Chapter Thirty-Three
Elio
For a woman with a sharp mouth and a bold personality, her hand was small against mine, warm and soft, addicting to touch.
You would think her palm, which I was certain had held a gun one too many times, would be calloused, but it felt the same as the first time I’d held it—soft, warm, and delicate.
I wanted to sever my hand; I wanted to sever that small connection, but I did the complete opposite; my grip tightened, and I led us towards my room without pause.
What was I doing? Why was I doing this? What was the purpose of taking her with me? My mind could not fathom an answer; all I knew was that she had to undo whatever mutilation she had summoned into my mind.
“Will you fucking slow down?” she gasped, practically running after me. I didn’t care.
An infinitesimal part of my senses was actively trying very hard not to acknowledge the fact that she was in a dress that hugged her body like a second skin; curves I had once noticed were now accentuated to drive home my attraction towards her.
I pulled her past the passageway, down to the last room on the left.
I’d never brought anyone here.
Casmiro never came here; if he ever was in the house, his destination was my lounge area and study, never my room. Angelo, though, my ever-loving shadow, dropped by my room once in a while to check if I was still breathing.
Letting Zahra cross into this space when I still knew nothing about her was by far the most careless thing I’d ever done. But then again, my reasoning barely functioned when it came to her.
I was either too blinded by anger to see reason, too taken by curiosity to see what lay behind her eyes, too irked by irritation to see past her behavior, or too driven to comprehend the other things I had just mentioned.
She caused this. She would solve it.
I pushed open the door to the room, locked it behind me, and then let go of her hand before finally looking at her.
Wide eyes shone with annoyance and somehow looked brighter than usual. I could tell it had something to do with the dark straight line across her eye—makeup, she was wearing makeup.
“What is the matter with you?” she asked, looking from me to peer around the space.
“Stay here, and don’t move,” I told her, making my way to the bathroom while I shrugged off my suit jacket, hanging it carefully before I entered, closed the door behind me, and headed straight for the sink.
My hands still shook when I opened the mirror compartment and picked up the small bronze bottle filled with pills. I uncapped it, filtered four atop my palm, and threw them into my mouth, swallowing dry.
They were tasteless—or maybe I was just used to it.
I covered the case, putting it back and closing the hidden cabinet, coming face-to-face with my reflection.
I held both sides of the sink tight, eyes on my reflection as I began inhaling and exhaling—
Sofia’s scream pierced my head suddenly. I winced and pressed my eyelids together before opening them, trying to blink my thoughts back in order as I shook my head sharply.
I let her live.
I shouldn’t have.
It was unfinished business, and I hated it. It made me feel incomplete. I knew I would suffer for it; I knew the voices would triple in number.
In my dictionary, there was no such thing as right or wrong. There had been once, but my life hadn’t been fair, so why should I be fair? Why should I understand something no one had cared to understand when it came to me? Why should I do the right thing?
What exactly was the right thing?
Letting her suffer for the rest of her life, raising a baby alone without a father? Or ending her suffering before it even began?
Why does it seem like I have just made a colossal mistake?
My breathing wasn’t calming. I was getting angrier by the second, my mind was getting sharper, and the pills were doing absolutely nothing.
Had Zahra’s voice not entered my mind at that very moment—I would have moved on with my day. Had Zahra not entered my life at all, I wouldn’t remember what it felt like to be guilty; all these unwanted, weak emotions and thoughts wouldn’t be singing a fucking elegy in my head.
I wouldn’t be a torment to myself. My skin wouldn’t feel like that of a stranger’s. I wouldn’t want to peel it off or get out of myself or my body. I wouldn’t—
I swung my hand, knocking off all the items on the counter; they fell with sharp clashes.
Jittery, I exited the bathroom, my gaze finding Zahra’s wary one from where she stood in front of a dressing table.
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but I was already walking towards her with a glare that I couldn’t even hide or morph into indifference.
“Elio—”
Her words ceased when I caged her with my body, locking her against the dressing table with one hand on either side.
I caught the sound of her breath hitching in her throat with a small gasp. “Whatever you think I’ve done—”
“Fix this,” I cut her off, my skin sucking in the warmth from her body.
She blinked, her brows dropping in genuine confusion. “What are you talking about? Fix—fix what?” I hated and loved the concern in her voice.
“Fix this!” My voice shook with withheld anger, and then I said between my teeth, “Fix me.”
Her chest heaved, and her frown deepened. “I don’t—”
“Don’t fucking feign innocence right now, Zahra. You know what you did.”
“What did I do?”
I drew in a shaky breath, leaning away from her, from the damning sweet smell of her hair and skin, from the familiar tightness in my chest that grew from the fondness of seeing her face and hearing her voice.
I brushed my hair back with a sharp, painful tug as I looked away from her.
“You have ruined my mind.”
“What—”
“Three weeks, Zahra.” I looked back at her.
“I have not been myself for three weeks, and I don’t understand why because, believe it or not, I truly really want to see you dead.
I don’t like you, I don’t like you as a person; you have all the qualities that I despise in a woman and a person, you have qualities that mirror who I am, and I don’t want to be near it, I don’t want to want it, but—you did something to me.
Somewhere between when we were being chased by the Russians and now, you did something to me; I know it. ”
“I didn’t do anything to you; what are you talking about?”
“You are messing with my head!” I yelled. “I can’t—I can’t focus on anything; I can’t think properly because all I fucking see, think, and breathe is the thought of you for no goddamn reason, so fucking fix it!”
“Elio—”
“I am spiraling, Zahra. For the first time in my life, I am questioning my actions, I am seeking morals I have never once cared for, and it’s all because of you. I might have just made a mistake because of your voice in my head, so take it away. Now.”
She didn’t speak for a long time, like she was trying to assess my situation in her head and come up with a solution.
After a while, she stood straighter. “Okay, breathe—”
“I am breathing.”
“I know, I just need you to calm down—”
“I am calm,” I snapped, knowing I was a long distance away from calm.
“What mistake were you talking about?” she asked carefully.
I bit the inside of my mouth, taking three steps backward before I turned and started to pace, trying to center my mind and my thoughts, wondering why every fiber of my being thought it was okay to confide in her or let her see this side of me. We weren’t friends, or were we?
“Elio—”
“I let someone live.” I dug my thumb into the palm of my other hand, trying to stop the shaking as I glanced at her, seeing her confused expression. “She’s pregnant, and I ruined her life and let her live. She should be dead.”
“Who are you talking—”
“The artist’s wife, Sofia.”
“What artist?”
“The one who painted the chihuahua. Damn it, Zahra, keep up with me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about; I’m trying to understand you!” she yelled in frustration.
My attention drew back to her when she let out a sigh. I watched her eyes grow unfocused before she outstretched her hand towards the bed. “Let’s sit and talk,” she said in Spanish. “Your pacing is not helping your case.”
“It helps me get my thoughts in order,” I responded in the language.
“Well, sitting helps me sometimes, so we’re going to do what I want because I don’t think you’re in the right state of mind to think,” she continued, her tone curling softly around her accent, and I succumbed, settling on the edge of the bed while she took the space beside me.
“So, you didn’t hurt her; what would you have gained if you had hurt her?”
“Peace.”
I could feel her stare on the side of my face as she asked, “Are you certain?”
I dug my thumb even deeper into my palm, but my fingers still shook; the veins on my hand were so visible, and my fingers grew so cold.
“Are you certain that’s what you would have felt afterward?”
I dropped my brows in a frown. “I don’t know.”
Zahra’s hand covered mine, eradicating the vacant cold and replacing it with a warmth that stopped the shaking instantly. “Elio, did you want to hurt them? The artist and his wife?”
My head turned towards her, and our gazes locked as I answered, “Yes.”
“Because you thought you had to?”
“Because I wanted to. I killed her husband right in front of her. And I told him—I warned him not to dismiss my question or supply me with a half-truth or a lie, and he did just that. I didn’t want it to come to that. I gave him a chance to survive, but he didn’t take it; they never take it.”
“Still, you didn’t kill her—”
“I wanted to. I wanted her dead; I wanted her buried, I still do, because if it doesn’t happen, I will lose my mind.”
She removed my thumb from my palm and held my hand. “Why do you think you’ll lose your mind?”
“Because I didn’t finish the job, Zahra. I always finish the job, no matter how bloody or gruesome; I leave no stone unturned, my word is law, and if I go against it, I lose myself,” I said, but it came out monotone, like a pledge.
She frowned. “Are you reciting that from a memory, or do you really mean it?”