Page 13 of Isle of Pain

I lift a hand up, and order, “Stop.”

Immediately, Nico stops in the middle of the room. He lifts his hands from his pockets and lets his arms rest on each side of his body, as though poised to obey my next command.

“You have no right to be here,” I whisper, my throat constricting around my vocal cords.

“Why not?” he asks, tilting his head to the side like he can’t fathom why this moment will bring me shame for years to come.

I press my lips tighter together to refrain from crying or lashing out. Or both.

“Is it because you don’t want me to wander around your home, or because you don’t want me to know you’re an alcoholic?”

I gasp. “You did not just accuse me of that!” I blurt out, offended. But not because he’s wrong. No. For once in my life,someone finally sees me. And I hate that they do. I hate this version of myself that has no control over her impulses. I hate this me that needs hard liquor every day to escape myself and every night to fall asleep. I don’t want him to see me. But his amber eyes, that could remind me of honey but look like the most luxurious whiskey to me, bore into mine. They don’t miss any details of my sins.

The silence stretches between us.

Nico remains still.

I can’t hold the tension occupying the space with us any longer. “If you tell a single soul, I’ll kill you, Nico Capaldi.”

He snorts and my ire grows. I approach him, my shoulder back, the bottle still in my hands, like it could be my weapon. Looking at him down my nose even as he towers over me, I lift a hand to his face but stay a hair shy of his cheek. Somehow, the absence of touch is more powerful than the heat of his skin against the pad of my fingers. I caress the promise between us. A thrill creeps up my spine when he doesn’t move, as if a puppet in my hands.

“Tell a soul and I’ll become what everyone is afraid I could be,” I vow.

“And what is that, Marie?” He can’t seem to stop saying my name.

“A Moretti.”

7

MARIE

HOW DO YOU GRIEVE FOR SOMETHING THAT HASN’T HAPPENED YET?

The wet and capricious March air has replaced the smell of snow when we learn that Lisa is indeed expecting a baby girl.

“I told you so,” she exclaims and sticks her tongue out like we’re five, holding the sonogram against her chest. In her own way, she’s already holding her.

The morning sickness has been hard to disguise and she’s starting to show. Actually that’s not true. Her body is fully accommodating the baby inside her and it’s an absolute miracle no one has noticed.

It’s a testament to how little we matter in this family.

Lana and our father are busy planning a war with The Moscow Bratva. I heard them talk the other day as I was doing my late night run to dispose of empty glass bottles, in the middle of the night like a thief. The head of the Bratva, Misha Petrov, abducted Lana’s bodyguard, Igor, back in September last year and disappeared. But his enterprise is still thriving and Lanasaid he’s in the skin business. She wants to take him down and I wholeheartedly support her crusade against this monster.

I merely wished I were included in the decisions that impact our family. But as always, Lisa and I are kept in the dark, barely spoken to as of late. A new bodyguard has replaced Hugo at Lisa’s side and I don’t know how long we’ll be able to keep the charade up.

After the echography, Dr Olmeto sends us to her colleague and Lisa’s oncologist, Dr Martel.

My throat dries as we push the button that automatically opens the door but I steel my spine.

After her examination, the verdict is the same as it was a month ago. “The cancer hasn’t progressed. It’s stable, but we do need to perform a full hysterectomy when we go through the c-section during birth. Can I bring you the paperwork?”

Her voice is clinical, devoid of humanity and Lisa flinches as the reminder of the surgery that awaits her when her baby girl will come into this world. She told me at our previous appointment that she was devastated she couldn’t go through a natural birth but the doctor insisted that it’s too dangerous for both the mother and the child and that this course of action was her best chance at life. Her best chance at being the parent she wants to be to the little avocado in her belly.

Grief is a funny thing. How do you grieve for something that hasn’t happened yet? Because I already know I’m going to lose her. Every time we come here is simply a harsh reminder. I don’t know how I know and every time we arrive home, I try to convince myself that I’m being paranoid and silly, or too intoxicated to think clearly. But the knowledge is bone deep. It’s an inner knowing I can’t explain. A sensation deep in my gut that one day I’ll wake up and my twin won’t be here anymore. Not because we will have both moved on and found a life for ourselves.

It will be because her corpse is ashes scattered in the wind.

When we get home, Lisa takes the stairs two at a time—she still can—and locks herself into her room. She doesn’t come down for dinner that evening. Nor the next day.

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