It’s farther than I realize, and much steeper. I get the feeling these stairs aren’t meant to be used at all.
At the bottom, I can walk directly into the sea or veer right to where there’s a secluded, sandy beach. It’s not big and I guess it’s part of the property because it’s completely private with access only from the sea.
I slip out of my flip flops and walk to the water where soft waves bubble at my ankles. I take a few more steps. The water is so clear, I can see straight to the sea floor, even as I lift my dress and walk until the water is past my knees.
I stay there for a long time, just looking out at the stretch of blue water, at Palermo in the distance, although I have to crane my neck to see it from down here. A school of curious small, white fish circle my legs, and I watch them. A larger wave comes, probably the wake of a far-off boat, and they swim away. I walk back to the sandy beach to sit, letting the water just tickle my toes.
There, I think.
Because I have to process.
Just a few days ago, I had attempted—once again—to run away from home. Hearing myself think those words now makes it sound so childish, but my father was going to marry me off to McKinney and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go from my father’s house to that man’s. I couldn’t.
Then I think about last night. Was it only last night? When I watched my friend beaten for helping me. Watched as his legs were broken. Watched his face contort in pain when all the while, he refused to scream.
God.
Alex.
How can men do that? What kind of men do that?
Men like my father.
Like Stefan Sabbioni?
I shake the thought away. I don’t know him. Not at all. Maybe he’ll be different.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I say out loud.
I think about Stefan.
I think about how he made good on his promise and how I may have jumped or, more accurately, been thrown out of the frying pan and directly into the fire.
Because now I’m Stefan’s pawn. Something he can use against my father.
And what happened this morning, what he did, the thought of it fills me with embarrassment and something else.
He spanked me.
He just turned me over and spanked me.
No man has ever touched me that way and never in a million years would I have thought any man would dare do that to me. Apart from my father’s punishments that is, which maybe were meant to humiliate me, but had the effect of making me hate him instead.
I shake the thoughts away and yawn. I’m tired. I only had about two hours of sleep last night.
I get to my feet and begin the steep climb back up to the house. I’m sweating by the time I get to my room, noticing how, like at my father’s house, there’s no lock on the door. Although there isn’t one on the outside of the door either. That’s an improvement, right?
Once inside, I go into the bathroom to shower. There is a lock there, so I use it.
I strip off my clothes and switch on the water, testing the temperature, making it as cool as I can. I step under the flow, standing there for a long minute, letting the water clean me, wash the salt and sand from me.
The shampoo and conditioner smell good, like vanilla, and I wash my hair and when I’m finished, I wrap myself in a thick towel and go back into the bedroom, careful when I open the door to be sure I’m still alone, that Stefan isn’t lurking somewhere.
According to the clock, it’s late afternoon.
I unzip my duffel bag which is on a chair nearby and put on a pair of underwear—one of the few things I did bring with me—and the tank and shorts I’d slept in the night before. Which only reminds me of what he did, and I can’t think of why I packed them.
But at least they’re mine, not his.
I dig my wallet out and pad barefoot to the bed. The marble is cool under my feet, the breeze that’s blowing in from the open French doors salty and warm.
I sit on the edge of the bed and open my wallet to take out the only thing I care about. The only thing I couldn’t leave behind.
It’s just a small photograph and it’s a little bent but I look at it, at us.
Mom, Gabe and me.
We were laughing so hard and I can’t remember why. It was taken the year before she died. We were visiting our grandparents in Carmel. They’re gone too now.
I see why my father says I look like her. Especially now that I have bangs. Although my hair is a little lighter than her almost black hair, we have the same eyes exactly, a pale blue-green. And even though I’ve been told some of my expressions match my father’s, my bone structure is from my mom.
She was eighteen when she met my father. And looking at this, I understand why he looks at me strangely sometimes. It must make him remember her and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.
I look at my brother, Gabe, and wonder how he’s doing. Wonder how he’ll react when they tell him why I’m not there to visit him this week.
Maybe I can find some way to call him. At least let him know I’m thinking about him. Gabe doesn’t like talking on the phone but maybe I can get one of the nurses to convince him.
I yawn again and I put the photo on the dresser beneath my wallet, then I lie down. It takes all of three seconds for me to fall fast asleep.
6
Stefan
It’s early evening when I walk in the front door of the Palermo house. It’s good to be back. Good to be home.
Millie tells me Gabriela is in her room and I pass hers on my way to mine to shower and change. Get the grime of New York City off me.
The sun is still high and it’s still warm. I don’t mind the heat, though. I grew up in it and it doesn’t bother me.
After a quick shower, I put on a pair of jeans, a black V-neck T-shirt and shoes. Rather than walking out into the hallway, I open the balcony doors and step outside. I take a moment to breathe in the salty air, to feel the Sicilian sun on my face.
There’s nothing like it anywhere in the world.
I walk down the length of the balcony to the open French doors. I’m sure she doesn’t yet know we share a balcony.
The curtains billow softly, and my shoes are silent when I step into her room to find her asleep in her bed. Her breathing remains level as I approach.
She’s lying on her back, pretty dark hair strewn around her, the thin blanket pulled up to her chest. One hand rests on her belly, the other is over her head on the pillow. She looks so relaxed, her face soft, her mouth slightly open, thick eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly.
She’s pretty. Her features have changed little since I first saw her on her sixteenth birthday. She was like a woman then too.
But with a father like Gabriel Marchese, I guess it’s to be expected.
I wonder about her. About what she’ll be like.
The first time I went to her house, crashed her Sweet Sixteen, I’d been crazed. After my visit to the morgue, I’d drunk a bottle of whiskey before coming up with the plan to go there.
It was risky, stupid even, but my brother was dead, and his killer had left evidence behind.
I still remember how she’d trembled in my presence.
My glance shifts to the nightstand where her wallet lies open and I can see her driver’s license, some credit cards.
Daddy’s girl.
Daddy’s precious princess.