Still, the words, they’re like physical things. Like they’re lining up, waiting just outside my ears for when I’m ready to hear. To process. Because he can’t be saying what he’s saying.
“Mr. Sabbioni,” Waverly says, his tone neutral.
Mr. Sabbioni.
Stefan Sabbioni.
“We’ll need your initials on this modification,” Waverly continues. He must have moved around the desk when I wasn’t paying attention.
The man—Stefan Sabbioni—takes a step forward and I have to look at him now. I have to meet his strange hazel eyes. And when I do, I think they’re darker than they were that night. Or less bloodshot. Maybe it’s just that tonight, he’s not drunk. Not raging.
“What’s happening?” I ask. I don’t know who I’m asking as I can’t drag my gaze from Stefan Sabbioni.
He gives me a smirk and when he moves past me, I don’t know if it’s on purpose that his arm brushes my shoulder. I smell his cologne and I remember how he smelled that night.
God, I don’t think I’ll ever get that smell out of my head.
He stands taller than all the men here and I watch him lean down, pick up my father’s favorite fountain pen. I see my father’s jaw tighten and I know Stefan did it on purpose, choosing that particular pen.
Before signing, he reads the text, nods, then quickly puts his initials down.
“Dad?” I ask, because I’m starting to understand what my father meant when I watch Waverly turn the page and Stefan puts his signature in the designated spot.
He hands the pen to my father and I take a step backward.
“Dad,” Stefan says, his tone mocking me or my father or both of us.
My father takes the pen and turns the document around to sign it.
When I move backward toward the door, John grips my arm. Maybe he knows that I’m about to bolt, even though I know there’s nowhere for me to go.
“Gabriela,” my father says, holding his pen out for me to take it.
I shake my head as all the men turn to me and my eyes are drawn to Stefan’s. He’s watching me with such intense curiosity I feel like he can see right inside me, see the chaos, the panicked beating of my heart.
“We need your signature, Gabriela,” Waverly says.
Sweat collects under my arms and beads on my forehead. “I’m not—”
“Bring her over here,” my father orders John.
John begins to drag me to the desk, and I know it’s useless, but I dig my heels in and try to pull him off.
“Get off me!”
Waverly and my father watch, expressionless. I can’t see the other, older man’s face. Stefan’s blocking him. But Stefan’s eyes narrow as they zero in on where John’s hand is digging into my skin.
“Let go!” My voice is higher, thinner than usual, and I hate that they must hear the panic in it.
Stefan steps forward almost too quickly for me to process and an instant later, he clamps his hand over John’s wrist. At first, all I can do is look at that ring and remember that night. Remember him the night of my sixteenth birthday.
“Let. Her. Go.” He pauses between each word as if each is its own command.
“How chivalrous,” my father’s words are pierced with a strange sort of laugh, but I can’t drag my eyes from Stefan to look at him now. I can’t look away from Stefan’s face as he cows my father’s soldier.
Stefan squeezes his fist and John’s grip on me loosens. Then it’s gone, and he’s got a pained expression on his face as Stefan twists his arm.
“You don’t touch her again, am I clear?”
“John,” my father interjects.
But Stefan doesn’t relent. “Am I clear, John?”
“Fuck. Yes.”
Stefan shoves him backward, releasing him, then shifts his gaze to me.
I watch his eyes drop to my blood-splattered T-shirt then back to my face. I touch my cheek, wondering if there are specks of blood there too.
I can’t read him. He’s completely closed.
He steps to the side, making a path for me to move toward the desk.
“Your signature is required,” he says, tone level, the words cold.
I turn to Waverly, to my father.
“Don’t be fooled, Gabriela,” my father starts. “He’s not going to save you. He’s the beast in whose bed you’ll sleep.”
An icy chill runs down my spine.
I don’t know if my father means to insult Stefan with his comment but if that’s his point, then he fails. Stefan just smiles, checks his watch for the second time that night, then looks at me.
“Sign,” he says, like maybe I’m keeping him. Like maybe he has somewhere else to be.
I turn to my father and for a moment, I see something I have never seen before. It’s fleeting and I know no one else sees it, but for the first time in my life, and for as awful as he is, I’m scared.
Because that look on his face, in his eyes, it’s defeat.
“Daddy?”
He blinks and it’s gone, and I don’t remember the last time I called him daddy when I wasn’t being sarcastic. Maybe when I was five.
Before I can think, Stefan’s back at my side and his grip, I think it’s harder than John’s. Or it can be, at least. Maybe he’s letting me know it can be.
He takes me by my wrist and walks me to the desk. Snatching the pen out of my father’s hand and pushing it into mine, he closes his fist over my fingers, forcing my signature on the contract and I feel that rage inside him again, like I did that first night I met him in the shadows of my bedroom. I feel that terrifying, deep hate.
“Dad?” I ask.
But it’s done.
Whatever this is, it’s done.
And my father with all his power can’t save me now. I know it. I’m sure of it.
Because Stefan Sabbioni is more powerful.
Stefan drops my hand and I have moments to look at the scratchy signature, at the blob of a teardrop that lands on it before he collects the pages and the other stranger in the too-heavy suit stands.
“I’ll be back for you early in the morning. Be ready,” Stefan tells me.
Then, without another word, the two of them are gone and all I can do is watch the empty space. I listen to the sound of their retreating footsteps and remember his whispered promise from two years ago.
“Tell your father I’ll be back to take something precious too.”
Tonight, Stefan Sabbioni made good on his promise.
1
Stefan
Rome, Italy
Past
* * *
I’ve been inside morgues. Several times, in fact. Still, I never will get used to the smell.
This is Rafa’s first time and he’s gagging.
“Put your shirt over your nose and breathe through your mouth,” I tell him.
“How the fuck do you stand it?”
I don’t look at him as I follow the kid to the last room in the dark corridor. This building must be a hundred years old. I wonder if they’ve ever renovated. I guess the dead don’t care, but fuck, you’ve got to have a stomach of steel to be able to stand it.
“He’s in here,” the kid says.