11. Marisol
11
MARISOL
There’s no escape.
I’m stuck inside a sealed concrete box with only a single door for an exit.
When the door opens, it’s the same routine each time. Locks click. Light pours in. Giordana takes two steps into the room to remove the trash, set down my new plate of food, and leaves without answering any of my questions.
Judging by my meal timing, shortly after my first breakfast, a man with greying hair and owlish, round glasses stepped into the room with Domenico at his back.
He introduced himself as Dr. Macaluso and, without any inflection in his voice, asked if he could look at the injury on the back of my arm.
At first, I refused. If Salvatore wanted me fixed up, he could come down here and do it himself. But Domenico cheerily announced he’d bring some men in to hold me down for the doctor if I said no, so I just sat limply on the mattress while Dr. Macaluso checked me over.
I tried to lie. I watched the grin grow on Domenico’s face as I whispered in Dr. Macaluso’s ear all the horrible things Salvatore had done to me and several things he hadn’t. The good doctor didn’t even blink. He said I didn’t need stitches, and both men left.
I’ve had four meals since then.
I could try fashioning one of the plastic forks they give me into a shiv and rush Giordana the next time she comes inside, but she’s about the same height and weight as me, and I haven’t missed the threatening presence of the guard holding open the door for her.
And who am I kidding? I have all the viciousness of an angry kitten.
I could try to convince her to let me go. I’m an idiot for not trying to develop some kind of rapport with her earlier because now I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell. Maybe I could’ve had a better opportunity with Camillo—but he’s conspicuously absent from my food drop-offs.
He was nice, even if he did grumble a lot. Salvatore better not have done anything too bad to him for letting me escape. Not that it would’ve kept me from trying or that I could make good on any threats from here.
Eventually, someone will have to come in to empty the camping toilet, and that’ll probably be my best opportunity to run, though I’m way more likely to get shot or tackled than I am to miraculously escape.
Without a phone or my lockpicks, I’m dead in the water.
Someone thought they were pretty fucking funny leaving Crime and Punishment , Les Misérables, and what looks like a philosophical book on ethics… in Italian next to my mattress. I’ve already torn out all three hundred and thirty-six pages of the ethics book. At first, it was just to give me something to do, but now I want to test if Salvatore’s watching me.
I’ve laid the pages out on the ground like a castaway trying to catch the attention of passing aircraft. I haven’t found any evidence of a camera in here, but Salvatore seems paranoid enough that I think there’s a good chance there’s one embedded in the shadowy corners of the ceiling.
My message spells out, “LETS TALK PLEASE”.
I added the PLEASE a few minutes ago, as much as it grinds against my sense of dignity. I don’t want to have to debase myself to this asshole, but I’m not going to leave any rock unturned, and astoundingly, I think Salvatore still wants me to like him. At the very least, he wants me to be compliant, so if he gives me the chance to talk, I’ll show him how obedient I can be.
I’m working on adding a “PRETTY PLEASE” now. The last of my dignity astral projected from my body the first time I had to poop in the camping toilet. Hell, I’d throw in a pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top if I thought it’d get results.
As I adjust the “Y”, my fingers skim a dark stain set in the cold concrete. A shiver passes through me, and I sit back on my haunches to press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets.
I’m not going to feel sorry for myself.
I’m still healthy and strong…ish. I’m not giving up to self-pity today.
I inhale and continue adjusting the letters. I’m going to keep trying anything I can think of until someone—Domenico probably—comes and shoots me in the head.
If I get another chance, I’ll play it smarter. So what if Salvatore wants me docile? I’ve been pretending to be just that for thirty-two years. What’s another few months? And when he least expects it, I’m going to leave and cover my tracks so well, he’ll never find me again.
What do I have in Chicago anyway? No one would miss me if I disappeared. It would take months—probably a year—before anyone thought to call the police.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
The worst part was how attracted I let myself be to him. His soft voice and the way he could be so tender… what kind of sociopath pets you with one hand while he strangles you with the other?
A tear slips down my cheek, and I scrub at it with my palm.
Only an idiot, a complete fool of the highest order, someone truly pathetic would take the scraps Salvatore’s offered and spin a relationship out of it. Just like I did with Grant. And my Dad. And my Mom.
I sigh shakily.
I’m going to leave this place, and I won’t mess up next time. I’m not going to be a doormat for people just so they like me. I’m going to demand that someone make space for me in their life and that they treasure me, or I’m going to leave.
The lock to the door clicks, and a sudden bright light pierces my eyes. Giordana’s form takes shape in the doorway.
When she doesn’t immediately walk in with dinner, I stand.
“Come with me,” she says.
Is she… breaking me out?
I scurry over to her side and immediately recoil at the sight of the guard standing behind her.
“We’re going upstairs. Come on,” Giordana says.
I study her stern expression. This isn’t a breakout. Maybe Salvatore got my message and wants to talk. In any case, it’s showtime. I follow Giordana up the stairs, keeping my head bowed and movements slow. From now on, I’m going to show everyone how sweet and uninterested in escape I can be.
Giordana stops next to “my” bedroom, but it’s barely recognizable inside. It’s furnished with a full bed, nightstands, and a desk. There’s even a vase with beautiful, blush-pink roses on the desk.
My favorite.
Salvatore’s offering me a poisoned olive branch. If I accept the room and pretend to be thankful for it, he’ll let me back into the light, and if I don’t, it’s back to the basement until I “learn”.
That’s fine. I’m a quick study.
“You can shower here. Your clothes are there and there,” she says, pointing to a dresser and the closet. “Once you’re finished, Salvatore will be expecting you in the dining room.”
I’d prefer to stomp down now. Make him uncomfortable with my greasy hair and disheveled clothes. Or even to wait in my room all evening and ignore him.
But that’s not the plan.
I grab Giordana’s hand in both of mine.
“Thank you,” I say earnestly.
She frowns a little, and I swallow back the uneasy suspicion that she doesn’t believe me.
Once she leaves, I hurry to the bathroom to shower. Getting clean again feels glorious . I scrub off the grime from the past two days and then just stand there in the scalding hot water until all the bathroom mirrors fog up. As much as I’d like to decompress here for hours, I better not burn through Salvatore’s newfound conscience.
I make my way to the walk-in closet. Someone’s gone through all of my clothes and hung them neatly on hangers, organized by type and color. It’s a nice upgrade from the clean pile of laundry on the floor that I usually pick through.
I brush my fingers against the elegant garnet dress I wore for Grant’s brother’s wedding. Is this the type of outfit Salvatore would want to see me in? I’ve only ever seen him in jeans and a t-shirt. He’s practical, for himself at least. Maybe he prefers me to be some glamorous eye candy while he dresses down. Grant could hardly be bothered to wear anything other than basketball shorts and a tattered t-shirt, but he loved to see me in skirts and heels.
I end up choosing a pair of jeans, boots, and a white t-shirt that fits tightly around my boobs. Simple, flattering, and vaguely similar to Salvatore’s daily outfit. I’m hoping it’ll send some kind of subliminal message that I’m already siding with him. I suck at hiding my emotions, so I’ll have to rely on all the props I can.
Right before I leave the room, I kick off my boots and socks. Maybe my bare feet will show an extra measure of vulnerability.
When I come into the dining room, Salvatore’s already waiting at the head of the table, sipping a glass of water. Giordana stands in the corner of the room, hands clasped in front of her.
Another glass is placed two chairs away, presumably to say you don’t have to sit next to the mean man. Don’t worry, you’re safe . A wide charcuterie board laden with cheeses and meats and a tray of sweet pastries cover the surface of the table. The pastries are already making my mouth water, but I resolve not to eat unless he does.
Docile, easy, weak, agreeable.
He’s wearing a soft grey sweater that clings to his chest instead of his usual black tee. Did he dress to disarm as well?
I hate how little he’s given me. How poorly I can read him. I wish I could’ve put him in that basement until he spilled all his secrets to me and then only let him out when I felt ready.
Instead, I offer a shy smile as I enter, and Salvatore’s expression flickers. I ignore the suggested seating and sit near him. Fixing a doe-eyed, uncertain look on my face, I reach for the wine glass and hold it out to him like a child asking for a cup of grape juice. He pours me a perfect serving and returns the bottle to the table without pouring himself a glass.
I sip from it, letting the Merlot stain my lips a sensual red. Innocent but sexy—every man’s impossible fantasy.
“Thank you for letting me out,” I say.
I’ve always been told my round face looks innocent and un-threatening, and I play that up with a guileless expression. Salvatore leans back, frowning. He’s suspicious. I glance down at my wine. God, I’m fucking bad at this. Tone it down.
“I… I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. Yeah, no shit . “I brought you here to apologize.” You’re not on your knees, asshole. “ Do you… are you hungry?”
“No. I was very well-fed.”
“Good. You should know that, after this dinner, you’ll be free to leave.”