t.w. - torture.
. . .
Dante Valentino
I worked quietly. The knife was a tad bit sticky in my hand. The room smelled metallic. After years, I was used to it. I was used to it all.
I washed my hands in the kitchen sink when I was done. I glanced at the half-eaten pancake on the counter and then at the family portrait hung in the living room.
"Please."
The man's voice was hoarse.
I looked at him. He was on the wall - right beside the portrait. I admired my work. The skin of the back of his thighs was ripped apart in clean straight lines and nailed to the wall. Two pokers were buried in his shoulders - keeping him upright.
I sat on the counter, waiting for him to die as I admired my knife. It was an old one - one from my father's collection. Given to me when I turned ten.
The man died slowly - as I had made sure he would. One of the pokers gave out, and some of his body dangled. Then the skin of his thighs gave out and he hung there with one poker.
I called my brother. "lui è morto," I said.
(He is dead)
. . .
Lily Jenkins
"What are you doing with your face," Henry said in a whisper - or whatever he believed was a whisper but was heard by everyone in the graveyard.
I couldn't, for the life of me, get myself to cry.
Those vultures looked at me. Some had cursed as soon as they saw my face, others had turned their heads away and some had dared to ask if my mother was going to join us.
If my mother came, it'd be to spit on my father's cold body.
The tearful speeches filled with lies and sobs and tears accompanied by dark mascara stopped in an hour. The family lingered, as did I.
Henry tugged at my arm, but I refused to move.
My grandmother marched up to me, pale hands balled at her sides. The anger turned her face red. I wondered when she got the time to tie her hair in a beautiful bun while mourning her son.
"You disgrace us," she spat out, her english thick with her Italian accent. I kept my eyes fixed on the headstone.
Pietro Marchetti
A son, a husband, and a father of three. I translated in my mind.
"Four," I said. "He has four children, does he not?"
She grabbed my arm, her fingernails digging into my arm.
But she couldn't do much. Especially with the media looming around the graveyard.
"I will kill you," she hissed. "You and your mother and Amanda. I will have your throats cut in your sleep."
"My father wanted me here for the will reading," I said. "I am not going anywhere."
"You stupid little girl." The wrinkles on her face deepened as she chuckled. "This is Sicily - not your America. You're not getting anything."
"I don't want anything but my birthright."
"Your birthright was being cut out of your mother and thrown into a bin," she hissed. "Now get out, girl."
"What is happening here?"
The voice cut through everything.
Viola's hand released my arm and my skin throbbed with pain. I didn't have to glance at my arm to know I was bleeding.
"Mr. Valentino." Venom turned into sweetness. "An unexpected visitor. She's Pietro's bastard daughter."
Bastard.
I turned to look at Mr. Valentino.
The man stood a few feet away from us, yet seemed to be looming. His hair was bright with a touch of darkness gripping it. His light-colored eyes cut to me, and the coldness of them hit me in a way that made me take a step back, my heart thundering in alarm. Danger.
They reminded me of medusa's eyes.
Mr. Valentino walked closer, his feet making no sound, but his presence seemed to have changed everything. Everyone stood a little stiffer, a little quieter.
He stood beside me, saying something to Viola in rapid Italian I could not decipher with my limited knowledge of the language.
I looked at my black heels. My heart had ripped itself in two and traveled to my ears. All I could hear was the rhythmic thumping. I wondered why his presence seemed to choke the whole graveyard - making everything as still as the dead. I noticed the lack of media outside and suddenly every self-preservation alarm in my mind was blaring.
He stood there for a while and then his head turned and the weight of his eyes fell on my head.
Be brave.
But I might as well be summoning a unicorn, as my head refused to lift.
Not a word was said. He stood there for a while and then he left. Air flowed back into my lungs.
I grabbed Henry's sleeve and pulled him to the car before I could be attacked again.
Once settled, Henry started the cheap rental car and I covered my face with my hands.
"I couldn't breathe," I said
"Neither could I," Henry said. "You know who he was?"
"One of the Valentinos?"
"Dante Valentino," he said. "The oldest."
Dante Valentino.
"Why was he there?" I said. "I didn't catch what he said to Viola."
Henry glanced at me and then back at the road, hand gripping the steering wheel. "He offered his condolences..." He said. "And told her that he killed Pietro."
. . .
(2/6)
