They’re warped mirrors in a carnival sideshow. I look in them and see a grotesque monster staring back.
“Her?” I say absently. “Have you forgotten about the sham of a fucking wedding already?”
“That’s not what I mean,” Fabio says. “You’ve been content to parade her around as your toy, but have you stopped to even consider the tool you have in your possession? If you actually chose to utilize it, that is?”
“I’m not following,” I snap. “Hell, I’m not sure if I even want to—”
“Don’t make me spell it out for you, Donatello. If I were a ruthless sort of man cut from the same cloth as you and Mischa, I’d suggest using the girl to your advantage. Not as a prop, but as a partner.”
Partner. My brain shies from the term, unwilling to even consider it. “I think you should leave the ruthless calculating to Mischa, Fab—”
“She loved you once,” he points out, too softly for her to overhear. “The childish love that only a sick man would take advantage of now. Or a desperate one. You’ve pushed her away, needled her. In your mind, you’ve told yourself that you’re a heartless cunt, so no harm done, but deep down, I think you know the real reason. You’re afraid of your past. You’re afraid of the hold she still has over you. I think you should be. But if you truly want to beat Mischa at his own game—if he is truly behind this—then what better way than through his own daughter?”
I stare at him, surprised by the coldness in his gaze. Fuck, he looks like me. “You know, Fab, I never thought I’d live to see the day that you, of all people, advocate for rape and torture.”
“Of course not!” Genuine disgust rips through his voice. “Think with your brain and not your cock. Treat her with respect. Gain her confidence, even. Get her to trust you. Open up to you. You’d have a real weapon against Mischa, one he couldn’t contest lightly.”
“Do you even hear yourself, Fabio?”
He sighs, gritting his teeth. “Do you?”
“Go on and say it. What do you mean?”
“I mean, have you ever stopped to ask yourself why you react to her so strongly? Is it hate, or is it guilt?”
Something in the way he stresses that word stops me cold. “I feel like you’re talking in circles, Fab. I was never a fucking intellectual like you, so say it plainly.”
“I’m saying that you’re afraid of her, and you should try to harness that emotion instead of running from it, for once. It’s okay to feel guilty for something you’ve done. What’s even better than that? Acknowledging it and asking for forgiveness from the person you hurt.”
“You need sleep, Fab. Your emotions are getting the best of you—”
“If they were, you can bet that my fist would be planted in your mouth right now.” He sounds more tired than angry, exhaustion reflected in his bloodshot gaze. “You are not the heartless monster you pretend to be, and I think that’s why it’s so hard for you to face her and—”
“And what?”
“And risk knowing that she may never forgive you. But you leave that choice to her. You seek out her forgiveness, and you fight for it, not run like a coward. You are not a coward.”
I keep walking. “We’re done with this conversation—”
“Are you afraid, is that it? Of what she represents? You’ve never let yourself go back there, not really. Even if you traipse through that fucking haunted house, you never really let yourself relive it. If you could, you would have had the place burned to the ground.”
“Relive?” I laugh incredulously. “If you mean ‘burn in hell,’ then yes, I do that. Every fucking day.”
“You don’t remember, do you?” His eyes narrow as if he finally solved some complex puzzle. “All this time… This is how you’ve protected yourself. Turning it all on her. Maybe I was wrong—you are a coward.”
I turn back to find him in the same spot near Vin’s door. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He gapes at me like he’s waiting for something. Then he shakes his head. “Nothing, Donatello. No, you know what, it is something. I have never asked you for anything, but I think I have the right to, at least in this case. You’ve spent years wallowing in your own pain without once stepping outside of your own head to understand anyone else. You aren’t the only one hurting from the past.”
His tone resonates with an uncharacteristic note of anger. He’s serious.
Rather than counter him outright, I bite my tongue. My feelings toward the woman aside, if anyone deserves to be heard, it’s him. “What are you saying, Fabio?”
“I’m saying that I want you to try, if not for yourself, then for me. Try to see beyond your hate and look at her as not a tool but a partner. Though, if you want to use her as your proxy and dwell on the past, then by all means. You’re right. This conversation is over.”
“Wait—”
“I’m leaving.”
He reenters Vin’s room, but I follow him. She’s still by the bed, her hand on Vin’s.
Fabio has always been an optimist, but this time he’s verged into fantasy territory. He’s a sad old man clinging to hope after a lifetime of suffering. Not only for assuming she would ever forgive me, but that she would stand against Mischa of her own free will, without the threat of her family’s safety hanging over her head.
No fucking way.
But, I can’t ignore how he said those words. This is how you’ve protected yourself…
Turning it all on her.
As if I haven’t spent the past seven years hating myself.
When I look at him again, he’s fluffing Vin’s pillows, his charming grin firmly in place. It’s uncanny how easily he can switch out his emotions, suppressing one in favor of another.
Could I do the same when it comes to the blond standing beside
