Page 35 of Depths of Obsession
The voice is back, more urgent this time. Mia. I recognize her now. Why can’t I wake up? I force myself to try again, my eyelids twitch, but they remain stubbornly closed, heavy as ever.
“Not sure. It shouldn’t be too much longer. The sedative will wear off soon.”
Renzo. That deep timbre is unmistakable. Progress. I want to laugh at the thought, but even that seems too much effort. Instead, I just let myself float, weightless, drifting on a cloud. It’s nice here, warm and comforting, not like before—before something terrible happened. Something bad. A memory flits just beyond my reach, like a butterfly dancing away from my fingers. I remember butterflies. At the summer house. We used to see them all the time. I miss the butterflies. I miss the summer house. I want to go back… but something tells me I can’t.
Why? Why can’t I go back?
A new voice cuts through my reverie. “Any change?”
Nico. I know that one too. Hooray for me. I want to giggle, but my body doesn’t respond, as if it's betraying me. Oh well. I’ll just keep floating. It’s peaceful here.
“No.”
That voice is terse, biting. Luca. He sounds angry, upset. The cloud beneath me begins to fade, slipping away, and suddenly I’m falling. My mind spins, pulling me back into a whirlpool of memory. Luca’s anger. My father—he’s angry too. The memories crash into me like waves. My father standing over me, the sting of his blows, my mother on the bed, beaten and broken. The image is vivid, and the whirlpool I’m in accelerates. My stomach lurches. I’m going to be sick.
I sit up, gasping for breath, my eyes flying open, and immediately I vomit. Luca is there, holding a bowl, catching it. He hands me a damp cloth when I’m done. I wipe my mouth, staring at him as more memories rush in—of my mother, of her pain. It’s too much. I gag and spew the remaining contents of my stomach.
“Maybe give her some space,” Mia says, stepping in, her voice soft as she tries to take the bowl from Luca. He glares at her, the tension palpable, but eventually, he steps back, retreating from the bed. Mia takes his place, sitting beside me, her eyes gentle.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
I let out a hollow laugh, my throat raw. “I just hurled my guts up, so I’m going with shitty.”
Mia grins, her eyes twinkling with relief. “I think she’s on the mend.”
I swallow hard, blinking. “Where’s my mother? Is she okay?” My voice trembles and a cold sweat breaks out along the small of my back. I brace myself for the answer.
“She’s okay,” Renzo says, his voice reassuring. “She’s at a clinic in Switzerland. They’re taking good care of her.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, my eyes darting around the unfamiliar room. It’s definitely a man’s room—the dark wood furniture, the minimalistic decor, the scent of cologne and leather lingering in the air. Luca’s scent. It should be comforting, but it’s… There is some memory still floating beyond my grasp. But trying to pull it forward makes my head throb. I lay a hand on my forehead. “How long have I been out?”
“Twenty-four hours, or so,” Mia answers.
Luca lingers at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, his gaze steady. Nico is beside him, while Renzo is close to Mia, who’s seated next to me. I shift, pulling myself up against the headboard. The tension in the room is suffocating and all their eyes are on me, like they’re expecting me to crack or shatter.
“What?” I ask, my voice defensive. “Where’s my father? Is that why you’re all staring at me? What happened to him? Did the police come get him?”
Mia takes my hand, squeezing it gently. “No, Pippa. Your father is dead.”
The word echoes in my brain. “Dead,” I repeat, numbness spreading through me. I look around, their faces somber, as if they know something I don’t.
I lick my lips, frowning. Wait. They aren’t swollen. They feel… normal. I touch them with my fingers, confusion knotting my brow. “Papa hit me. Why aren’t my lips swollen?” I move my hands to the rest of my face. It feels… fine. None of it hurts. “What aren’t you telling me? Why are you all staring at me? Am I going to die? Do I look hideous? Am I still dreaming? What the hell kind of drugs did you give me?”
Luca’s lips press into a thin line, and he puts his hands on his hips. “You’re not going to die. You don’t look hideous. You’re not dreaming. I applied… some creams to your face. They helped it heal faster. The drugs were just to let you sleep while you healed. You’re fine.”
“Then why are you staring at me like that?” I snap. The fog in my brain won’t clear, and it’s frustrating. “What aren’t you telling me?” My eyes lock on Luca, and there’s something there—a memory, still just out of reach. He steps forward to the end of the bed, and suddenly I know. I know this is his room. We’re in his loft in Milano.
My gaze meets his, those deep green eyes of his, and everything comes rushing back, all at once. The black of the gun, the red of my father’s blood splattering over my mother’s already on the walls, the green glow in Luca’s eyes—his fangs. He had fangs. I stare at him, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath catching. This can’t be real. It must have been a dream. It had to be the drugs.
“It’s not the drugs,” Luca says, his voice low, raw with something I can’t quite place.
I swallow hard, looking around the room, searching for something, someone to tell me I’m wrong. I grip Mia’s hand, my knuckles turning white. “Tell me. I’m imagining things, aren’t I? Luca couldn’t possibly have fangs. He didn’t rip my father’s throat out and—and drink his blood. It’s the drugs, right?” My voice breaks, desperate.
Mia gives me a sad smile. “No, Pippa. It’s not the drugs.”
“Luca shot my father,” I say, my voice trembling. “He took the gun and shot him.”
Mia shakes her head. “No, he didn’t shoot your father.”
