Page 84 of My Dark Ever After

Even as the morning of the fourth day crept over the horizon and spilled weak pink light onto the ceiling of my stark but comfortable bedroom, I did not worry.

I knew he would come.

And if it was taking a little longer, it was only because he would eviscerate them when he was done.

I had not seen Gaetano again, but Ginevra visited me.

The first day, I refused to speak with her, but she told me stories about her youth with my father. In some ways, she spoke of a stranger, a man named Mariano instead of John, whom I had no memory of. This man was taught to play with guns and knives the way normal children would their toys. She spoke of Gaetano’s idea of after-schoolcare, a mini boot camp for his sons to arm and defend themselves and learn about the family business. As a woman, Ginevra herself was not sanctioned to participate, but she had grown sly and clever enough to practice in the shadows and tutor with my father at night before bed in their limited free time. She knew more than enough, she said, to teach me how to take care of myself.

Even though I enjoyed the sentiment, I didn’t deign to answer her. When all this was over, and I knew in my bones it would be soon, Raffa and his crew would teach me all I needed to know and more. They could be excessive like that.

The second day, she tried to ask me questions about my life. What did I like to do back home in Michigan? What was my mother like? Did I speak Albanian as well as Italian?

Each time she was met with silence until she gave up and stalked out of the room, punctuating her frustration by slamming the door behind her.

On the third day, she arrived with a tablet, and the only questions she asked were about the Romano family.

How many people lived at Villa Romano? And how many of them were guards?

Where did Raffa spend most of his time, at the villa or the palazzo?

Was I aware of the names of any of the Romano holding companies? Maybe I saw them on his desk sometimes.

When I didn’t reply, Ginevra had sighed and said, “Truly, I am your best ally in this entire compound, Guinevere. I told you the story of my brother.” Her eyes skittered to a camera fixed in the corner by the door. “I only want what is best for you. So please, hear me when I say that if you do not answer my questions or give me any inkling you might be converted to our side in this, things will go very poorly for you.”

I had merely stared at her as I had done for the past two days.

She could say whatever she wanted, but her actions thus far had proven she was under Gaetano’s control, and my grandfather definitely did not have my best interests at heart.

It wasn’t surprising then, on the third day, when the man named Eduardo opened the door instead of Ginevra, followed closely by Gaetano.

“I hear you are not finding Ginevra a pleasant conversationalist,” he said in that faux-jovial way of his as Eduardo started to move some of the furniture to the side of the room.

I watched him wearily, a metallic taste like blood on the back of my tongue. A premonition maybe. I was sitting on the bed with the only book in the room, Italo Calvino’s collection of folktales. It seemed fitting I had just been reading about Sfortuna, the unlucky heroine whose fortunes change after a series of unpleasant events when she catches the attention of a prince and earns his love.

My own happily ever after had been within my grasp, and I’d squandered it out of fear. Now, based on the way Eduardo was rolling up his sleeves and then rolling back the carpet, I wondered if that chance was gone for good.

“What is he doing?” I asked quietly.

“Eduardo? Oh, we don’t like to get any stains on the carpet,” my grandfather explained with a smile as he sat in a chair at the edge of the room. “It’s an eighteenth-century Persian carpet.”

“Of course,” I said dully, my gaze tracking Eduardo as he grabbed a wooden chair from the desk and dragged it into the middle of the room before, surprisingly, he left.

“Now, we are just us two,” Gaetano said, opening his palms as if to symbolize he wasn’t hiding anything. “Why don’t we have a candid discussion about your future, hmm?”

I didn’t reply because there was nothing to say. Gaetano had complained that the Venetian was theatrical, but it was clear my grandfather was playing his own game, and he did not really need my participation.

“It is clear that you hold affection for Raffaele Romano, but my daughter has told me it is likely a symptom of Stockholm syndrome and that with enough time you’ll come to see the light about him.”

I let my scornful doubt shine through my expression, but he ignored me.

“He killed my eldest sons,” he continued. “Did you know this? Giorgio and Giuseppe. A car bomb in Genoa took out my firstborn, and poisoned wine my second.”

“I thought you had put the idea of revenge to rest?” I asked as fear skittered down my spine and sank sharp teeth into my tailbone.

He cocked his head, tapping his cane against the floor. “Yes, and I thought I had. But now you are here, and I find it difficult to resist the temptation.”

“Why would you work for the Venetian?” I tried to reason. “You said he had to blackmail you into helping so far.”