But never her. Not Safiya.
At least, until now.
I don’t think I’ve fully let myself process it. I haven’t pored over the mental image of her all grown up, trying to compare it to the little girl I knew.
With the speed of an old man, I move to the staircase and climb it, wincing at the memories. Her room was the last on the left, beside Vin’s.
My heavy breathing echoes in the air as I curl my hand around the doorknob. Turn it. Push it open.
A cloud of dust swirls to lift, illuminated by a stream of moonlight. I don’t bother to switch on a lamp. Even in the darkness, I can tell it’s the same. Her pink walls. The wooden bedframe pushed against the wall. Her nightstand—even her old bell is there, something Vin devised for if she needed help, and no one was in view.
But that’s all that remains of her. Everything else I had packed up and sold—to whom or for how much, I don’t even know. I had been too much of a coward to do it myself, assigning Fabio to the task.
All of her books, her toys, her little dresses. Gone.
And, like the pathetic son of a bitch that I am, I wish I had them now. Something to tie me to that lost little girl, my Safiya.
Something tangible to torture myself over.
As it stands, I only have my own fucking memories. With a sigh, I raise the bottle I took from Salvatore’s. Crouching on the edge of the tiny bed frame, I drink.
And drink.
Intoxication isn’t the aim this time—just relief. Numbing myself numbs those memories of her, if only for a second.
But this place persists, driving the past into my skull despite my blurring vision and fractured thoughts.
My girl. My sweet, innocent Safy.
I will never forget the look on her face the day I left her behind.
But another expression creeps into my skull, supplanting it. A beautiful woman with haunting dark eyes who, in every sense of the word, is a stranger. A woman with a face so enchanting that I hate myself for the thoughts that crept into my skull as I saw her. That body. That supple mouth.
In some ways, Safiya’s supposed future self is a fitting punishment. I threw her away, but she survived, finding a man who could protect her better than I ever could. A man who could give her a world she would never have access to as a Vanici.
A man who protected her. Cherished her.
Killed for her.
It should be Mischa’s blood speckling my chin right now, not Antonio Salvatore’s. Mischa, whose demise dominates my fantasies. Mischa, with his perfect, cherished family hidden safely behind their high walls.
I could show him how easily such a fortress can be breached. How it would only take a few bullets to shatter his carefully cultivated paradise.
And how that pain could drive any man insane.
The loss of sanity is something you don’t realize at first. Not until the day you’re guzzling whiskey just to keep your thoughts clear.
But what’s the point?
I could hurt Mischa. Hate him.
But my head is spinning, throbbing badly enough to outweigh the rage. To rectify it, I grab the clear bottle resting at my feet and drain it. Then I stand and leave this room, trudging back down the hall without any clear destination in mind.
I’m outside again, observing the house in the moonlight. I used to dream of torching it. Setting the entire damn thing ablaze and watching it burn.
But Vincenzo loved it. I kept it, hoping to give it to him one day when he could do as he wished with it. Maybe raise a family here. Salvage the darkness that tainted our once beloved home.
But now?
Those dreams die with him, and there’s nothing left to hope for. This goddamn house should go the same way.
I march to the garage and grab the red bottle of old lighter fluid along with an old book of matches. At the back of my mind, I doubt I even have the balls to go through with it. Still, I carry it back into the house, moving blindly from room to room. Eventually, numbness sets in, turning my limbs to lead. I find myself slumping into a chair, my gaze unfocused.
I’m in the study of all places, sitting in the same chair I left the little imposter Safiya in. If I breathe in deeply enough, I can still smell her. Fresh. Like a field of fucking roses.
It’s so real.
And then I see her, pale and slim, she hovers near the doorway. A plain dress makes her the most innocent apparition. A hauntingly beautiful one as well. I snarl at her. Then I sigh.
“I knew you’d come,” I tell her, pointing the tip of the bottle at her face. It’s a cruel twist of irony that she’s beautiful.
She blinks, shock painting her delicate cheeks pink.
I stand, approaching her unsteadily. My hand finds that cheek, cradling it against my palm. Her lips part beneath the pressure of my thumb, and I can’t silence a groan. So pink. So pretty.
She could be real…
“Come to laugh at me from hell, Safiya?” I ask her, brushing my lips along her jaw. My brain is a cruel fuck. I can smell her more clearly, how I think she’d smell anyway. Fresh. Sweet. Her warmth is an echo biting through my numb fingers.
It’s the goddamn alcohol that does this to me. Makes me imagine her so damn clearly. Makes me notice things a man like me never should about a woman so young. My Safy…
I cup her chin with one hand and rake the other through her hair—though it’s not like she could run away. She’s paralyzed, this apparition. Her eyes meet mine, so wide. So goddamn bright.
Another groan rips from me as I press my forehead to hers, sensing the small body trembling against mine. She’s afraid of me, this phantom Safiya.
And she should be.
I fist my fingers brutally through the thick strands, drawing her closer. I can hear the air entering her nostrils and leaving her chest in little pants, but even in my head, she doesn’t scream.
Good.
I press her against the wall, inhaling at the way she feels. Small breasts, narrow hips. I cup one against my hand and hiss in amusement. It’s disgusting how slight she is. How delicate.
“You are a sick son of a bitch, Donatello,” I tell myself.
But I can pay for my sins in hell—I’m already on my way there.
“You came to watch me die, Safy?” I open my eyes to find her staring back, but again my own imagination surprises me. Wetness glistens on her cheek, and I swipe my finger against it, marveling at the glistening residue.
Something in my chest clenches, but I force whatever emotion it might be away.
“No!” I growl against the hollow of her throat. “You don’t get to haunt me like this, Safy. I want you to laugh. Smile.” I close my eyes and open them again, expecting it to happen like magic.
Her tortured frown would be replaced by a ghoulish grin. She’d laugh somehow. It’s all in my fucking head; what does logic matter?
But she can’t even give me that. She watches me in horror, her eyes so damn wide, her chest heaving, lips trembling.
And I’m too weak. Too drunk. Too tired.
“You know what is worse than knowing you’re alive?” I ask her, following that sweet scent to the crook of her shoulder. Shamelessly I inhale, keeping her pinned in place—though she doesn’t fight. “Do you?” I laugh, but the sound echoes back like a mongrel’s howl, pathetic and wild. “It’s that you’re so damn beautiful. I wanted to fuck you, Safy. How sick is that?”
It’s a reaction fit for a degenerate. A pathetic fool who failed anyone foolish enough to love him. Over and over again.