Diavolo

xxxvii

PRESLEY

         Blurry haze of maroon. Cloudy thick smoke of blue turning slightly gray over the skyline with each tick of the rustic, retro clock on the wall.

        I'd been awake for a couple of hours, finding comfort in the odd late hours of dawn not because I was having trouble sleeping but because of him.

        Every time I closed my eyes, those glittering green eyes stormed into my mind, flashing with deceiving intentions and gripped tightly around my chest forcing me to trust him, and love him but it was all a facade. Everything and so was the dream.

        I'd been back home in Chicago for a week, merely a week, quit my job over the phone in a hastily manner with Desmond who was speechless and bewildered, and caught a plane with the help of Tommaso.

        After I slipped into the plane, he disappeared as well and when I landed in Chicago, I recognized the men dressed in identical black suits following around in a distance.

        Knowing damn fucking well that even though the man wasn't with me, I was seeing him everywhere.

        At the fucking grocery store when my sister dragged me out of my seasonal depression and out of bed, at dinners with my family, in the middle of the roadway whenever I was crossing the street.

        It was fucking insane. Deep down, I knew I should be angry and pissed off and completely willing myself to forget every single thing about him but I couldn't even bring myself to take off his grey sweatshirt.

Grey sweatshirt I'd stolen from that night with the big, bold and red letters New York.

          I wore it every night before I went to bed because it reminded me of him. It was stupid, silly and idiotic yet I couldn't will myself to stop rolling around in his intoxicating scent, falling asleep to the hopeless dream of his big arms around me, gently coaxing me to sleep.

        He didn't call not once. Never apologized for his actions or even tried to convince me that he didn't do any of the shit I'd found in his closet but then I realized he wanted it to play out that way.

        That was his way of backing away like a coward and telling me he couldn't love me.

        The only thing I'd wished was for him to face me when he did. Look me straight in the eyes and tell me how he'd planned it all out—gained my trust, plotted an act to marry me, convince me to love him and then broke it all in one shattering declaration of betrayal.

        My stomach grumbled loudly drawing me out of my thoughts and to the fact that I hadn't eaten anything last night and even though it was quite too early to eat, I didn't give a damn.

        The only good thing that'd happened to me during this whole betrayal was the fact that I'd lost my appetite. Even since I'd moved back to Chicago, I didn't have an urge to eat.

        I'd skipped meals over the last week that my favorite sweatpants were a little baggy around my waist and it physically ached to get up on most days.

        My mother was a little concerned of course but she relished in the fact that I was being careful of my weight even if it came in the form of a six-foot-two Italian man taking advantage of my trust.

        I glanced at the car from my rearview mirror that seemed to have been following me since I left the house but as I pulled into the McDonald's, I recognized the expensively-looking black Audi I'd seen several times and rode in countless times.