Page 73 of Sins of the Orchid

“If you…made men,” I started and he scoffed at the term, “think your way of treating women is normal, you are all idiots.”

He chuckled. ”Leave it to Amore to put it out the way it is,” he announced and I shrugged, rolling my eyes again. “You are right, we tend to keep our families under lock and key.”

“It goes against feminism and independence. And don’t get me started on equality.”

“You have DeAngelo and Lorenzo in Italy, just as you would here,” he pointed out the obvious to me. “So it’s not exactly different from here.”

“It’s not the same,” I reasoned pensively. “It reminds me of the way I grew up until we…” I paused just for a second, the habit of not talking about South America ingrained into me by now. “Before we moved to South America and everything changed.” I took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, glancing out the window as buildings blurred by. “Before South America, I could come and go with friends as I pleased from a fairly early age.”

“What was your favorite place when you were a kid? Favorite place you lived?”

“I think Pàris and Milan are a tie. Though our time in Zimbabwe was pretty cool too.”

“How long were you in Colombia?”

I frowned, trying to remember. My time in capture was a blur, and I never talked about it after I got away.

“I guess about a month.”

Silence followed.

“Did you know there are the most beautiful and unique orchids in Colombia?” I asked, my mind somewhere far away.

“I did.”

“I drew dresses and made up styles for as long as I can remember,” I muttered, pictures of Mom and George flashing through my mind. “Every country we found ourselves in, I would come up with a new design inspired by that country. Orchids were always my favorite, so imagine my excitement when they told me we were moving to Colombia. I wanted to see the flower in its natural habitat.”

“Do you know why your mom moved there?” Santi’s voice was low.

I wasn’t sure who knew what, so I kept my mouth shut and shrugged.

It was bad luck. Sheer bad luck that George picked a country so close to my grandfather’s ancestors and who wanted to wipe us all out. Mom didn’t want to do it, but George insisted, and I jumped on his bandwagon, working on convincing Mom that it would be a wonderful adventure.

“Amore?” Santi prompted, reminding me I didn’t answer his question.

“George was a biologist, working on creating a new textile.” I cleared my throat before continuing. “Whatever he needed was in Colombia. I was dying to go into the jungle, so it sounded like a great idea to me. There was a camp we had to stay at for a few days, it was close to the Venezuelan border. We were within grasp of seeing the orchid, but my mother forbade me to go. When she had to go into Bogotá for work, George assured me it was okay to go. We were going to be back before Mom, so she’d never know. Besides, it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission.” My heart clenched in my chest. The memories still hurt. The sounds of their screams were a part of me as much as their love. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. “It was George’s favorite saying,” I explained. “Anyhow, there we were, trotting through the jungle.” Goosebumps broke out on my skin at the images playing in my mind. “We ventured too far and found ourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I should have listened to my mother, but I didn’t. The price of my disobedience was too high. The worst part was that she paid the ultimate price for it. With her life. George, too. Though when I was prepared to stay put, he encouraged our excursion.

Either way, the guilt was a stain I could never wash away. The least I could do was keep my promise.

Santi was the first person I had admitted any of this to. There was so much more to it than just that. But I kept all the secrets, protecting the family legacy.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Santi took my hand into his. “You couldn’t have known.”

“No,” I muttered, agreeing with him.

Except, why did it feel like it was my fault?

CHAPTER22

Santino

We ate at one of my favorite restaurants in the Bronx, a little Italian place. Amore’s eyes shone with delight, so I’d say she loved the food and people. My father’s ex-girlfriend owned the place and made the best pizza in town. Amore completely agreed.

“They also make the best tiramisú,” Amore added, as she took another spoonful of it. I knew a lot about Amore Bennetti, but I didn’t know she was such a sugar junkie. When I called her out on it, she threw her head back and laughed.

‘Life is sweeter with sugar’,she said and shoved another spoonful into her mouth. When she smiled, her whole face lit up. Despite the tragedies in her life, she came out of it with this eternally shining light. I should really call her sunshine, but I loved her name too much.