Page 39 of Fire and Silk
Oh father… of course we’ll be amicable.
I toss the letter back into the drawer, but the idea stays lodged in my chest like a blade tucked beneath the ribs.
She has to marry a Dantès. And I am the only Dantès worth anything.
Let the game begin.
Chapter Seven – Mico
Nicola’s Apartment – Western Suburbs, Victoria
I knock .
The hallway is musty, thick with the smell of mildew and boiled rice. The paint is chipped, the air dense. I hear shuffling behind the door, the scrape of a chain unlatched, and then it swings open.
She stares at me.
And without a word, she slaps me hard across the face. Then she spits, her eyes blazing with something brittle and burning.
I don’t move. I wipe my cheek slowly. Her spit is warm, bitter with salt and fury. Her eyes are red, swollen at the rims, face pale like she hasn’t seen daylight in days. She doesn’t say anything—just turns around and walks in.
I follow.
The apartment is small, the floor covered in cheap linoleum. A noisy AC unit rattles from the window, pushing out just enough cool to fight the heat. There's a patchy sofa, a standing fan stuck on oscillate, and a stack of dishes drying in the sink. The place smells faintly of lemon cleaner and stale tears.
She spins around before I’ve shut the door.
“You left her all on her own,” she says, voice cracking as she points a finger at me. “You left her and now she’s gone.”
Her mouth trembles. She looks like she’s about to collapse in on herself.
“You don’t get to come back now. Not now.”
I don’t say anything.
She wipes her face with the back of her wrist, struggling to breathe through the sobs that are threatening to rise.
“I sent that mail,” she chokes out. “And you came running. Where was this when she needed you?”
I left the island the same day. First boat. First plane. No sleep.
This is the first time I’m seeing Nicola in person. But she knows me. She knows Lira. She’s a friend.
And she’s right.
I sit down on the edge of the sofa, the springs creaking beneath me. Nicola stays standing, shoulders trembling, red blotches blooming down her neck like heat rash. Her palms are pressed flat against her eyes, trying to push back the tears still falling in hot, angry drops.
“I—I’m sorry,” I say quietly. The words scrape my throat raw. “I’ll find her. I promise.”
She lowers her hands slowly. Her face is red, blotchy, her nose glistening from her crying. She looks like someone who hasn’t slept in days, like the exhaustion has carved hollows under her eyes. Her mascara’s smudged down one cheek.
“You should be,” she mutters, voice hoarse, “I have been going to the police every damn day. Every day. And they keep saying the same thing—they’re working on it. They say the letter she left is enough to prove she wasn’t taken. That she just… left.”
Her voice breaks on the last word.
“But Lira wouldn’t just leave. She has too many bills. She never misses work. Not even when she’s sick.”
I swallow hard, jaw tightening. That’s what’s been bothering me.
