I knew she meant every word.
And I felt horrified that I couldn’t relate in the slightest. Something had to be wrong with me. I was broken, incapable of feeling anything close to her version of love.
Now, I know the truth. I was just overused. A fried electrical socket, forever defective.
Why? Because Donatello Vanici overwhelmed my young system with more emotion than it could handle. He taught me care and affection.
He taught me hate.
Being around him arouses all of those past sentiments and more in a warped, twisted context. Emotions, in general, feel hotter and more vibrant around him, like I could explode from the sensation alone. Combust. As long as he’s alive, I will never feel normal again, whatever that means. His death would be one way to reconcile the damage; I know that.
Or…
Steal back whatever he took all those years ago. Considering that I don’t even know how to put that into words…
It’s a daunting task. Love isn’t a strong enough term—or perhaps too strong. Trust, maybe?
Trust in him when I’d already learned to withhold it from everyone else. Trust that he would never let me down like they had. Never betray me.
It hurt like hell to hear that he never cared, but at least I had something to hold on to. Now he claims to not even remember why he sold me. A pathetic, stupid lie. It has to be. Selling a child isn’t something you’d forget—unless he truly is a depraved monster.
Or a man with a psyche so damaged he can’t truly recall anything. I wrack my brain, trying to square the man in my memories with any one of those scenario Donatellos. Neither fits.
He wasn’t crazy, at least not back then. He wasn’t cold or distant. Though, I am aware that my recollections don’t completely match reality, distorted from childhood and a rose-colored view. Olivia saw a very different man from my Don. Someone she pleaded with, displaying desperation I will never understand.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you…
Maybe that’s what Fabio wanted to hide? His sister had grown out of love with her husband…
A flash of the way he used to look at her appears in my mind in painful clarity—but I refuse to pity him. Instead, I’ll take him up on his offer—use him. Take everything he has to give and salvage something from it.
Olivia wilted in the shadow of his indifference, but I won’t.
I refuse to.
For the first time in days, my thoughts feel focused. With this newfound clarity, I dress in a simple gray sweater and jeans from the selection Fabio procured for me, and I leave the room with the determination of a soldier facing an opponent on the battlefield. Intuitively, I sense he’s already awake, plotting somewhere deep within the house. I follow the impulse downstairs and wind up before the mouth of his study.
Unsurprisingly, he’s hunched over the desk, one hand propped against his forehead. The angle alone betrays the lines etched into his face by age and exhaustion. A thrill runs through me, though I write it off as grim recognition. His mouth is in that hard line I remember; his bottom lip skewered between his teeth. He’s working on something. Before him is a wealth of assorted documents, spread out haphazardly.
“You’re still here.” His tone is cold, but neutral. As he lifts his head, I don’t find the hostility I’ve come to expect.
Neither change comforts me.
This iteration of Donatello Vanici is a chameleon. One adept at portraying whatever guise is required to achieve his chosen aim. Last night was all an act meant to lower my guard. The real question is, why?
He sits back without revealing the answer, swiping his hand over the papers before him. A tilt of his head beckons me closer, but his eyes contain a dare I don’t have the energy to decipher. With every step I advance, I tell myself that it’s on my own terms. Of my own free will.
He hasn’t fooled me. I’ll turn the tables soon enough…
“Sit.” He gestures to the leather chair before him, but I don’t move. It’s childish defiance. I expect him to snarl his command again, but a slow grin contorts his mouth instead. “Suit yourself.”
He shoves a stack of papers at me and picks up a pen. “You are a smart, sneaky son of a bitch out to undermine me from the ground up. How do you do it?”
I blink. His expression remains blank, and his voice lacked the anger I’m used to—he didn’t mean that statement literally. It was a question. One having something to do with the documents he nods to.
I scan the nearest one, feeling my brows furrow. The series of numbers and random statements printed on the sheet read as a jumble of nonsense at first. The more I read, however, the more sense of it I can make.
Locations? All for sale, seemingly within walking distance of each other, but their stated designations make no sense when taken all together. A butcher shop. A fish market. A random bookstore a few miles down.
You are a smart, sneaky son of a bitch out to undermine me from the ground up. How do you do it?
I let myself embody that sarcastic hypothetical. How would I destroy him if I had endless resources at my disposal? The first image that comes to mind steals my breath—stripping before him in darkness, forcing him to view me in the one way he shouldn’t…
No. To truly destroy him, my plan would be far simpler. I’d buy an army, not buildings. Then I’d drive him out of the city brick by brick
