Page 9 of Till Death Do Us Part

It didn’t matter, though.

My father was still my father, and more than ever, he felt if Lolita would have listened to him about the arranged marriage, she would still have her eyesight, and I wouldn’t be in this hospital bed.

Felice “John” Maggio was nice to think about, but that was all he’d ever be. A nice thought when the carnivores came out to hunt me in the darkness.

Chapter5

Roma

October marked three months since the attack. There was no use in dwelling on it. Life moved on. Just like it did after Mamma died. But…I was stuck. Frozen in a pocket of fear I couldn’t seem to move past.

I reached for the dinosaur-shaped purse that had been delivered to my hospital room when I was recovering. A T-rex. My sisters were responsible for the balloons sporting numerous dinosaurs decorating the room, but not the purse.

Lolita had handed me a card that’d been tucked inside the carnivore. An address had been written in black ink. Underneath,Johnhad been scribbled.

“That wasn’t subtle at all,” I mumbled to myself, flipping the card over and over. I stared at the ceiling as the doorbell continued to chime.

Halloween night and everyone, including my family, was dressed up. Covered faces didn’t inspire trust, so I snuck to my room with a candy apple and slipped in bed. My plan had been to watch TV and ignore the world, but between the chaos going on downstairs and thinking about the man named John, watching a show or movie seemed like wasted time. I couldn’t concentrate on it.

I wished thinking of John would lose its attraction. Since the day he introduced himself to me in the hospital, it was hard to get him out of my head. He hadn’t visited me again, and I never told anyone about him coming to see me. I wasn’t sure if I ever would.

At first, it seemed like my very own secret. Something for me to keep and think about every so often. But the sound of his voice stuck close, and more than the gift he mentioned, I wanted to see his face now that a haze of blood wouldn’t make him blurry. I wanted to see if he matched the image I’d created in my head.

I’d somehow given him the face of the fantasy man I’d built. I’d be crushed if he looked anything like Curly Locks.

Sighing, I sat up and grabbed for my candy apple. Isabella was big on Halloween, and she made them every year using mamma’s recipe. While I broke into the sweet cinnamon shell, I contemplated going for a ride.

Half of my brain warned me of how foolish it would be to make contact. The other half warned me of how stupid I’d be if I didn’t.

Curiosity, or whatever it was, won out. I decided to just drive past his house. He probably wasn’t even home. Most of his business was probably done at night. He couldn’t push people during the day, right?

Ignoring the thought, I finished my apple and looked at myself in the mirror. I added a black beanie over my hair. Wearing a black turtleneck, black jeans, black leather jacket, and black boots, I needed something to brighten my appearance some, so I reapplied the lipstick Lolita had given me. It matched my nail polish. A mauve brown with pink mixed in.

Not that he was going to see me, but things happen. Best be prepared.

As I headed downstairs into the whimsical haunted house our home had become, thanks to Isabella, my stomach sank. So many people were in costumes. It freaked me out. I held onto the banister and took deep breaths.

These were people I knew. Nothing to be cautious about.

Before I could run back upstairs, I darted down, slamming into a solid chest. My hand shot out, grabbing a sleeve.

“Whoa,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. “Where’s the fire?”

My eyes fixated on his mask. It was one of those plague uniforms for doctors back in the 17thcentury. The head was in the shape of a beak. A black leather coat covered him to the neck.

He ripped the mask off, and his dark brown hair stuck up all over the place. His eyes were soft brown, but the rest of him was hard. His features seemed chiseled out of expensive marble. His face was so well-defined and his skin so taut, his cheeks were hollowed. His eyebrows were dark and fierce. His lashes were long and full. He was probably in his late twenties or early thirties.

He was a watered-down version of the guy I’d built in my head.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

His question snapped me out of my staring, and I realized my knuckles were white from squeezing his costume sleeve. I let go of him but held on to the banister. My heart thundered.

“Yeah,” I barely got out.

“Good.” He smiled. “No costume for you?”

“I’m not really into it this year.” I cleared my throat, about to ask him who he was and what he was doing in my house, but Babbo and his good friend Dr. Tito Sala stopped on the bottom floor and looked up at us. Another man stood next to them, but I couldn’t tell who it was. He was in costume too.

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