Page 50 of Redemption
He pulled back and looked at me intently. His deep blue eyes drawing on dark confidence and power like they were old friends. “Because I am Gabriel Auditore. I want you to be safe. And when I want something I make it happen.
“I hate to say it, but for now, you need to go back to Henry's.” He said after a moment of silence.
“I figured. Can’t really afford that apartment now that we won’t have that money anymore.”
“Right.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn't.
Sophia
Henry's smile couldn't be bigger, despite my tear-streaked face and ruined makeup. All he saw was that I was back. He hugged me and sighed in relief, rubbing my back as he held me. It was only comforting to him. “Come inside. Your room is just how you left it.” He paused. “Well, how you left it when you left.”
I didn't say anything, just followed him in while glancing back at Gabriel as he drove away. “Come to the kitchen; I have something to show you.” For the first time since I'd known him, Henry walked with confidence. I looked around the kitchen, but there was nothing unusual, just the kitchen. He leaned against the counter. “I won’t be charging you rent to stay here, Sophia. You quit your cafe job and now your biology job.” He chuckled. “You couldn’t afford it if I charged it.”
“So I’ll be painting in exchange for rent?” I asked weakly. He shook his head. “What do I have to do then?”
He smiled. “Don’t look at it like that. All you would be doing are things you’d naturally do in a home.” My feet felt cold against the hard tile, small unseen crumbs pinched into my soles.
“I want you to take care of the home. Clean, cook. Things like that.” He said. It wasn’t that bad of an idea. What else was I going to do? He shifted nervously while staring at my bare feet.
“I'll do it,” I said. He clasped his hands together, a grin flashing across his face “I’ll make a list of all your daily tasks.” And with that, I was alone in the kitchen.
The next few days passed by in a blur. Henry's demands were extensive—cooking, cleaning, laundry, organizing the gallery and his office. There was always something that needed to be done around the house and the gallery. He wanted me to pick up groceries too, but I explained it wasn’t safe for me to leave, which he was more than fine with. He didn’t even ask why. It was hard work, and it was tiring, and by the end of each day, I found myself collapsing onto my old bed in exhaustion.
At least Henry took care of moving all my things back for me, but he must have left a few of my items in the washer or dryer; I was missing a few pairs of underwear and a bikini. Not that I would be swimming or going to the beach anytime soon. It happens when you move, especially if you move twice in a week. Despite the chores, I managed to find time to paint. My small room had become my sanctuary, and the smell of oil paints and turpentine somehow made everything else bearable, even though it wasn’t exactly safe to paint with those chemicals in a confined space. I didn’t care.
Gabriel didn't contact me at all since I moved back to Henry’s, and as each day passed, a growing sense of unease crept under my skin. I worried about him constantly—if he was okay, if he was in danger, if he missed me as much as I missed him—but mostly, why he hadn't tried to reach out to me. Maybe he was killing someone right now. I hated the thought. The same hands that caressed me, squeezing the life out of someone else. It made me feel dirty. Everything from the moment I woke up until themoment I went to bed made me feel dirty, except when I’d have a long shower at the end of the day and paint.
The days turned into weeks. Surprisingly, I got into the rhythm of things. Wake up, brew a pot of coffee the way I like it despite Henry's complaints of it being too strong, do chores, paint, eat, more chores, and sleep. It was a monotonous routine, but it kept me grounded. As each day passed, I found myself thinking about Gabriel less. The tasks at hand a mindless distraction. I still thought about him a lot, but when I did, it wasn’t as overwhelming as the day before. Of course, there were bad nights when I’d lay awake crying, but his absence became a dull ache, rather than a sharp pain. In my quiet moments, when I painted, I’d find myself alive with memories of him—his scent, his taste, his touch. The way he’d looked at me as if I were the only thing that mattered in his world. I found myself painting him looking at me in Cabana cup, sitting in that booth the morning we met. But now he didn’t look at me at all.
“Sophia.” Henry's voice cried out.
“Yes?” I yelled back from my room.
“Will you come down here and help me with something?” With a sigh, I put down my paintbrush and went downstairs. Henry was in the kitchen, wrestling with a jar of pickles he couldn’t seem to open. I took it from him, pried a butter knife under the lid, and levered it, releasing the vacuum seal, and the lid came off effortlessly.
"Thank you, Sophia," Henry said, reclaiming the jar and setting it on the counter. He slid a pickle into his mouth and said while chewing, "You know, I remember when you first moved in here, a young girl barely out of school. You probably didn't know how to open a jar then.”
“Glad I could help, Henry," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. It was strange. I was more miserable than I’d ever been, and he was happier than I’d ever seen.
My evening routine remained the same: a shower, painting, some sobs here and there, and sleep. But tonight, as I lay in bed in the darkness of my room, sleep was impossible. Before we left the hotel, Gabriel had told me not to call or text him, but wouldn’t explain why. Tonight, sleep was impossible because I finally realized why. He was protecting me. He was worried he would be killed and his phone taken and searched, revealing hundreds of messages and calls between us. The killer could send me a text saying it was safe to meet up and… Tears streamed down my cheeks. He didn't believe he was safe, despite assuring me everything would be fine. I squinted as the bright light of my phone lit up my face. Turning the brightness down, I opened my messages and clicked on his name. I could text him, and then we could just delete the messages after, as if we were just hiding a relationship from snoopy parents. Another tear streamed down my cheek as I realized that wasn’t safe either. At any time, they could get to him, and if I just texted out of nowhere, I wouldn’t know if it was really him responding. He said he would come see me when it was safe, but what if he never came? It had been weeks already. I rolled over and peered through the darkness at a painting of him. He had no social media, and I had no pictures of him. For now, my memory of his face was perfect, but as time went on, would the painting of him be all I had left? I buried my face in my pillow and prepared myself for today to repeat itself tomorrow.
Gabriel
Iscrunched my face as I wiped away the dirt and grass clinging to my cheek. I had fallen asleep again. Pushing through the bush where Damien was, I saw he was asleep too—and snoring. I hit him in the side and whispered, “Wake up.”
He groaned. “This is fucking bullshit, man. How much longer are we going to do this?”
“Shut up and watch,” I said. We lay in a vacant lot across the street from Henry’s gallery. The foliage had grown freely, neglected by whoever owned the lot. It was a perfect vantage point to watch over her. I looked back at my brother, who was nodding off again, using the butt of his rifle as a pillow. I was wide awake; might as well let him get some sleep. He’d been out here with me every night for the past week, taking turns keeping watch.
Tonight was particularly quiet; the only sound accompanying my thoughts was the occasional squawk of a night bird and Damien's intermittent snoring. He looked peaceful in his sleep, youth smoothing out the hard lines that usually marked his face. A sudden flicker of movement at the far end of the street caught my attention. A man in a black coat strolled down the sidewalk toward the gallery. He walked slowly, like he didn’thave a purpose. I pulled the rifle from under Damien’s head; the sudden drop to the earth didn’t wake him. Looking through the scope at the man’s face, he was filthy, talking to himself, eyes moving sporadically without looking at anything in particular.
I sighed and lowered the rifle. Damien was right; we couldn’t keep doing this. In the week we had spent the nights here, my house had been broken into and Damien’s hotel door kicked in. We expected it, as we expected them to come for Sophia, but they never did. Maybe it was because Sophia hadn’t left the Gallery a single time since she returned. Maybe they didn’t know where she was. But I couldn’t count on that. A week with poor sleep in the dirt was starting to get to me. I glanced at my phone's lock screen yet again—4:37 a.m. The night was quiet, and there were hours more until sunrise. I nearly drifted off when a light came on in the gallery, from the second-story window—Sophia’s room. I watched closely, eager to see her. Her figure moved across the window to the other side of the room, then back. She was standing right in front of the tiny window now. I nearly used the scope to get a closer look at her, but thought better of it. I couldn’t see her expression, but I felt her sad, broken energy pouring out the window. It tore me up more than the ants and mosquitoes had in the endless nights out here. Just seeing Sophia, even from this distance, filled me with a longing that was almost physical. I didn’t consider it love, but why else would someone do what I was doing now? I looked over at Damien and flicked a mosquito off his face.
“Time to go.”
Damien grumbled something unintelligible in response before getting up, disassembling the rifle and stuffing it into a backpack. We checked the surrounding area before emerging from the brush and walked a few blocks to the shit box of a car Damien acquired. We scanned our surroundings as we got closer to the car, if we were going to be ambushed this would be thetime, but still the night was quiet, we were eerily alone. With one more cursory look around, I opened the car door and dropped onto the torn up leather seat with a grunt, watching over my shoulder as Damien scooped up armfuls of trash and empty bottles from the backseat and flung it to the ground outside.
“Goodnight, asshole,” he groaned as he curled up into a ball on the still dirty but clean enough backseat.
