It appears Martha is listening until I see her lean forward, and her lips move slowly. It’s subtle, and I almost miss it, but Elena looking down at Martha’s extended hand does it for me, and I see her pass the small scrap of something into Elena’s hand.
Red hot anger rips through me, and I growl, squeezing my phone in my hand. Nothing is as horrible as a traitor. I find a spare suit in the closet and dress quickly, my hands shaking with pent up rage as I leave the bedroom and head for the kitchen.
Martha has been a long-time employee and one of my father’s favorites. Killing her is going to hurt, but there is no way around it. If she has betrayed me, then she cannot live.
As soon as I enter the kitchen, Martha looks up from the pot she is stirring and faces me.
“Mr. Moretti.” She looks at the ground as she speaks like most of the staff in this house do.
“Cut the shit, Martha.” I crowd her, forcing her back against the counter. My hand is on my gun, waiting for me to draw it. “What did you give Elena when you dropped her lunch off?”
Her lips tremble, and she wrings her hands in her apron before looking up at me. Fear fills her eyes, she knows what’s to come.
“It was just a note, sir,” she says, and my teeth grind together, my jaw clenching and aching. Her piece of shit father found a way inside and infiltrated my home.
Curling my lip, I circle my hand around Martha’s throat and squeeze. “From who?” I ask, even though I already know. I merely want her to confess it out loud.
“Her father,” she whispers, her weathered face contouring with shame. “Just a note from her father.”
“You know what your betrayal means?” I squeeze her feeble throat a little harder.
She nods. “Yes, sir. It means death.”
11
Elena
I stare at the crumpled-up paper in my hand, reading it for the hundredth time, and still, I’m not sure if it’s real or not. And if it is real, what am I going to make of it?
Elena,
I will come for you, sweetheart.
Be strong, Dad
The note is handwritten, the lettering tells me that it is indeed my father who wrote this note. The question is, why? Is he really coming for me? Do I even want him to come after he sold me like an object? I’ve had days to think about how cruel he was in letting me go, giving me away like I was nothing.
My life here is worse than the one spent at my father’s place, but honestly, not by much. I had a few more things to do at home, but not many. According to Julian, I will have more freedom at some point, so being here seems like the better option.
Julian expects things from me, things I’m not sure I can give him, but what are my other choices? If I somehow manage to get back home, I will either be alone for the rest of my life, or my father will marry me off to someone else. Are there any men in my father’s world that will treat me differently? I doubt it. Every man is a hardened mafia man with hate and rage burning through his veins.
So, which one is the lesser evil?
Folding the paper until it’s only a tiny piece of scrap. I walk into the closet and shove it into the bottom of my underwear drawer, hoping that whichever path my future will lead, I will one day be free.
The rest of the day, I busy myself with math. Julian doesn’t come and get me for dinner today. Instead, a different maid brings me food to the room. I wonder why he isn’t here yet, but I try not to think about that. Instead, I bury my face within the pages of the textbook.
Julian was surprised by my choice, but there was really no question for me what book to take. If I had chosen a romance novel, I would have read it within a few hours. After that, I would have been back to square one with nothing to do.
I don’t know if I will get a chance to pick a second book, so I had to make this one count. This book will keep me occupied for a long time.
I have only one issue. Even with me writing as small as I can, the paper is about to run out. I’ve already used the front and back. Without paper, I can’t solve these equations, and I don’t want to write in the book.
I fill the last space on the paper, feeling a small wave of accomplishment. That feeling is quickly drowned out by less pleasant feelings.
Putting my pencil down, I look around the room and find that I once again have nothing to do.
Spending most of my life alone, I’m used to being by myself, but this is different. This is next level isolation. I wish I had a radio, at least then it wouldn’t be so quiet.
I entertain the thought of taking a shower, but that just reminds me of the shitshow that happened last night. I know I owe him nothing, and yet, I feel like a disappointment, not even being able to give him a simple hand job. I wonder if he regrets buying me yet.
My thoughts and questions are quickly forgotten when I hear heavy footfalls approaching the door. The door is unlocked, and I sit up a little straighter. A moment later, Julian walks inside, slamming the door shut behind him. The loud sound makes me jump, and the knot in my stomach grows.
He is mad, obviously. But why? It could be because of last night. Or he could have somehow found out about the maid, though I don’t know how. Maybe he just had a bad day?
Without greeting me or saying anything else, he steps inside the room and drops something on the bed in front of me. Then he twists around and heads into the closet.
Glancing down at what he threw on the bed, I realize it’s a book… a notebook, I think.
He bought me a notebook!
Running my fingers over the smooth cover, I’m in awe. It’s black leather with golden flower embroidery. It’s very pretty, simple with a feminine touch, and something I would have picked for myself.
I flip it open. Empty, lined pages greet me, and I fan through the pages, discovering there is enough to write on for a long time. Setting the notebook down on the comforter, I stare at it. I don’t know how to feel about his gift.
On the one hand, I appreciate that he got this for me. It’s certainly not something he had lying around on his desk, which tells me he was thinking of me. He went out of his way when he didn’t have to, and that means something.
On the other hand, however, he got this to keep me occupied while locked in his bedroom. There’s good and bad with this, and I’m not sure what I should expect from him now.
“You like it?” His voice is clipped as if he is fighting to subdue his anger, trying to hold it back. Maybe his anger isn’t directed at me?
He walks back into the room a moment later, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, and my mouth suddenly goes dry.
“Yes, it’s beautiful. Thank you…” I’m about to ask him what I have to do in return as nothing in this world is free but manage to bite my tongue at the last minute.
I’m surprised when he doesn’t take a shower but slides into bed instead.
When he inches closer, I smell soap on him.
He already showered somewhere else.
Did he not want to shower in our room because of what happened last night? I put the notebook on the bedside table and lie down, turning my back to him.
Suppressing the need to ask him, I say something else instead.
“I’m sorry about last night,” I say, knowing damn well it wasn’t my fault, but still feeling the need to apologize.