Page 81 of Bitter Poetry
My stomach churns again. God, what if they’ve tortured him? What if they... My hands are shaking. I need to pull myself together. If they tortured Christian, if he had spoken, then I wouldn’t be in a car right now, would I?
“You smell aroused.”
There are times when Christian infuriates me. He knows how to push my buttons and is clearly incapable of feeling anything beyond whatever sick pleasure he derives from ruining my day. But he didn’t deserve me to throw him under the bus out of spite.
He can’t be dead. I’m going to lose it if he is. If it was my words…
God, he can’t be fucking dead.
I take a deep, ragged breath.
“Stop the car.”
Peter sends a sharp glance over his shoulder.
I’m already fumbling with the release.
“Mrs. Gallo, this is not a good place to stop.”
God, how I hate my own name.
The door is locked, but I still jab at the button as if it might yield to my demand. “Stop the damn car.”
He screeches to a stop. I neither know nor care where we are. I throw open the door and empty my stomach over the pavement.
When I get my heaving under control, I realize we’re in a residential street. A young woman is walking a dog. She looks like she might approach, but Peter takes a step forward to ward her off, and she continues on her way.
As she leaves, Peter hands me a handkerchief and a bottle of water.
“Thank you.”
I rinse my mouth, take a drink, and use the remainder to wash away the evidence of my weakness.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
A bitter laugh bubbles up. I’ve not been alright a single day since my mother died and my father was left in a wheelchair. There are brief moments when I can convince myself there is hope. Even some that offer escape, and where I can forget.
Yet the afterward is guilt-riddled.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I slide back into my seat, accepting a fresh bottle of water from him. “I’ve changed my mind. Can you take me to see my father and sister instead.”
He nods, closes the door on me and rounds to the driver’s seat before pulling back into the traffic.
I lean back. My forehead feels hot and clammy. My stomach roils.
I catch Peter’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Please don’t tell Ettore.”
He nods. “Of course.”
Maybe he’ll tell him anyway. Maybe he’ll tell him that I asked him not to.
I could second-guess myself a thousand times. Peter’s one of the good ones. He’s not a monster, that’s for sure; some of Ettore’s men make me uncomfortable.
Christian would keep my secret and do it with a smirk on his face. That’s not the only secret he’s holding for me though, is it?
