Chapter 3 #2
“Pity,” he says in that same tone, pushing me forward. “Lead the way then.”
I move up the hall, acutely aware of his presence at my back as we walk down the narrow hallway toward Jay’s office. Behind us, I can hear Omero murmuring something in Italian to Emmanuel, his voice deep and soothing.
Jay’s office feels even smaller than normal with Basili in it.
I slide around the desk, trying to preserve what small amount of reprieve I can find.
He closes the door behind him, the soft click of the lock flipping as he turns to face me.
He pins me with a blank, unreadable expression, though I can see the tension in every line of his body.
“Talk quickly,” he commands, his voice flat. “You have five minutes.”
I drag in a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts as quickly as possible. I prepare myself for the fury that may ultimately be unleashed after my first question.
“Well, first, can you prove it? That you’re actually his father?”
His eyes flash dangerously, stalking across the space to the desk, the only barrier between us. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
“Yes, you do. That poor boy has been here for the past seven days, terrified of something, of someone out there,” I say, pointing out the window, my voice filled with far more bravado than I feel.
This man is dangerous, easily twice my size, and already on edge.
Agitating him further will not play out in my favor.
I soften my voice as I continue, “He wouldn’t even tell me his name.
The first two days, he barely ate, barely slept.
He hid in closets and cupboards like he was expecting someone to come after him.
To hurt him. The only thing he said to me in all this time was a whispered the monster is coming for me.
So, forgive me if I need more than just your word before I let you walk out of here with him. ”
Basili’s eyes calm some, but he continues to stare at me silently for a long moment, his jaw tense and working. With a deep breath, he pulls back slightly, pulling a phone from his pocket and swiping his hand across the screen several times before turning it toward me.
There on the screen is a photo of Emmanuel, perhaps a year younger, grinning at the camera with a toy car in hand, standing beside a large fountain, and beside him, with a smile and a proud look in his eyes, is Basili.
“His name is Emmanuel Cierro, and I am his father. Basili Cierro.” His voice is firm steel like a knife cutting through the air.
Analyzing the photo, I have no choice but to acknowledge that their resemblance is unmistakable. The same bone structure, the same dark hair, only Emmanuel’s eyes are darker than Basili’s.
He swipes again. Another photo, this time of Emmanuel lying in bed, a book about dinosaurs grasped in his hands. Then another, a banner behind him that reads Happy Birthday. Then another and another and another.
“Satisfied?” Basili demands, his voice cold, impatient.
I nod slowly, my throat tight. “Yes. I’m sorry. I had to be sure.”
He pockets the phone without further comment, crossing his arms as he stares across the desk at me. “I haven’t seen my son in twenty-eight days. I thought he was dead. Hear me when I tell you that no one and nothing is going to stand in the way of me taking him home. Not even you.”
“How? Why?” I ask, digesting that piece of information. “Was he kidnapped? Did he run away?”
“That is none of your concern.” His voice is sharp with barely contained anger. “What matters is he is going home where he is safest.”
“He was kidnapped, wasn’t he?” I push.
He slams his hand on the desk, then, glaring at me as he moves around the piece of furniture to invade my space once more. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”
I gulp, backing away involuntarily as he stalks closer, stopping barely a foot away from me, fists clenched.
His voice is cold steel. “Now tell me everything that’s happened since he came here. What has he told you?”
“He hasn’t told me anything. Like I said, he has barely spoken to me at all.
” The combination of anger, fear, and worry in his eyes pulls at my heart despite the shot of fear that runs through me at his nearness.
I feel a pang of sympathy as I recognize that beneath the danger is a scared parent, and I manage to keep my voice steady as I continue, “Selective mutism is a trauma response. It is not uncommon in children who’ve experienced severe stress, fear, or even abuse.
He’s been through something terrible, and his brain has gone into self-preservation mode; it’s the only way it knows to keep him safe, by shutting down his ability to communicate. ”
“But he spoke for you. To protect you. We all heard him.” It is a demand for validation and an accusation all in one.
“As I said,” I take a deep breath again, my chest rising and falling with the motion, and his eyes flicker down for the briefest of moments, “that’s the first time he’s spoken out loud. The rest of the time, he has communicated in signs with ASL.”
“I know what ASL is; who do you think taught him?” Basili says impatiently. “But he hasn’t signed to me, not even to tell me why he doesn’t want to leave. Why? Why only to you?”
“I–I’m not sure,” I admit. “Maybe because he is still scared, not specifically of you but of all that has happened. He’s deeply traumatized, Mr. Cierro. He needs time and patience and —”
He steps closer then, the movement cutting my words off. This close, I can feel the heat radiating from his body, feel the wisp of his breath as he glares down at me, and it affects me in a way I don’t care to admit.
“Are you insinuating that I don’t know how to take care of my own son?
That I don’t know that he has been through something absolutely hellacious?
” His voice drops an octave, the careful control slipping slightly.
“You think I haven’t been going out of my mind worrying about him?
That I haven’t imagined every possible scenario of what might have happened to him?
Do you really think that I don’t want what’s best for him? ”
“No, that’s not —” I start to say, stumbling over my words as I gaze into eyes that bear down on me as if they equally want to consume me as kill me. “I just think that you’re so focused on getting him home and back to normal that you’re not considering what might be best for him right now.”
I realize too late that I should have chosen my words more carefully.
In that lightning-fast way he moves, Basili punches the wall beside my head, causing me to close my eyes and look away.
His voice is an utterly animalistic growl.
“Do not attempt to tell me what is best for my son. Do you hear me? What he needs is to be with his family.”
“What he needs…” I whisper out, slowly turning my head back to face him.
Defiant. “… is stability. Familiarity. And right now, whether you like it or not, that means me. Not you. He trusts me. Feels safe with me. If you take that away from him right now, in the middle of the night, with no preparation or transition, you’re going to undo every ounce of progress I’ve made with him this past week. ”
Basili takes a deep breath then, a sort of calming frustration edging across his features. His eyes are still locked on mine. “Are you suggesting that I leave him here?”
“I’m suggesting that you give him time. Talk to him, even if he doesn’t respond.
Prepare him for the transition back home and give him time to gather his things and say goodbye to any friends that he has made here before you go hauling him out in the dead of night.
Even better, let him stay a few more days, let me help him understand that he is going home to safety, not being taken from yet another place where he has found comfort. ”
“Absolutely not.”
“Mr. Cierro —”
“That’s Sir to you, and the answer is no. He comes home tonight, and that’s final.”
His correction momentarily threw me off, but I could feel the frustration building again, the urge to argue, to protest further. With another breath, I grasped for calm. “You’re not listening. He’s fragile. He needs —”
“I said, no.” The temperature in the room feels like it drops from the ice in his words. His eyes are cold again, his jaw set. “Be very careful with your next words, Chloe.”
It is the first time I hear my name on his lips, and it provokes a warmth deep inside me that it shouldn’t have. The feeling causes me to lick my own lips, which only makes his eyes drop to them, watching my movement. I should probably stop, should back down, shut up, let it go, but I can’t.
“Then let me come with him.” The words are out before I fully comprehend them.
“Excuse me?” His eyes dart back to mine, a slight shock present now.
“Let me come with you.”
“I don’t bring in outsiders.” He pushes back from the wall, turning to leave.
“Why not? You just said you want what is best for him. I can help him adjust —”
I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence before he pivots back to face me, stalking back at me with menace. I try to back away further, but there’s nowhere left to go as my back hits the wall. And he’s still coming at me. He doesn’t stop until he has me pinned between his body and the wall.
He is close enough that I have to tip my head back to look up into his eyes, but not quite touching. He crosses his arms over my head, leaning against the wall on his elbows as he glares down at me. The position is both intimate and aggressive.
My heart hammers in my chest, my breath coming out shorter. God help me…
“Let me make something very clear to you, Chloe.” There it is again, my name on his lips.
Even as he threatens me, it causes an undeniable response, warming my core.
“You do not want to be on my bad side. I have spent twenty-eight days searching for my son. Twenty-eight days of dead ends, false leads, and lying awake each night, imagining finding him dead in a ditch somewhere. Twenty-eight days of my own personal hell.”
He leans closer as he speaks, his body pressing against me. I can see the flecks of grey within his blue eyes and smell his aftershave; I can feel the musculature of his thighs beneath his slacks.
“So when I finally — finally,” the word comes out as a primal growl, “find him, when I have him back after thinking I’d lost him forever, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not particularly interested in your opinions on how I should parent.”
His proximity has my pulse racing, my skin on fire, and I’m acutely aware of the lack of space between us as his weight leans into me.
“I’m not trying to tell you how to parent,” I manage, barely able to keep the quiver from my voice. “I just want Emmanuel to get what he needs.”
“And pray tell, what exactly is that?” He leans even closer until his lips are brushing my ear. His voice is dropping to a husky whisper that makes my knees weak.
Oh God, I am in so much trouble. My breathing is ragged, uneven, and for a split second, I think I may just pass out. Until suddenly, I’m free of the pressure, the heat. Basili pushes off the wall and steps away from me, his eyes meeting mine once more.
“You have one month.” That is all he says before turning toward the door. I watch him in silence for a long moment, my brain reeling from the emotions running rampant within me.
“Wait,” I finally manage, pushing away from the wall to pursue him, “what?”
He stops at the door, flicking the lock open, clearly done with the conversation. Panic floods me. What does he mean by one month?
“You heard me,” he says, pausing with his hand on the handle. “You can stay with us for one month, but you follow my rules without question and without defiance. You respect my word as law, or you’re out. Understood?”
“Yes,” I manage
“Good,” he says with a nod, opening the door before saying over his shoulder, “I’ll give you one hour. Then I’m taking my son home, with or without you.”
“An hour?” I exclaim, raising to the doorway, watching him retreat down the hall. “That’s not enough time to —”
He glances at his watch impatiently. “Fifty-nine minutes now. I suggest you hurry.”
And then he is gone, leaving me alone in Jay’s office with my heart still racing and my mind spinning like the wheels on a runaway train.