Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 69102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
I sit in one of them, the leather worn, the seat swallowing me up, hugging me. I tuck my knees up and let it. I like it in here. It’s dark, and I guess it feels safe. And the longer I sit here, the more I think I can feel him in here.
His tumbler is sitting on the table beside the chair, and there’s a sip of that burning liquid in it. I pick it up, inhale. Then I put it to my lips and swallow the few drops that are left. I don’t know why I do this. I put the glass down and lay my head on the back of the chair.
It’s so quiet here. So still. I wonder if he comes in here in the evenings. If this is where he relaxes. If this is his chair. I can almost smell his aftershave lingering among the scent of leather and whiskey and paper.
What is wrong with you?
I give my head a shake, rub my face. I get up, take a turn around the room, pull a book out, read the title, put it back.
After some browsing, I go to the window. It’s wrought iron and looks out over the backyard. I check the time, then take another round, this time stopping at the podium-like table against the wall. I turn on the light there, and it illuminates the large world atlas on top of it. It’s an old one. I open it, leaf through some of the pages, liking the old maps, the smell of the paper. That’s when I come across something strange. Maybe a bookmark, I think, and I turn to the page. It’s a map of Italy. Southern Italy, to be precise. I pick up the bookmark. It looks like an old Polaroid. I turn it over and gasp. Because the image I see is of a girl. And I know who she is right away. It’s her. His tutor.
And it’s not just a slight resemblance we share.
It’s the strangest feeling, but this could be a photo of me. Everything, especially the eyes. They have the same shape, that same strange color, although the look inside hers, it’s different. So very different than mine.
And I can’t help but wonder if that’s why he wants me. Is it that I look like her? Is he thinking about her when he’s fucking me?
I decide I don’t care about that the moment the thought arises. I push that twisted nudge of jealousy aside because I can’t be jealous. That’s not what I am feeling.
He’s the first man I’ve fucked in a long time. The first man I’ve chosen to fuck.
Although is that true? I mean, he chose me, right? It’s not like I decided. Although I know if I’d said no, he wouldn’t have forced me. Like when he punished me last night, I know he was careful. I know he could have been harsher. He could have used his belt. Broken skin. Hell, he could have crippled me if that’s what he wanted.
Maybe I’m stupid to think this at all, but I do feel safe, knowing he will protect me. I think maybe he’s the only one who can keep me safe against Alessandro. Dad could, once, but not anymore.
Dad.
I shake my head and return my attention to the photo.
Beneath the photo are scribbled dates. She was twenty-three when she died. One year younger than I am now.
A shudder runs through me.
I drag my gaze over to the page beside the one of her photograph. There’s a folded, yellowing sheet of paper there. As much as I know it’s a violation, I pick it up, unfold it. I know I should put it back the moment I realize that it’s a letter from her to Giovanni. But it’s in Italian. I double-check the date against the one on her photo. Strange. She wrote it a few days before she died. I can pick out a few words, guess their translation based on my Spanish. I don’t get much farther than that, though, because I hear a door close, and I’m startled. Because I’m caught.
How can a man his size be so quiet? How did I not hear the door open?
Giovanni stands in the room. I watch as his eyes fall on the podium, on the open letter. He doesn’t say anything. He’s carrying a bag, a garment bag, which he sets over the arm of the chair I’d sat in just a little while ago.
I step away when he nears the podium. He picks up the letter, scans it, and I watch him when he folds it, sets it down, and looks at her photograph. I watch his face as his eyes fall on it. But I don’t know what I’m looking for, and he’s too good at hiding whatever it is he’s feeling because I can’t read him.