Page 52 of Bianchi

His words are a reminder of another question that has been plaguing me for weeks. I don’t have the will to voice it, worried that if I asked him how long I’ll be kept here, he will shut me out. Or worse yet, take it as me wanting to leave when, in fact, I’m not sure that I do anymore.

Chapter 30

Romeo

Cazzo!

I’ve fallen in love with her.

Chapter 31

Aurora

Aslip of paper floats from the pages of my sketchpad, landing on the plush carpet by my feet. I stare at it blankly for a moment, my brow furrowed as I try to remember when I put it there before realizing I didn’t.

Slowly sliding my pad onto the table, I bend to retrieve it. My scalp prickles and the hairs on my forearms stand to attention. Everything inside me is screaming for me to leave it alone.

This is going to change everything.

I pause before opening it fully. A leaden weight settles in the pit of my stomach as my heart pounds frantically in my chest.

Something tells me, there’s only one man this note is about and our relationship is… Christ, what we were three short weeks ago and what we are now are polar opposites. I yearn for him in a way that I know I shouldn’t. My body craves his nearness, and he’s more than willing to offer himself up.

With each passing day, he’s shown me another side of himself that I wouldn’t have thought possible from a man like him. After all, how can a man who’s so ingrained in his world feel compassion, affection, and, dare I say it, love for another human being?

Moreover, this house is starting to feel a lot less like my prison because, in his arms, I feel at home.

Of course, I’d be a fool to brush off the circumstances of how we met. But I feel the safest I’ve ever felt with Romeo.

I run my fingers over the paper, my mind consumed with thoughts of him. It’s only when my finger catches on the edge, the pain bringing me back from my daydream, that I remember what I was doing.

Sucking on my index finger, my mouth fills with a metallic taste as I flip the note over. The paper is expensive and thick but not card and there are no other markings on it.

I inhale sharply and, without a second thought, lift the fold to open the note. My eyes scan over the words in front of me, the air leaving my lungs and failing to come back.

This can’t be right.

My legs tremble and buckle beneath me as I sink into the chair behind me, my stomach plummeting to my feet. How is this real? It can’t be. I read the words again and again. Blinking and rubbing at my eyes before my hand covers my mouth as bile burns my throat.

This is some cruel joke. But who would think this was funny? How did it even get into my pad? I’ve been in this room, in the vicinity of it, all day. Was it… It couldn’t be… but even as I dismiss the thought, I know that somebody in this house has got to have done this. Which means that somebody that Romeo knows, and trusts, is willing to take him out. But why? My throat grows thick, and no matter how much I try, I can’t swallow past the lump.

This isn’t real.

I blink away the blurriness distorting my sight, focusing on the words again.

Shifting in my chair, I throw the paper onto the table and bring my knees up to my chest, resting my chin on them as I stare at the offending note. I don’t want to think about what will happen if I don’t follow their instructions. There’s no way I’m not going, but getting out of this house and to Strawberry Fields in Central Park is going to be difficult. Exhaling heavily, I squeeze my eyes shut, trying in vain to sort through the whirlwind of emotions that are drowning me.

If I'd been asked a week ago what I would do, I'd have said he’s made his bed and in his world, you get what you get. But things have changed. Somewhere along the line, I’ve handed him a piece of my heart.

My eyes pop open and my focus shifts to the bed. As if it’s a scene from a movie playing out in front of me, I can see Romeo and I lazing in the sheets.

Romeo’s hand traces over my waist as I lie cocooned in the crook of his arm. We’re a tangle of limbs and racing hearts. In moments like this, I can pretend that what we have is normal. That our circumstances don’t matter because when I’m with him, everything is perfect.

He’s staring up at the ceiling, lost in his own head. The heaviness in the air and the slow tensing of his body tells me something is wrong. As if sensing my eyes on him, he turns his head on the pillow, our eyes locking as we stare at each other. The only sounds around us are the gentle patter of rain on the window and our breathing.

I reach my hand up between us, smoothing out the furrow between his brows. “What’s wrong?”

He takes hold of my wrist, bringing my hand to his mouth as he places a soft kiss on my open palm. “Nothing, bellissima.”

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