23. SAFETY
GIOELE
I’m combing the Bay Area by foot, and Bully’s cursing behind me. I’ve been at it for the last three hours. For efficiency, I’ve tried to send the guys out in different directions, but they follow standing orders from Isaias, which are to not leave me alone. I’ve called Isaias about it, but he’s not budging. “You’re no good to anyone if you’re dead or chained up somewhere for the mama’s boy to have fun with you.”
Street up, and street down, I enter stores, trawl back alleys, bars, and restaurants. There’s no help in showing her picture; beautiful molasses-eyed girls with long black hair pass by in flocks if I’m to believe these people.
“It’s ridiculous,” Isaias tells me on my fourth hour. “All you’re doing is wearing yourself out. Get out of there; what if you run into Santa Colombinis?”
I plow my fingers through my hair. “At least give me the planetarium.”
“We’re close. Waiting for some sales records from a couple of decades ago. If they’re what we think they are, we’ll have a location.”
“As in where?”
“As I said, waiting for it. Go have some food.”
It’s a goddamn slow night. I eventually go back to the apartment, but I can’t sleep worth shit. I think of Gabriela’s last words. I needed to tap in on Silvina’s wavelength, she said.
When we were little, we didn’t even have to say things out loud; I’d know what Silvina was thinking, and she’d follow my tacit suggestions with a quirked grin. It used to entertain us.
Ina mia. Think of me.
Ina mia. Don’t let him hurt you anymore.
“What’re you doing?” Bully’s voice interrupts me. I’m on the windowsill, cross-legged with my eyes closed. I open them to glare at him.
“Sorry. You meditatin’ or something?”
“Or something,” I mutter. “What time is it?”
“Four a.m. Fritz fell asleep.” Bully grins smugly.
I look over. Fritz is still at his post by the door, blinking pinkly out the narrow window. “All’s quiet outside,” he reports.
“Fritz?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know what you should do? Go to the second bedroom, down the corridor, and conk out. That way you’ll be ready to go in a few hours.”
“But sir…”
“Seriously, dude.”
“Definitely, sir.”
Bully looks like I just shot him with a stun gun.
“What?” I fling my arms open.
“He gets to sleep?”
I’m no one’s mommy, and I haven’t asked anyone to stay awake. “Go sleep already! I don’t care. Sleep, don’t sleep, whatever.”
“But Isaias is going to…” He trails off on a whine.
“’Cause I’mma snitch on you? Cool, yeah, I’ll just call him right now and tell him you’re slacking.” I glare, and he sends me a sheepish look.
“Right, then. I’ll just— Um. I’ll just…” He hikes his thumb over his shoulder.
“Not in my bed,” I say for fun. Because fuck it, what morons.
SILVINA
He hasn’t fed me since breakfast, but I’m not about to complain. I’d rather have a sugar crash than call attention to myself. I’m reeling hard right now. It was brutal to see Gioele’s frustration. I’ve never missed him more in my life.
I’ve taken PSYC 101 and 102. It’s no mystery what’s happening to me. I’m realizing I had it good, out there. I was spoiled: life, school, freedom, a family that loves me, and a soul-wrenching always-love I’d decided to live without.
God, I had it good.
Then, there’s Stockholm Syndrome. I was intrigued by it in PSYC 102, because it sounded insane. How can someone end up feeling intense affection and alliance with someone who holds them captive, someone who robs them of their freedom and hurts them?
It actually helps to have learned about it in class. Because here he is, my captor, the beautiful psychopath who tells me I’m his soulmate. Tonight, he’s decided we will sleep in the same bed. Tonight, he touches my cheek tenderly, licks the tip of his finger, and caresses the rupture in my lip.
I shut my eyes. He gave me a cream-colored baby doll nightie with a built-in bra to put on before bed. I’m wearing it now, under the bedspread, with the heat of him close and that all-too-fresh pine scent crowding me.
The sound of his sighs, light yet darkly masculine, are at my ear. I fight the allure of his contentment. This man, the same man caressing my arm chastely as he shapes his stomach against my spine, has left my eye in need of an ice pack. I have it wrapped in a washcloth so I can sleep on it.
Tenderness for someone who abuses, restricts, and chains you, it’s a sick thing, and I’m developing that thing. The Stockholm Syndrome; I think of it while soft hands pull my hair back and lay it along the wing of my shoulder. I think of it while gentle fingers cause my mane to snake over my waist.
“You’re so beautiful, Silvina,” he breathes, like he’s my lover, like he’s normal.
I don’t speak, fighting the allure of this twisted minute. I’m asleep; I’ll let him believe it. Maybe he’ll leave me alone.
I try not to tense up when his head lifts behind me. I know he’ll lean in closer, and he does. He does. A waft of mouth rinse hits my nostrils, tickling me on the way there.
“I’m so pleased,” he whispers, “so happy you’re mine.”
I’m asleep. I remind myself it’s not called “luck” when someone doesn’t force themselves on you. I tell myself I have no reason for endorphins to fill me, making me want to chant with gratitude that he’s being kind, that he’s worshipping in the way a boy does his girl.
I’m choking that feeling, making sure it doesn’t fill me. I could hug him back so easily. I want to cry because it’s so close for me. What if I willingly let him kiss my cheek and my neck? Maybe I’d let him do more, and all because he isn’t hurting me!
I want to study myself from the outside; it’s only my second night in his clutches, and already, my faith is gone. He’s seen everything there is of me, down to my softest frailty.
I try to distance myself, but he knows me now. He’s seen my deepest fears. He’s seen my deepest love. I’ve wrenched my heart out to him, moaning, whimpering. I’ve lost all pride to this man, and it’s done something to me.
But I’m asleep, and John can’t see through me. He whispers hope to me in shades of daylight, until I drift off after all. My chest is light. He holds me like I’m precious, as if I’m someone to keep intact. I’m okay. I can sleep. And when I find Dreamland, it’s with his arms around me in an embrace I didn’t expect.
It’s nine thirty in the morning, and my heart is batting out of my chest. He’s in a good mood. He didn’t force himself on me last night—I didn’t even feel his hardness push against me when I woke up, the way you do with a man in the early morning hour. But it’s late.
Yesterday, John told Gioele he’d see me again at ten. But now, John has all the time in the world. He hums from the walk-in closet, moving around. I picture him lift a dress, this or that, deciding what I’ll look best in. He hasn’t mentioned the planetarium. All he’s talked about is how he wants me to meet his mother.
“Breakfast, pretty Silvina. You’ve been locked up for too long, and Mother wants to meet you. She thinks you’re good for me.”
I want to ask him what that means for Gioele. He needs to see me, and I’m dying to see him. A morsel of joy jumps and disappears in my throat at how difficult he must be right now. My Gioele must be smashing stuff. Getting into fights, stalking the streets of San Francisco in search of me.
Ina mia. I need to hear him call me by my name. The lump in my throat swells again, tries to erupt in the form of tears. I block it. Unhappiness could cause elation or fury depending on John’s quicksilver state of mind.
“Here! This is it.” Triumphant, he holds up a short yellow sundress with a sweetheart neckline and a flouncy little skirt. He flips it for a view of the back—buttons from the bottom and up—before turning it back again with a grin. “What do you think?”
A mother-in-law’s dream.
“Great.” My smile feels stiff.
“Good.” He nods at my baby doll. “Strip out of that.”
When I hesitate, dark alarm flashes in his eyes. I fumble with one of the thin shoulder straps. He didn’t want me to wear anything underneath it, so I’ll be utterly bare again, just like yesterday morning.
He crosses his arms, mood rapidly dropping. I don’t have a choice. I need to do this if I’m not to experience his wrath again. Idly, I notice how the thin fabric of the sundress folds haphazardly from the hanger along his thigh.
It’s not cold in here, but goosebumps rise on my body as I slide the straps off my shoulders. The baby doll is so tiny, I barely feel it around my ankles when I straighten again. I wish I could feel it more. I wish it gave the illusion of a barrier, a fake shelter for a few more seconds.
His eyes have darkened to denim-grey. Again, I can’t see if he likes or dislikes what he sees when he runs them over my body. This is a scary John, an unpredictable John. Someone who could be cruel or tender, depending on the mood.
His mouth thins in a concentrated line as he drinks in my dips. He stops on my most private center, and my heart hammers in my ears. On instinct, my eyes roam the space for underwear. I already know there’s none in this room.
John lets out a small breath through his nose while he watches me.
“All right,” he finally says.
I try not to flinch when he walks up to me. “You’re so shy, my dear. There’s no need to be shy with your man.”
Every muscle in my body is tense while he caresses my naked, naked hip. His hand moves around to my backside. The urge to shut my eyes is so big, the pulse throbs in my ears.
John cups my butt cheek with the palm of his hand and squeezes lightly. The air stands still while I survive, while I let him.
He leans in like he wants to kiss me, a lover’s kiss right here, right on my lips that tremble. When he’s an inch from them, he whispers, “Sunny side up?”
“What?” I hiccough.
“You like your eggs sunny side up.”
“No, I like… Yes.”
There’s air around me again, and the too-fresh scent of pine lightens. He lays the dress down, skirt spread wide on the bed, before he walks back to the closet and comes out with a white lingerie set. “Let’s go sweet and innocent today. You’ve got potential to hit it off well with Mother.”
The day is sunny and cool, too cool for the flimsy dress he’s put me in, if this is where we’re having breakfast. The sharp air laps at my arms while he holds out a wicker chair for me.
I squint, looking around the small garden. After just having the blindfold removed, the morning is too bright. Small rosebushes line the patio, leaning against a tapestry of ivy climbing up sturdy, white stucco walls. “Sturdy” was my first thought. I don’t see a way out of this place.
“Mother, this is my pretty Silvina,” he says, his smile a beautiful one, of the kind that’s umblemished by cruelty. John’s gaze flows to me and stills. “Silvina, this is my mother, Mrs. Dieter Maximilian Himmel.”
“Oh, honey. You’re being much too formal.” The eyes of the fifty-something woman greeting us are alight with amusement. “Silvina, cara. You can call me Damiana.”
“Signora Damiana.” I bow my head in greeting, until she stands from her chair and I realize she wants to embrace me.
I rise too but remain stiffly where I am. She rounds the table and folds me into warm arms, the scent of roses and nutmeg, and a soft chuckle. “I’m so happy to finally meet you, bella Silvina. My son has talked about you for so long. Finally, you’re here.”
I swallow as she holds me by my shoulders and studies me. “Really. The pictures don’t do you justice. Your beauty is statuesque. My goodness. Aren’t you a lucky man?” she asks John.
I’m used to ruses and farces played out around me. I grew up with them. But I’ve never seen anyone go this far before. Doesn’t she see me? This morning, John’s bathroom mirror threw back a black eye that’s half shut. My lip is cleaved open from the blow at the planetarium. Before we came here, I was stupid enough to ask him about our appointment with Gioele too, which is why my wrists are blue, why one of my arms sends streaks of pain up to my shoulder after he twisted it onto my back.
“I know, Mother,” he says coyly.
Damiana bobs her head, sending a mild look between us, like she knows young love and aren’t we adorable. “Per favore, have a seat. I’ve got your cappuccino ready for you. Do you take sugar in it, sweet girl?”
“Yes, please.” I don’t know if I’m supposed to say more. I’m careful with everything I do right now. I can’t take any more punishments.
She lifts a delicate sugar bowl and scoops a lump of sugar onto a silver spoon. Probably an heirloom, I faintly think. She plops the sugar into my cup, and I watch as maple-colored froth swallows it.
“Another?” she asks.
“Yes. Silvina loves her sugar,” John says with a laugh, and his mother joins him.
“Oh, I hear you. I’m exactly the same way! A third one too, maybe?” She casts a glance at me while ladling the second lump of sugar into my cup, the foam drowning it in the same, slow way as the first time.
“Now, now, Mother,” John chuckles. “We don’t want her to get fat, do we?”
“Oh, John.” She sets the sugar down and swats his arm playfully. “You must excuse my son. He’s a little crude sometimes. It’s what happens when boys go to military school. They can be so polite on one end, but then the boy in them peeks out. Sai?”
I bob my head, trying to smile. Because fuck, I do know.
Crisp, white linen embroidered with blue flowers covers the table, and every dainty porcelain cup, every plate, matches it. She lifts silver domes off serving plates, revealing eggs sunny-side up, steaming bacon, and fried polenta. My mouth waters as I follow the steam curling off the polenta.
John serves me, mouth twisting in concentration while he scoots the polenta onto a silver pastry server and balances it toward my plate.
“Uh-oh,” he says when it almost tips off the server.
Damiana giggles with him. “The polenta has a will of its own, doesn’t it?” she says, and I think that I’ve never seen a prettier, plumper, more ruby-colored smile. The sweetness she exudes is so genuine, it’s difficult to reconcile with what she must know about her son.
“Like my Silvina,” John laughs, winking at me.
“But wouldn’t it be boring if there was nothing there?” Damiana taps her head lightly, wiggling it from side to side. “You see, John and his father, they never could stand to be around the simple ones. They always craved their match in intelligence, and… all other ways.” Her cheeks color slightly at her own words.
While his mother talks, John sends me a look. Suddenly glacial, it swipes from my plate to my face in a tacit command that I eat. I instantly obey.
Damiana chats through breakfast, and I find myself relaxing. John is on his best behavior around his mother, it appears. She tells me about her garden, how the roses fare, that after her son, they’re what she lives and breathes for. “For the potted ones, you can’t leave the dirt in standing water. If you do, the roots will rot.”
John’s watch reveals eleven a.m. by the time he stands and stretches. I’ve given up hope on seeing Gioele today. I feel safe in Damiana’s cold garden.