Page 46 of Bianchi

Haven clears her throat. “I should get back to work.”

Without looking back at her, I keep my head tipped back and sincerely reply, “Thank you, Haven.”

The door clicks as she shuts it behind her and after five minutes of soaking in the tranquility. My movements are unhurried as I kick off my sneakers and bend to pick them up.

I walk out onto the lawn, my bare feet sinking into the grass. It’s dewy from the rain this morning, but I won’t let it deter me, not with the all-consuming need to make this moment feel real fueling me.

With the sun not due to set for another hour or so, I walk further out into the center of the lawn. I’m waiting for the moment someone jumps out and tells me it’s all been a trick. For someone to shoot me for trying to escape.

My eyes land on a burly guy walking the perimeter to my left and I come to a stop, unable to pull in any air. His machine gun is cradled in his arms like a sleeping baby and my stomach drops, the butterflies erupting and taking flight when his eyes shift to mine. My body is tense, bracing for the moment he turns the weapon on me and fires. Within seconds, he breaks the contact, continuing on his walk like nothing ever happened. I exhale, my heart thumping a galloping rhythm in my chest.

Maybe I need to take Romeo at his word. He said I was free to explore the garden. What reason would he have for having me taken out now? I should be enjoying this moment for as long as I have it.

Shaking away the dark cloud hanging over my head, I stroll across the lawn, toward the back of the garden. The grass is bouncy beneath my feet and offers me a refreshing reminder of mother nature. Ever since I’ve been staying in Romeo’s room, every morning, I’ve looked out of the bathroom window to the walled garden at the back. If I had to guess, from what I’ve seen, it looks like to be a rose garden that might provide me with some new drawing inspiration.

Anticipation skates down my spine when I push through an old wooden gate and into the separated garden. Greenery fills six large but equally sized flower beds and the buds of all different roses are visible.

Walking down the gravel path in between the first row of beds, I touch the leaves, careful to steer clear of the thorns. The weight on my shoulders lifts with each step, and I inhale deeply the smell of the earth; fresh and invigorating. Although the roses aren’t in bloom yet, the buds are forming and my imagination fills in the blanks with the scent. There’s a familiarity to the space, but I can’t quite put my finger on why that is.

Gravel crunching signals the end of my time alone. The steps grow hesitant, stopping and starting before someone speaks, “We grow a lot of different varieties of roses here, but they won’t be in full bloom until May and June.”

I turn toward the voice, coming face-to-face with an older man, lines of a life well lived covering his face. His salt and pepper hair is barely concealed beneath his worn plain black baseball cap. He’s grasping gardening shears in one hand and a pair of thick canvas gloves in the other.

He looks nervous, the hand holding the gloves shaking slightly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. It’s been a long time since anyone came here. Not since…” he trails off, his eyes narrowing a fraction.

My gaze drops to the shears and I take a step back, clutching my pad to my chest. “I’m sorry. I was told I could draw in the garden.” He doesn’t say anything so I add, “I should go.”

He drops the shears into the bed next to him, taking a large step away for good measure and holding up both hands before removing his cap. “You can draw here. I’ll go. My curiosity got the better of me.”

We stare, both unmoving. If I want to leave, I need to pass him and I’m not sure what his intentions might be. He seems harmless enough, but then so do a lot of things that could kill you.

“Who are you?” His question comes out quietly and coated in curiosity. I’m not sure he meant to ask it, but it doesn’t stop my brows from pulling together. I thought everyone would know who I am.

With a neutral expression, I straighten my spine and reply, “My name is Aurora Costa.”

His eyes bulge, and his mouth parts slightly. He shuffles toward me, squeezing his hat in his hands with his gloves. “Aurora? Is it really you? I mean, I thought you looked familiar, but it’s been years and well…”

“Who are you?” I demand, thrown by what he’s saying to me. It makes no sense. I have never seen this man before.

Shaking his head, he presses a hand to his forehead. “Of course, you wouldn’t remember me.” He smooths a hand down the front of his shirt, standing taller, his sincere gray eyes locking on mine before he speaks. “My name is Andrea Pesci. I worked with your mother.”

“At Dunlocks?” My question rolls off of my tongue. I only ever remember my mom working at a department store. She’d take me in around the holidays and I’d get to pick whatever toy I wanted. As I got older, that turned into makeup and clothes.

“No.” Andrea looks around, the bill of his cap now completely crushed in his hand. “We worked together here.”

My thighs hit the back of one of the flower beds. What he’s saying doesn’t make any sense. I would have remembered if she ever worked for the mafia. Right? She’d have told me. We didn’t keep secrets from each other. No matter how much certainty I inject into my tone, there’s a hint of questioning in my statement when I declare, “My mom never worked here. She doesn’t know these people.”

Andrea puts his cap back on, before he stuffs his gloves into the back pocket of his worn, dirty jeans. “It was nearly twenty-five years ago, but yes, she did. She left when you were four… after your accident,” he replies softly.

My accident?

I run a hand over my forehead and I look away, trying to process what he’s saying. So many things are falling into place and yet remain unanswered. That sense of familiarity of the garden from earlier returns with a force. “What do you mean my accident?” I ask, my words barely audible over the rushing in my ears.

Andrea’s eyes fall over my left shoulder and I glance back at the empty open space beyond the flower bed I’m standing in front of.

“There used to be a fountain over there. You were playing hide and seek with the boys and had snuck in here to hide. Your father had asked Mr. Marino to keep it off-limits for i bambini. He was worried you’d get hurt on the thorns, but he never imagined what actually happened. You must have tried to hide inside the fountain, but you were little and the inside was slippery. Massimo came running back to the house, frantic, telling us that Romeo had pulled you out of the water. He said you weren’t moving.” Inhaling sharply, Andrea clears his throat before continuing, his eyes glassy. “You stopped coming around after that. Your madre left that day and we lost touch.”

I don’t know what to do with this information. Everything I thought I knew was a lie. The scar my mom said I got from falling from the jungle gym wasn’t from that at all. She was part of this life. Hell, so was I. And yet I got on my high horse when I told my father to stay away.

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