Page 81 of Dark Romeo

Me: Why do you care anyway?

There was a long pause before I received his answer.

Roman: I don’t know.

Me: What the hell is that supposed to mean?

He didn’t reply. I stared at my silent phone for what felt like hours before I gave up willing him to respond. Infuriating man. I threw the cell phone on my bedside table and turned my back on it, gripping the sheets with my fingers. It was a long time before I could fall asleep.

The next day at work I looked up the cell phone number Roman had texted me from. It was unregistered, a prepaid burner phone activated yesterday. The only number he had contacted using the phone was mine. Roman got a burner phone just to message me.

Arrogant girl. Why would he get a burner phone just to message you?

Maybe I’d hear from him again? My stomach fluttered at the mere thought.

Stupid. You don’t want to hear from him again. Block the number.

But I couldn’t, for some reason, bring myself to.

* * *

Over the next few days I jumped every time my phone beeped, thinking it might be Roman. I grew more and more frustrated at myself when it wasn’t. I hoped that he’d change his mind about my help. I figured that I just had to be patient.

But just as the rose faded, the blood-red draining from its velvet tips, the petals falling and drying up without any sign from Roman, so did those hopes. Damn him. What game was he playing? Why did he go from appearing to care about me to pushing me away? Why did he send me a beautiful perfect rose only to ignore me?

I’d seen this kind of push-pull behavior before in victims of domestic abuse or children from broken homes, torn between familial loyalty and self-preservation. Roman wanted help—my help—but he didn’t know how to ask for it. He wanted a way out but didn’t know how to make one. I had to be persistent. I had to prove that I wouldn’t back away. I had to make him see that he could trust me.

The next Saturday morning, I found myself standing in front of a faded blue door of a single-story brick cottage in a leafy suburb in eastern Verona. Behind this door lived Roman’s good friend, Mercutio Brevio. Mercutio seemed to really care about Roman. He was the only one of Roman’s friends who wasn’t associated with the Tyrell family. He was the only one who might be able to help.

I chewed my lip. I still wasn’t sure that this was at all a good idea. But I was here.

I raised my fist and knocked before I could change my mind. I glanced around as I waited. The curtains of the neighboring house shifted as my gaze rested upon it. I was being watched.

A thought crept into my head. What if I was wrong? What if I was walking into the lion’s den just like I had when I strode into Roman’s apartment? Espo had no idea I was here. No one did.

Before I could back away the door clicked and opened. A tiny old woman with white hair appeared in the doorway.

I started in surprise. “Oh. Hi.”

This must be Mercutio’s grandmother. Given Mercutio’s age, she must be at least in her sixties, but her warm brown skin was carrying it well, her cheeks still plump and the whites of her eyes still clear. A warmth radiated off her, making me feel instantly calmer.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her melodic voice curious rather than suspicious.

“Um, is Mercutio here?”

She smiled, her brown eyes sparkling as she appraised me again. She must think I was here for Mercutio. “No, he’s just run out to do some things for me. He’s such a good boy. Always helping his Nonna out. Do you want to wait inside for him?” She stepped aside and held open the door for me.

“Sure. Thanks.” I walked inside before I could change my mind.

The cottage was small but cozy. The furniture was well worn yet everything looked comfortable and welcoming. Mercutio admitted in his interview that Roman had spent a lot of his childhood here. I suddenly got an image of a younger Roman Tyrell buried in the soft cushions of the couch on a cold winter’s night. For some reason, it warmed me.

I followed Mercutio’s grandmother into the kitchen smelling of warm apples and cinnamon from a pie in the oven. My stomach twinged. My mother would often bake apple pie for my father and me.

She waved at the rustic wooden table just big enough for four people, indicating that I sit. “Did you want some tea or coffee?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I chewed my lip. “I’m actually here to ask about Roman.”

Mercutio’s grandmother pulled off her faded red apron and hung it on the hook on the back door before she sat down opposite me at the table. “Are you a girlfriend of Roman’s?”

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