Page 81 of Die for You
We’ll never just be friends.
But hearing what I know is true still breaks my heart.
I focus on what’s important, and that’s putting on the best performance of my life. Gianna needs to believe that I’m coming back to her with my tail between my legs. This plan isn’t foolproof, but it’s the best plan we have.
We could fight Gianna, but if we overthrow her, she’ll never tell me where Lettie is.
And I won’t risk that.
If she doesn’t have Lettie, then all this would have been for nothing, and Lettie will likely be gone forever. So I have to work fast because my daughter’s life depends on it.
It’s nostalgia as I sneak in the same way I did when I killed Father Merry. This place, a place I hate with every morsel of my being, is home.
I grew up here, and even though no fond memories will ever be associated with this hell on earth, it’s still so familiar. Gianna could be anywhere, which is why, unlike with Father Merry, I make my presence known.
I knock on the glass door.
The gates around the property prohibit any late-night visitors. Or allowing babies to be dumped at the doorstep. Perhaps these high gates were erected because of me.
A young sister I don’t know comes to the door, clearly stunned to see me.
I don’t bother with formalities. “I need to see Gianna Ricci. Tell her Valentina is here.”
The sister doesn’t know what to do, but when I make it clear I’m not going anywhere, she soon retreats.
Gianna knows I’m here. She’s watching me right now. So I purposely look at the camera mounted in the corner and wave.
The door buzzes open a second later.
There’s no hurry to my steps as I walk down the long white hallway. I mopped these floors many times as punishment for merely existing.
The place still smells the same—sterile and full of despair.
Heels echo in the distance. I know it’s Gianna without seeing her. She appears at the end of the hallway, awaiting my arrival.
A ghost in the shadows.
A monster in my dreams.
My heart begins to race.
My palms are sweaty.
My mouth is dry.
And the urge to choke the life from Gianna is suffocating.
But when I approach her, I go against every moral standing and kiss both her cheeks. A sign of respect.
She stands unmoved. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to silence myself.
She doesn’t speak further and instead leads me down the hallway where I’m expected to follow the devil in Louboutin pumps.
This place hasn’t changed.
I pass the same painting of Christ on the cross, bleeding, with His face twisted in agony. Hardly an inviting image to a terrified orphan. But Catholicism seems okay with instilling the fear of God into its faithful followers. With fear comes power and control.
