Chapter Thirty-Two
Elio
I haven’t used the phone.
It had been three weeks since Angelo got it, and it remained sealed inside the box.
I couldn’t explain why I couldn’t open or activate the device. Probably because it had been over a decade since I last owned one, and a lot had changed within that time. I mostly didn’t have the zeal to own one or set it up.
I was not a Luddite, but I wouldn’t deny that it would sting to ask a smug Angelo or Casmiro for help in understanding how exactly the item worked.
But I knew I would have to break that barrier sooner or later. Aside from sending Gemma a text message, the device was necessary.
It could have been beneficial during the times when Zah—
I shook that thought out of my head, picked the box up from the table, and tucked it safely inside one of my drawers.
Work. Yes, focus on work.
I ignored the emails and went straight to the folders I’d gotten from the mayor of Turin; thanks to Edoardo’s over-trusting personality and his love for loyalty, Marino had gained control over the state affairs in Turin, and with that came a lot of brain work that I’d been putting off due to another project for Milan.
I didn’t want to attend to both at the same time, but I was falling behind, losing focus on … essential things.
It was careless.
I can’t be careless.
It had been three weeks since that boardroom meeting, three weeks since I’d last seen Street, though Angelo made sure I received updates on their progress.
A new painting had been released, and they had traveled to Tunisia to fetch it. According to the report, some other group had beaten them to it, but it was later confirmed that the painting was also a fake.
I wasn’t surprised.
There was obviously more to it. We were missing something, and my little artist was the key to finding that thing.
Except, according to my people in charge of getting the answers out of him, he wasn’t opening up.
This was when I usually succumbed to taking matters into my own hands, but I had been hesitating. If I interfered, someone would die … and I didn’t have time to see through a wipeout, so I put the artist’s fate in the hands of professionals who could torture the truth out of him.
That way, nobody dies. And I still get my answer.
I should also probably stop Street from wasting their time searching for the fakes. But what good would that do me?
I wanted to keep them busy, away from me. I needed to focus.
I needed her away from my space.
I couldn’t afford the distracting feelings that came with my thoughts trailing to her—damn it.
I flipped a page open in the folder, my eyes perusing the words as I read—correction; I tried to read, to understand the words, and I did understand them, but they made absolutely no sense.
Three weeks.
Three weeks of me trying so hard to school my thoughts, to block out the voice of the witch, to erase the strange feeling of dissatisfaction, and the nonsensical craving I had to hear her speak to me.
To have her ask me questions that would require me to talk to her.
To have a conversation where she threw out sarcastic jokes, and I pretended to hate them.
Pathetic.
The woman probably doesn’t remember you exist, and if she does remember, what then?
She had made her feelings clear. And even if she hadn’t, even if by an opportune chance she actually wanted to talk about it, what would happen afterward?
Did we explore? Did I ask her to enter into a relationship with me? Did I fuck her—
That is a very nefarious thought, Elio. She is with your brother, for God’s sake.
I was getting ahead of myself here. Why would I think of a relationship with someone I still fantasized about killing?
What is wrong with you, Elio?
I didn’t like this.
This fucking distraction—I banged the folder on the table, the blow from my fist causing a rattle as I shot to my feet, walking around the desk while rubbing my brows and pacing back and forth in the study.
“Focus, focus,” I chanted. “These are all useless thoughts, not beneficial; it’s not aiding your goals, it’s not important, it’s rubbish …
She’s rubbish, she’s nothing, she’s a woman, she’s just an element made up of skin, bones, and a soul, she’s only matter, a substance put together with numerous particles that occupy space. Nothing more, she’s—”
“E, are you fr—”
I stopped and turned towards the door to see that it was opened slightly with Casmiro peeking in, brows drawn down in a frown.
“Were you talking to yourself?” he asked.
“No.”
I shoved both my hands into my pockets, watching him.
Slowly, he walked into the study, eyes going around the space like he was trying to seek out who I was talking to; when he couldn’t find anyone, he looked back at me with a frown, and I kept my expression blank.
“I heard you mumbling something.”
“You heard nothing.”
“I heard something—”
“What is the reason for your visit? State it and leave. I am busy.”
“Talking to yourself?”
“State it. And leave.”
He sighed, dropping it. “It’s about your artist.”
That caught my attention. “Did he speak?”
Casmiro shook his head. “No, I’m beginning to think he’s never going to. We need you down there; maybe your presence would change something.”
I locked my jaw. “Are you telling me that my professional team is incapable of torturing answers out of a simple artist?”
“They’ve tried all the methods; his fingers have been chopped off; I’m guessing his inability to work has made him incompliant.”
“Ah … I see. Poor thing.”
“It has been three weeks. He’s wasting our time, and Street hasn’t gotten any new leads for the next painting yet.”
“Hm. How unfortunate.”
Casmiro glared at me, standing straighter. “Be serious, E. If we go on like this, the artist will be dead before we pull out any answers from him.”
“You want me to speak to him.”
“Yes. He will talk when you … do your thing.”
“My thing?”
“You know … The Wicked thing that works for people.”
I wanted to laugh, but my expression remained blank as I said, “There is no such thing as The Wicked thing.”
He sighed. “I think you should show your face once, so he knows we mean business.”
“I’m sure he knows we mean business. The team chopped off his fingers. Cruel. Impressive. But I have work to do. We should be traveling to Turin in a few days for the dinner—”
“We still have time for that. This is important.”
I suppressed the urge to groan, doing away with my unseriousness. “I know it is important.” I stopped to think, my brain issuing me ugly ideas. “He should be taken to the hot room. Open his wounds, and leave him there for an hour; I’ll visit him afterward.”
“Okay.” He moved towards the door, eyeing me … “I can leave you alone, right?”
“Hm.”
He stood there, staring at me like he needed another confirmation. When the silence dragged on, I sighed, motioning to the door.
“Get the fuck out, Casmiro.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “See you in an hour.”
And then he was gone.
I shook my head, returning to my desk drawer to take out the phone box. Without a second thought, I opened it, turned it on, and spent the next few minutes setting it up. Some things took a few minutes for me to get used to, but I quickly mastered it.
I saved Angelo’s number, followed by Casmiro’s and Gemma’s, before clicking on the messaging icon next to her name.
The screen switched to a blank message space.
I hesitated, knowing it had been almost a month since she had given me her number. I didn’t want to give the wrong impression by proceeding to use the number, but she had been kind to me, oblivious of my world—from what I could tell, she didn’t care if I was covered in blood. It was strange.
But I was inquisitive; it took quite a lot for another human to have me curious.
It was effortless with Zahra because I became a completely different person when it came to her.
But with Gemma, I simply wondered why she had chosen to ignore my bad and focus on the good she could see, the good I seemed to have.
Why haven’t I forgotten our encounter? What is there?
I was not one to ignore something my mind refused to forget, and my gut feeling had never once led me astray, so …
Me:
Hello.
I stared at the phone screen, wondering briefly if she would respond.
If I had gotten a text like this, I would probably have ignored it. Upon getting this phone, I informed the people with my contact info that they could only call the number for significant emergencies. Not for emergencies.
No texting.
The phone vibrated in my grip.
Gemma (blonde car highway):
Hi? Who is this?
My fingers drummed on the table as I read the message.
Why am I hesitating? I have no reason to hesitate.
I admit that I subconsciously and physically made sure I cleared up the incident on the roof with Zahra. In fact, I’d had three weeks to think.
This was lust, pure carnal lust I had no way of getting rid of, but I shouldn’t dwell on it because each time I allowed my mind to wander in that direction, I forgot the crucial detail of her involvement with my brother.
She did say they weren’t in a relationship. But they were involved.
The act on that rooftop weeks ago went against every set rule I had in place for myself. It felt even worse knowing I had grown oddly fond of her in a way, a fondness that allowed the feeling of care to creep in. My phone vibrated multiple times.
Gemma (blonde car highway):
Uncle Rod?
If it’s you, again, I told you I’d pay you back. Gran Louisa is my priority now; she still thinks she will die soon.
AND FOR THE LAST TIME.
I DID NOT USE THE MONEY TO GET THE CAR.
Don’t believe everything Luigi tells you.
He’s out for my life.
I swear I will kill that little shit!
I waited for the next message to pop in, but nothing came after her spamming, so I typed a response.
Me:
Why is Luigi out for your life?
Her message came instantly.
Gemma (blonde car highway):
BECAUSE!!
I’m poor and still managed to do better than him. I even have a car *smirking emoji*