15. Virgilio
Chapter Fifteen
VIRGILIO
I probably already know what he wants to talk about, and I don’t fucking want to hear it.
I keep stalking behind Cesare as he pads down the hallway, humming the same song that he’s been obsessed with ever since he woke up from the coma years ago. The same song that was playing in the background before he passed out.
He stops in front of a door, the door adjacent to Zoe’s room, and lingers before twisting the knob and pushing it open.
He goes in, and I do the same, entering my home office.
I do not like the feeling that he is about to drill me for answers I would rather not give. He asks too many questions. I normally wouldn’t mind, but any question about Zoe is going to bug me.
I’m itching already.
He had his hand on her. He was fucking touching her.
I knew I said I didn’t want to have sex with her again, but I fucking said that to protect her. To not complicate things. Not because I do not want her, nor because refraining from touching her is easy.
It’s the fucking hardest shit I have had to endure.
Knowing she is under the same roof as me, that she can do whatever the fuck I want her to do for me, that she wants me to touch her just as much as I do... it’s hard to be in control.
For the sake of her future. For the sake of the dream I took away from her. I should have never asked her to go alone to Milan.
Now that I have her with me, I’m trying to fucking do better by the both of us.
Cesare tosses his handgun on the desk in the corner, then stomps over, cursing under his breath to rip the thick curtains apart for sunlight to pour in.
It is no news that I enjoy privacy. Sunlight or any light, when too much, feels like an intruder. My need for privacy pushed me to get an estate with this kind of structure, where he and our mother could have their own homes detached from mine but not too far away that I could not get to them when necessary or too near for them to breeze in and intrude unnecessarily.
I sit by the edge of the table and grip it, waiting for him to spill.
He keeps staring outside the window, nodding, hands on his waist and shoulders bunched in that way that tells me he is having a hard time grasping things.
He spins dramatically, takes his forefinger to his lips, nods, and puffs.
Here it comes…
“Have you lost your mind, Ettore?” He stalks closer to me. “A slave?” He blinks unbelievingly. “What were you thinking buying a human being?”
“It’s none of your business, and I meant what I said about not touching her ever,” I gruff.
He stares at me bewildered, like I’ve grown horns. “I was trying to make her feel safe, or is that out of your rules on how to treat her?”
“Treat her right, don’t touch her,” I chip.
“You have to return her,” he is genuinely concerned, and I get it. This is not the brand of darkness he is used to. He’s involved with the Camorra just as much as I am, but he doesn’t remember our childhood.
“Does this have anything to do with the Camorra?” He stands in front of me, dipping his head to catch my eyes as if it would make me talk about things I do not want to discuss.
“No,” I can give him that.
“Brother, if it has something to do with…”
“No, Cesare,” I try to lose some of the gravel in my tone, reminding myself that I would have been worried if he had seen Zoe and not felt this way about the situation.
He nods and runs a hand through his hair. “I trust you know what you are doing,” he sighs and steps away, going to sprawl on the couch and throw his legs on the center table. “I, on the other hand, can’t sleep, which is why I came to see you,” he scratches his head harshly. I thought we could maybe have a few drinks and… But you look like you have your hands full.”
I do have my fucking hands full, but never too full for family, especially him. I stand and stroll to the bar in the corner to pluck out a decanter of whiskey and two glasses.
“Tell me about it,” I sit beside him, pouring us a drink, then place the decanter on the table. I already know what’s bothering him.
“I keep having that dream, the very same,” he sips his whiskey, “No matter how hard I try, it’s not stopping.”
“The same way?” I swirl the whiskey in my glass.
“Yes,” he sits up. Something is coming at you.” He begins to describe the dream: “The violence in the air is so thick I can cut through it. Then, when I go to protect you, it gets closer, and when I turn to look, there is a complete blackout.”
“Hmm,” I gulp down my whiskey because I know what the dream is about.
I was there. It’s no fucking dream. It’s a memory. I cannot say if it’s a blessing or a curse for him since it has given him a new life, but it has also robbed him of core memories of his former life.
“What do you think?” He looks at me for an explanation. “Do you think I’m being paranoid and thinking too much about your safety… I have been researching, and some dream interpreters say, sometimes, it’s because we are stressing too much over things.”
My poor bro.
“I think…” I clear my throat, considering for a moment whether I should just tell him the truth. But I don’t want him to remember. I know I would give anything to forget my past.
“You think I’m paranoid, go on, say it,” he chuckles. “At least I’m acting human,” he points at me. “You act like you are invincible, walking right into danger.”
“Cesare,” I clip. “Try to relax, okay?” I subtly agree with his paranoia theory.
He throws his whiskey in his mouth, “I can get drunk and just crash here,” he taps the couch, and at the same time, a soft knock comes on the door.
My eyes shoot towards the door, and I know who it is without needing to ask. The tenderness in the way she knocks at the door gives her away.
The door opens slowly, and she steps in, her head coming in first to search for us.
When she sees me, she brings the rest of her body in. She is trembling but holding onto her sketchbook, notebook, and measuring tape like they can somehow protect her.
“We will continue our conversation,” I stand.
“You are not great company either,” Cesare stands. “I think the alcohol always tricks me into thinking it’s your company that gives me calm.” He stalks to the door and darts his eyes between Zoe and me, the green in them reminding me of the green of mine that I conceal under black contact lenses. He smirks, and I almost give him the middle finger, then he leaves.
I want to say something to that, but Zoe has my apt attention, and everything else pales out.
“I want to take your measurements, that is if you would…” she clears her throat. “It’s necessary.” She drops her eyes, something I want her to fucking stop doing when talking to me, “For the suit,” she mumbles.
I don’t care about such things. I could easily pick up anything from a store to wear. But I wanted her to stop wondering why I bought her. This way, she can think I got her because of the outfits.
“Okay,” I go over to my desk and put down my whiskey glass.
“O… Okay?” Shock shimmers in her eyes, “D… Do you want me to do it here?”
Sensible question.
Cesare is not the only one who can come in here unannounced. My mother can also waltz in here any time of the day, and I don’t have the energy for her prodding. I’m a little surprised she has kept herself away for longer than seventy-two hours.
“No, we will do it in my room,” I answer.
And the danger alert goes off in my head.