I stayed silent, I kept my head down, and they never came, but with Marco they come instantly, so naturally, as if it's not something you have to learn to do, but something you simply feel.
"I'd like to have coffee with you," I whisper.
I want to know him, I want to hear stories about my mother, I want to feel like I don't have to fight for a minute of his time.
"Anytime, amorino," he says softly.
A tear slides down my cheek. Henry calls me that sometimes, but never with this intonation. With this warmth.
"My mother used to call me that," I tell him as a second tear follows the first.
A smile spreads across his face and his eyes fill with emotion.
"That's what I used to call her," he tells me, and now I understand why she didn’t use cara or tesoro, which are more common.
His eyes suddenly harden when he says, "I heard about Marzena's attack. If you think you'd be safer at my house, my doors are always open to you."
I don't misunderstand his tone.
Damien steps in front of me, probably ready to show him the latest knife in his collection, but I grab his hand and squeeze gently. There's too much testosterone on steroids in this room.
"Thank you, but no. My husband is perfectly capable of taking care of me."
He studies me for a full minute, and maybe because he sees the determination in my eyes, he nods slightly.
"If you ever need soldiers, a house, me, Roxy, I'm here. Maybe I wasn't there all those years, but I'm here now."
I feel he's telling me the truth, and a strange warmth enters my chest. For someone who's been starving for affection and attention, I don't know how to handle this avalanche.
I break free from Damien, who immediately grabs me again and looks at me, confused, but I think he reads my intentions on my face, because, reluctantly, he lets me go.
When I'm a couple feet from Marco, I extend my hand, and with a wide smile, I tell him, "I'll call you about that coffee."
He looks at my hand for a few seconds, and as if coming out of a trance, he wraps me in his arms and rests his hand on my head.
"Sì, amorino."
I'm not the type of person who prefers this kind of public affection, but I can't find the strength in me to push him away, so we stay in this embrace until Damien clears his throat.
"My wife also needs oxygen, Marco. She didn't suddenly grow gills."
"Shut up, Kaminski." But he lets me pull away from him.
There are years to catch up on and trust to build, but I feel a family connection for the first time.
Henry's my uncle, but the distance to Austin and his leg problems have made our moments together rare and somehow not complete over the years.
I make a mental note to call him. After all the wedding chaos, we've only had two short conversations since he went home.
Between Marco and Damien, an entire silent conversation takes place through glances, and I can't stop my smile watching both of them mark their territory like alpha wolves. But my heart has already chosen its side.
"I'll be fine with Damien," I tell Marco softly.
Because I see that shadow in my husband's eyes ever since Marzena trapped us on the highway, and I can't stand seeing it there anymore. He needs to understand he can't follow my every step. I'm a big girl and I can carve my own path through the storm even if he's not beside me.
Just survive first, the voice in my mind whispers ironically, because we still have a serial killer to catch.