12. Vivi
VIVI
If I didn’t have Little Bird, I’d be tearing my hair out.
The night of the storm, Giovanni walked out of my room and hasn’t been back since.
I can’t go to sleep without hearing the threat he leveled at me—at my sister—as he left.
That was five days ago. Five days since Giovanni’s men sealed the door back up. Other than the faint color difference between the old and new plaster, there’s no hint it was ever there.
I haven’t bothered to hang my silly pictures. Haven’t made any more.
I’m anxious, irritable, and Little Bird is the only reason I’m not screaming the walls down. She—I’ve decided she’s a she—is recovering well. I don’t know what Giovanni did to her wing, but whatever it was, I think it’s working. She seems happy in her box, resting calmly as the bone sets.
A second delivery of supplies arrived with my breakfast tray the morning after the storm. It included the right kind of food for the species (apparently Little Bird is a Sardinian Warbler) and some instructions on how to take care of her (written in English, thank goodness).
In about a week, she should start to move around inside her box a little bit.
A week after that, we’ll be able to cut away the wrap and, if she continues to do well, move her to a slightly larger box.
I struggle to think about time beyond that.
I can’t decide if that’s wise or cowardly.
Either way, I’m rudderless, unsure what Giovanni’s plans are for me.
Unsure if I’m going to be cut adrift or if I’m just going to sink.
I have no sense of what the future holds, and no idea how to let go of the past.
Or Tino.
His funeral will have taken place by now, and I wasn’t there to say goodbye.
Pain lances through my chest, sudden and so fierce I curl over my legs and have to remind myself to keep breathing.
On hands and knees, I crawl to the windows, rest my chin on the ledge. Drag in a breath of air. Then another.
It’s not enough. I have to get out of this room.
At Little Bird’s box, I put an ear to the lid.
I’m supposed to leave her alone as much as possible, checking on her through the air holes as much as I can.
She’s already had food and water today; she won’t need any more for a while.
Her breathing is audible. She’s calm. Assuming I can get the hell out of here, she’ll be fine on her own for a little while.
Very slowly, I turn the knob on my door. The resistance is immediate. Yup, still locked.
I knock. “Hello?”
The guard on the other side moves slightly.
I upgrade the knock to a pound. “Hello! I can hear you out there! Please open the door!”
I hear footsteps. The door stays shut.
I repeat the process. Pound, call out. Tell him to open the door, this time without the please.
I’m about to rattle the handle, maybe even pick the lock with my dull butter knife, when the knob disengages and the door swings open. A man I’ve never seen before fills the doorframe.
“Signora Marchetti.” He bows slightly. “Piacere di conoscerla. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Elio.”
He’s polite. Unexpectedly polite. My next words are a complete reflex. “Uh, hi. I’m Vivi.”
“Sì, Signora. I know.”
Of course he does. “Right. Elio. I need to leave.”
He laughs. He might be pleasant, but he’s not an idiot. “That’s impossible, Signora. You know what the capo's orders are.”
Yes. But the capo is delusional if he thinks I’m going to stay locked in here another day.
Mentally, I run through every vaguely plausible excuse, something I should’ve done before I pounded on the door. I’m running on desperation and instinct and maybe, just maybe, land on an idea that will work. “Yes, I know what the capo’s orders are, but he’s overlooked something.”
One of Elio’s dark eyebrows wings up. “Sì, Signora?”
I point a finger in the general direction of my abdomen. “It’s that time of the month.”
The man takes a full step back. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so focused on getting free.
“Sì, Signora...?” The upward lift of his voice says the quiet part out loud. Why are you telling me that?
“I get bad cramps. Really, really painful ones. The only thing that makes them better is exercise.” No, it’s a heating pad or hot bath, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Elio’s expression blanks.
I walk two fingers across my palm, emphasizing my point. “Walking. I need to go outside for a walk.”
Still nothing.
I haul in a breath. On the exhale, I wipe all politeness from my features. Try to adopt the glower that lived permanently on my mother’s face. “A walk, Elio. Now.”
“Sì, Signora,” he mutters before stepping away and placing a phone call. What follows is a torrent of Italian and head bobbing. When Elio hangs up, his skin is covered in a fine film of sweat.
“Signora.”
“Yes, Elio?”
“In light of your situation”—his finger is pointed nowhere near my abdomen—“Signor Marchetti has agreed to allow you a walk outside.”
I feel a glimmer of hope spark. It dies on Elio’s next statement.
“A supervised walk, Signora. For one hour.”
Honestly, at this point I’ll take whatever I can get. “Fine. One hour. Supervised.” I’m already moving in the direction of the stairs. “Let’s go, Elio.”
And then I’m running. I haven’t been on the other side of this door since the night I arrived on the island, jet-lagged and disheveled. Traumatized. My recollection of the villa is spotty at best. I don’t remember any other rooms running off this hallway.
I pass two, maybe three, doors all closed, before I reach the central staircase that winds down to the villa’s grand entrance hall.
Elio is close behind me. He’s got long legs, the advantage of height.
But I’ve got adrenaline on my side, and a voice shouting in the back of my head to get as far away from my room—my cage—as fast as I possibly can.
It gives me a real burst of speed, and I’m darting down the stairs so fast that Elio is jumping whole sections just to keep up.
We reach the villa’s front doors. They’re flung wide to let the sea breeze through, the gauzy white curtains dancing across the marble floors.
“Signora! Slow down!”
Not likely.
Gosh, it feels good to move. I can’t remember the last time I ran. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to. But my body needs this; I need this. The fabric of my black dress whips around my legs as I dart down the terraced front steps.
I’m no longer outpacing Elio, but that doesn’t matter. He’d fallen into a jog next to me, eyes darting between me and the path ahead, scanning for anything that might cause me to trip.
My thighs are rubbing together, my breasts bouncing heavily against my torso. I am not dressed for a barefoot run across a Mediterranean island, but I don’t care. The stinging slap of my bare feet against the hot flagstone path doesn’t bother me a bit.
My hair is loose and tangled. My lungs burn. Tears drip down my cheeks even as a giggle bubbles beneath my rib cage. Maybe I have gone mad, but I also feel better than I have in weeks.
I keep running, farther from the house, winding through gardens and Cyprus groves until the flagstone path dead-ends at a low stone wall.
I’m just about to crash into it when a hand wraps around my elbow. “Careful, Signora.”
Elio pulls me to a stop.
Wind whips my hair into a storm, strands plastering themselves to damp cheeks and parted lips. Beyond the wall, the sky stretches endlessly. The land just…vanishes.
A fall no one can survive. Just like the one from my window. “It’s a long way down.”
“Sì, Signora.”
I let Elio guide me away from the edge. Shading my eyes with a shaky hand, I lift my gaze, up, up until I find his head silhouetted against the sky. He turns, the sun illuminating his face so I can make out his features more clearly.
Elio is tall, long and lithe, with muscles that flicker beneath his clothes rather than straining them.
His cheekbones are high, his jaw sharp, lips playful, skin healthy and sun-kissed.
And then there are those eyes… Mischievous where my husband’s are dark.
Playful where my husband’s are hard. Topped off with a thick tangle of chin-length obsidian hair, Elio is, objectively, one of the most attractive human beings I’ve ever seen.
I think he knows it, too.
“I thought you said you needed a walk, Signora.”
“Walk, run. Either works.” I feel like I’ve won a battle. Maybe even a mini war. I can’t stop the grin that tugs my lips.
For a fleeting moment, Elio smiles. A dimple appears on his left cheek, ruining the symmetry of his face and, if I had to bet, making his charm even more irresistible.
To others, at least. Aesthetically, I understand how beautiful he is. But I don’t feel anything when I look at him.
Nothing like the excitement that used to flutter in my stomach the few times Tino was near.
Or the tension that tightens every tendon in my body when Giovanni stares down at me, gaze cold and shuttered.
Elio exists dead in the middle. Not good, not bad. Neutral territory that, despite everything, feels surprisingly comfortable.
Don’t forget who he works for, Vivi. This man isn’t a friend or an ally. He belongs to your husband. Everyone on this island does.
Including me.
My good mood deflates. I sag.
Elio misinterprets, thinks I’m too hot. “Come, Signora. I’ll take you to a place where you can cool off in the shade.”
He escorts me back in the direction of the villa. We’re almost to the building when he diverts us down a narrower trail.
Colorful explosions of bougainvillea climb along stone walls and dangle from an archway at the end of the path. We pass through, entering a part of the island where the flowers have been left to their own devices.
It’s absolutely beautiful, and noticeably cooler. Elio is leading us toward a bench tucked beneath a sprawling almond tree when I catch movement from the corner of my eye.
So does Elio. For a fraction of a second, his easy-going demeanor drops, his frame going rigid, his eyes icy. Like a snake of cold current that slips between your legs before vanishing back into the sun-warmed Mediterranean sea.
I turn, curious what could’ve caused such a reaction. That’s when I see the stone chapel. It’s old, maybe even older than the villa, and partially concealed by a grove of trees.
Standing at the side of the building is a man.
A priest. He catches sight of us, his hand gripping the partially open door behind him.
A fleeting look of alarm passes over his face.
A reaction to Elio, perhaps? Then his expression drops into something neutral.
Friendly, even. He presses the door closed, holding it in place a little longer than seems natural, before joining us under the tree.
He nods at Elio. “Castiglione.” Then, to me, “Signora, welcome to Lisca Bianca. Father Luigi, at your service.”
If anything was troubling him a moment ago, there’s no sign of it now.
His smile is warm, genuine, deepening the grooves around his eyes and mouth.
What little hair he has is white, his skin leathered from the sun.
He gives off an unthreatening grandfather aura that is exactly what I need right now.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father.” I don’t offer up my first name. I know he won’t use it.
“Piacere mio. How are you finding the island?”
It’s a strange question, given where I’ve been spending my time.
Maybe he doesn’t know Giovanni keeps me locked in my room.
Up until recently I would’ve faked a polite answer, saved him the embarrassment of being wrong, but I have no interest in doing that now.
I let the frown form on my face, am about to give him my honest answer, when Elio cuts me off.
“Sorry, Padre. I need to get the signora back to the villa.”
“No!” I step away from the men, startling us all with the volume of my outburst.
I relax, continuing more calmly. “No, Elio. I’d like to stay for a minute. Chat with Father Luigi. I’m Giovanni’s wife, after all. It’s so rude that I haven’t introduced myself sooner.”
Elio’s good humor is officially gone. His brow is pulled into a hard line, his hands fisting before he clasps them behind his back. Like he’s stopping himself from dragging me away.
I don’t know what the relationship between the villa and the chapel is, but I’m guessing that openly manhandling the capobastone’s wife in front of a priest is frowned upon.
“Va bene, Signora. You have ten minutes.”
“Fifteen, surely,” the priest says with an easy smile. “You can’t be in that much of a hurry.”
“Fine,” Elio grits, looming beside the bench as I take a seat.
The priest stays standing. “You may wait for us over there, Castiglione. You’ll be able to see the signora just as clearly. Give the woman space to breathe. It’s not as if she’s going to run away.”