Page 97 of Salvatore

A loud shriek of birds carries from outside, the air in my lungs heavier than it should be as I inch closer to the glass panel beside the door to watch Salvatore being driven away.

It takes seconds for his absence to feel like a severed limb. For a wanted criminal and proud murderer to seem like the one person I can’t afford to lose.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Don’t worry,dolcezza.” Catarina’s voice carries down the long hall. “I’m sure he’ll return as soon as he can.”

I swallow against the absurdity of my emotions. “I’m not concerned.” I stand taller through the lie and force a smile with her approach.

She gives me a pitying look, clearly not gobbling up my bullshit. “I’m going to head out and buy you a few things to get you settled.”

“At this hour?”

“There’s a Walmart that’s open twenty-four-seven. I will get you a cell phone so you can contact Salvatore whenever you?—”

“Please don’t leave on my account. It’s the middle of the night.”

She places a consoling hand on my arm. “You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, and if a short trip to the store will help ease that burden, then I feel blessed to be able to help. It’s not a hardship.”

I scrunch my nose to fight the tingle.

Why am I so goddamn emotional?

“Lock up behind me if it makes you feel better.” She opens the front door, her shoulder-length bob swaying with the light breeze. “Nobody will enter the house while I’m gone. I promise.”

I nod as she closes the door behind her, then quickly sidestep to engage the lock, my chest tightening with the isolation.

It’s been weeks since I’ve been alone.Trulyalone. In Gabriel’s apartment there’d always been someone on the other side of my prison door. Someone to listen to my movements. To remind me of my dire circumstances.

Now, staring through the front lights into the darkened garden, I see nobody. Not a single soul, even though I’m well aware guards litter the property.

I press my forehead to the glass and close my eyes.

This is what you wanted. You’re free. Alive. Even unharmed… at least for the most part.

I allow myself a moment to wallow. A few seconds where my throat burns and my sternum aches. Then I suck in a deep breath, stand tall, and stride back down the hall with an air of confidence that’s completely fabricated.

I enter my newly allocated bedroom and scour every inch of the generous space for hidden cameras or listening devices. I do the same in the bathroom, my limbs utterly exhausted while my paranoia remains on lock.

Eventually I shower, my tears suppressed beneath layers of stubborn pride as I take stock of the bruises Alonso inflicted.

Thankfully, I’m a pro at dissociating. The back of my mind is already a storage shed of trauma that’s neatly packed in locked boxes. I shove all the recent events in there, too—the memories, the complications.

There are things I should’ve told Salvatore. Important things. Problematic things. But I cram it into storage. Push it beyond the farthest reach of my consciousness. Then I escape to the shower, throw on a fluffy white robe, and place my clothes in the trash beside the toilet, praying I never have to see them again.

The bedside clock shines a bright 4:54 by the time I crawl under the crisp, cool sheets of the massive bed and tuck my head against a satin pillow that smells of subtle fabric softener.

I anticipate staring at the ceiling until the sun rises while I mentally pack more trauma boxes. But one minute I’m lying in the dark, actively ignoring the memory of Salvatore’s leap of faith seventeen stories above ground level, and the next I’m waking with a start in a room bathed in sunlight.

It takes a second to gain my bearings and for the bodily aches to kick in.

I’m sore everywhere—arms, thighs, face.

Bruises circle my wrists, the purple and pink bracelets an unwanted reminder of the sick bastard who inflicted them. I sigh and get back to packing. Dissociating. Compartmentalizing.

I’m good at many things, but nothing beats my trauma denial.

It’s the gift that keeps on giving after I stumbled upon something I shouldn’t have at one of my uncle’s elaborate soirées as a fledgling teenager. I’d brought my best friend with me. We’d both been dressed like children who wanted to be adults—tight dresses, tacky makeup—our ignorance at the company we kept blatant for all to see.

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