Hating that her first home was so tragic, I remorsefully answered, “No, we left our home to find you.”
Her surprised eyes raced to Angelo’s.
He gazed at the ground. His voice held more remorse than mine. “I’m sorry it took us so long to find you.”
Scarlett didn’t try to take away his guilt. She lacked those skills, but, truthfully, I hoped she never learned that one. It was as if she merely felt Angelo had a right to his opinion.
She moved the conversation along, “Mamma saw you in the clouds.”
No matter my thoughts on the matter, Angelo was affected by her words. I think he sensed what was coming. His dark eyes slowly rose to see hers.
Scarlett told him, “She said you were waiting to swoop down to take me away.”
His deep voice barely registered. “Me?”
“Yes, Angel of the Night.”
Now, we knew why that phrase had triggered memories of Scarlett for Isabella. She had told her daughter of the Italian tale. In a way, that tale that kept reminding women of Angelo was a miracle. He may have refused to believe it was him, and it may have been written centuries before he was born, but none of that mattered. It was their beliefs that gave the tale true life. It was their beliefs that gave them hope.
It was Scarlett’s belief that had a hand reaching out to touch his brooding face, not even realizing that hand was free for the first time in years. The girl without hands, finally, had hands, once more.
The blood, dripping within the water… may well have been baptizing it. As Scarlett touched Angelo’s face, he gazed at her as if she were holy.
Little wrists were dry and bandaged, and a naked body was now covered, when Scarlett followed me into the kitchen. A large Italian man moved closely behind her. This was a new Angelo for me. He hadn’t ever been this persistent with Noemi, nor with Isabella. It was as if Scarlett had some sort of silent call that Angelo was adamant about answering.
In front of the refrigerator, I asked her, “Are you hungry?”
She nodded, but when I offered food, she seemed utterly confused.
Angelo and I watched as she turned from us and walked to the large sink. She studied it carefully, then lifted the handle toward Hot, using both hands, even though they were no longer tethered. Long delicate fingers let the water trickle over them for a moment. My head tilted when Scarlett suddenly started slurping from the faucet, wetting her fresh bandages.
To hide another Angelo Snarl because all the signs of her abuse were infuriating him, I asked, “Scarlett, would you like a glass?”
Bent over, Scarlett peered over her shoulder. “Really?”
Angelo and I started opening all the cabinets, searching. We were going to offer this sweet woman any glass she wanted.
When she chose a yellow leftover plastic cup from some mountain fair, that a previous renter must have left behind, Angelo and I blinked. Of all the glasses to choose from, that was the last one we expected to be her choice.
Because Angelo and I had been raised with so many more amenities than I have ever realized, I was humbled, yet again.
Scarlett filled the cup with warm water, then drank. When the cup was empty, she moaned as if she had just drunk the best beverage in the world.
Angelo’s eye began to twitch as if a time bomb about to explode. This executioner was hungering for a kill.
Gasp! Scarlett stared at a loaf of French bread as if she was seeing a pot full of gold. Then, timidly, she looked to Angelo. That was all she had to do. That man ripped open the package, tore off a chunk, and offered her the reward of his caveman efforts.
I so wanted to offer a plate or napkin, but that would have interrupted their first shared bread. As she took a bite, Angelo took a bite of the mangled hunk leftover in his hand.
Then another miracle happened.
Scarlett smiled.
As did my best friend.
I quickly recognized and became grateful for every tender moment, because they were what helped us get past all of the hellish ones. With a full belly of warm water and a few bites of bread, and fresh bandages, Scarlett’s eyes began to droop. She had been through quite the ordeal that day, and it was taking its toll. She was exhausted.
There were two bedrooms on each side of the rented house. For security reasons, Angelo and I each picked one on opposite sides. When standing in the kitchen, facing the fireplace, Angelo’s room was to the left. After Scarlett learned where his room was, she picked the bedroom next to his. I wasn’t particularly fond of all the windows, for security reasons, but had a sneaking suspicion it would be a glorious experience for Scarlett. Besides that, the room was fit for a female, filled with fluffy blankets, soft pillows, and delicate decorations. But Scarlett looked like a fish out of water, cautiously sitting on her new bed.
I offered, “Do you want to get under the blanket?”
Scarlett eyed the bed underneath her, then shook her head. Her big blue eyes filled with sadness. It was heartbreaking. I didn’t know what we had done wrong. She had been talking to us earlier, but now wasn’t willing to speak at all. Not even Angel’s presence was bringing her peace. The only thing that seemed to be familiar to her at all was that damn plastic cup. A little apprehensive about the foreign objects, also referred to as pillows, Scarlett eventually reclined on her side and stared at the cup on the nightstand.
If that damn cup was that important to her, it was now valuable to me. I would protect it and my friend, who was standing next to me and struggling to breathe as he stared at her. “Hey, Angelo.” I gestured behind us. “How about we sit in these non-moving swings and watch over Scarlett’s cup while she sleeps?”
Scarlett reminded me of a child when she almost gasped and looked to Angelo, waiting for a response that she hoped would answer her prayer.
Angelo was a deep thinker but was hiding no thoughts that night. He was heartbroken for this victim. His soul wanted to reach out and caress hers. Yet, all this man said was, “Sure.”
What a goon.
Scarlett’s relief was tangible as she sagged into the pillows and bed, once again staring at her cup. I walked over to her nightstand and went to turn off the lamp but... “Are you used to sleeping in the dark?”
There was no answer. She didn’t even look at me. Only the cup.
Whatever was going on inside her head, she wasn’t interested in sharing.
Since I had a long night ahead of me—watching over this Giordano—I turned off the lamp. A dark house made it easier to watch our surroundings outside.
Once she fell asleep, I opened some blinds so we could easily see outside. The moon was shining in on Scarlett’s black hair, making her look like a sleeping Goddess.
Angelo and I took turns sleeping, but both would be awake every time Scarlett struggled in her sleep. Her moans and cries were woeful to witness, but when her hands were together again as she fought off nightmares, I wanted to vomit.
My friend stood with his jaw locked tight and headed for the door while putting on his jacket to cover his holster.
I ran to him, whispering, “No.”
“They die. Tonight.” He left the room.
Keeping up, I tried to reason with his fury. “If you go and start killing those assholes, you will bring attention to her. You would be putting her in more danger than she is already in.” He stopped at the front door, his eyes sliding shut. I was right. The sane part of him knew it. “I promise, my friend, when the time is right, I’m going to set your razor wings free.”