BREAK - A Bad Boy Romance (69 page)

I saw that the man who entered was unarmed, and my body relaxed. I slipped the knife into the waistband of my pants and waited for him to notice me.

The man jumped in surprise and placed a hand on my wounded shoulder.

“You’re awake,” he smiled, placing one hand on his heart, to steady himself.

His touch was gentle, and I knew at once that this was the man who had helped me. My expression showed nothing. I stared at him, still trying to discern more about his character.

“Do you speak Italian?” he asked, looking into my eyes. He paused for a moment, and when I didn’t respond, he waved his hand dismissively.

His face was similar to the photograph, though he was a few years grayer. There were lines on his face, and his skin was well-tanned.

He let his shoulders fall, and then closed his eyes. Nodding to himself once more, he walked toward the stove and turned off the burner.

“Coffee?” he asked, gesturing to the stove, and looking to gauge my response.

He turned down the radio to a low, melodic hum, and measured out grounds from a glass container on the countertop. Two mugs were produced, and within minutes, I had a warm cup of coffee in my hands. He didn’t bother to talk to me anymore. Instead, he sat quietly with himself, allowing me to enjoy the espresso.

The drink was rich and put my mind at ease. The steam felt good in my nostrils, and the liquid soothed my throat.

We sat together in silence for several moments.

Then, raising his finger up toward the ceiling, as though he had just remembered something to share with me, he walked over toward me and patted me on my injured shoulder.

Out of his side pocket, he produced a small object, which he must have had on him for several days.

Holding the object up in front of me between his two fingers, I saw that it was a bullet. The metal was misshapen, from where it had struck.

He paused for a moment so I could take in the full sight of the bullet. I opened my palm toward him, and he dropped it into my hand.

“I pulled that out of your shoulder,” he muttered. “Good thing for you I couldn’t find the one that knicked the side of your skull.”

He tapped the side of my head just above my temple, and a shot of pain rang through my head.

I hadn’t noticed the pain before that moment. I only had been aware of a dull headache, and a sense of general disorientation. I turned quickly to stare at my reflection in the window. Straining, I pulled my hair to the side and noticed that there was a severe dent in the side of my skull.

“I bet that stung,” the man said, pulling some tobacco out of his pocket.

He sat down at a table as worn as the rest of the house. Positioned across from me, I watched as his weathered fingers dexterously loaded tobacco into a paper, and then rolled it together. His motions were fluid, and I could tell that this was a dance he had been performing for years. He didn’t spill a single grain of tobacco on the table. When he was finished, he placed the cigarette between his lips, opened the window and struck a match.

“You should tell me who you are. I’d hate to have to turn you over to the police.”

His threat hung in the air between us, and his eyes were trained on me. My body tensed, involuntarily, and my mind went to the blade that was secured on my waistband. The man exhaled, and tapped his cigarette outside of the window.

“So you do speak Italian?” he said. “The eyes do not lie.”

I placed the bullet down on the table between the two of us.

“How did you know how to pull that bullet out,” I asked.

“Do you know the name Bartolomeo Vanzetti?” the man said, ignoring me, and taking another drag of his cigarette.

I shook my head.

“He was an Italian fishmonger from the 1920’s, whose political and social beliefs resulted in his execution. He and another named Sacco were wrongfully accused of murder. Though that did not spare their lives. Another man came forward and admitted that it was, in fact, he that had committed the robbery and murder.”

After yet another long exhale, he continued his story.

“The point of this tangent is that Italy has a continuous history of working class people who have the need to know skills that are traditionally affiliated with those of more militarized persuasion. Something you’ve come into close proximity with recently, it seems.”

He tapped his cigarette over the bullet, dropping ash on the deformed bit of metal.

“Social unrest has been a pattern for us throughout the years. Not something that many foreigners can appreciate. Perhaps, not all are so ignorant of the utilization of force to fulfill the agendas of the few.”

The man finished the rest of his cigarette in silence. When he was done, he reached a hand out of the window and flicked the cigarette across the dock and into the water - no more than a few meters.

Having nothing more to add to the conversation, I held my tongue. I needed to know how much this man knew about me, and so I sat patiently.

“I realize that you’re not sure whom you can trust,” he said. “But believe me when I say, if I wanted to have killed you, I could have easily done so. Also, you could have have taken my life as soon as I arrived home, not twenty minutes ago.”

He sniffed and looked down at the bullet.

“You might even owe me an explanation,” he said, “if you can manage to produce one. Otherwise, another bullet, from a similar weapon might find me.”

His words caught me off guard. My hands reached up over my forehead. I nodded.

“Everything’s a bit murky,” I replied.

He scowled, and nodded his head slowly.

“Concussion. I found your body floating in Laguna Veneta. Who knows how much water got in your lungs.”

“Thanks,” I said, surprised to be alive.

“Don’t thank me, Giovane,” he muttered. “You traded one shark for another, and were fortunate that neither devoured you.”

I paused for a moment, reflecting on the man’s words. I didn’t know how to respond. Attempting to recall memories was a strain on me. The effort was rewarded by a headache which formed in clusters around the dent in my skull.

I was about to respond when I heard footsteps walking along the dock toward the house. My body tensed up, and the man casually pushed the bullet toward me on the table with the edge of his fingers. Without pausing, I picked up the bullet and secured it in the palm of my hand.

A woman walked passed the window and began to open the door.

I relaxed, but I noticed that my host was not put at ease. In order to hide his obvious discomfort, he proceeded to roll another cigarette.

The woman entered, and at once I recognized her from the photo in the bedroom. Her hair was cut short, well above her shoulders, but her jawline was a strong, distinguishing characteristic that I immediately placed as coming from her father.

“Piper, Mia Bella,” the man said, turning to face his daughter.

She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He paused for her kiss, and the contact brought a slight smile to his eyes. His lips, however, remained in a dour expression.

Within moments, he had finished rolling his second cigarette, and with the practiced care of a man who has lit far too many matches, he ignited the end of it. I could tell by her expression that she was not pleased by the habit, but she didn’t bother to call him out.

“You have a guest,” she said, starting her inquisition on a non-personal topic.

“Yes, we were just talking a bit about social history.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, do you remember the story of the Anarchist Fisherman?“

“Of course. One of my favorites.”

“Ah, yes,” the man replied, looking my way. “Piper, you see, she has the spirit of someone who understands our great culture, but in practice, she is missing out on some of the core principles mentioned in the lesson.”

The woman scoffed and turned around toward the stove to heat the kettle.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said.

“Your friend speaks Italian very well for a foreigner,” she said.

The man took another drag from his cigarette.

“I’m sure he has many surprises and skills. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, Mia Bella?”

Her dark eyes gave me a calculating glance, and then, as though preoccupied — she diverted her attention to the stove. As she got some coffee grounds out from the canister on the counter top, I noticed she had a tattoo on her left shoulder. The image was a black cat, arching it’s back within a circle. I stared at the symbol, feeling a strangeness wash over me. I had seen that symbol before, but I couldn’t quite place where.

“I’m here to ask you a favor,” the daughter replied.

“I see. You would perhaps like a small loan, so you can resume your studies at the University?”

The woman scoffed.

“We’ve been over this. The University wouldn’t know what to do with a mind like mine. If my future were up to you, I’m sure you would have me writing doctoral dissertations on the meaning behind the Anarchist Fisherman.”

Her tone of voice was acerbic. I could tell that the exchange between the two was a reserved form of a long-standing argument between father and daughter.

I held my tongue and continued to observe their interactions.

“Not that such a dissertation would be a poor use of your time,” the father said.

“Which,” the woman quickly added, “I believe is the one thing that you misunderstand about that fable.”

“It is not a fable. It is the history of our people.”

“
Your
people. Those who earn a living pulling life from out of the sea.”

“You act like this is a bad thing,” the man said, stubbing his cigarette out on the table. “Perhaps you forget that you were raised on the life which was pulled from the ocean.”

“You never cease to remind me,” she said, now preparing a cup of espresso for herself.

“It was a good childhood. The best I was able to offer. Was that not good enough?”

“Oh, it was good enough. I’ve expressed my gratitude, and I’ve shared my rationale for abstaining from fish.”

“That you have,” the man replied, flicking the butt of his cigarette into Laguna Veneta.

The woman paused, and bit her lip. I could tell that she wasn’t happy about falling into an old pattern of argument with her father. But there appeared to be axiomatic differences between the two, and the argument continued. Family relationship dynamics were painfully obvious when observed from a third party perspective, but hopelessly frustrating when a person is caught within them.

I kept my mouth shut.

The woman regained her composure and sipped deeply on her cup of espresso.

“I came here because I have a favor to ask of you,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable speaking in front of your friend.”

“He is a friend of mine. If you have something to say, then I suggest you say it publicly.”

The woman inhaled sharply.

“Fine then. I need you to hold onto something for me. I wouldn’t have come here, but I don’t have any other options.”

She walked over toward the table and released a pack that had been on her back. As she dropped the item down on the table, I got a closer look at the cat tattoo on her shoulder.

“Will you help me or not?”

I could see the man’s face grow more solemn. Obviously, he was not enthusiastic about the situation, but to his credit, he retained his composure.

“You know, Mi Bella, what you have presented is a false dichotomy. A human always has more than one option, regardless of how constrained they may feel their decision-making process has become.”

Exasperated, she set down her unfinished cup on the countertop and walked over to the table to pick up the bag.

“Looks like my options are more limited than I thought.”

When she tried to lift the bag off the table, the man held his hand out and anchored the bag firmly on the tabletop. I could see the fervor present in his arm strength. He knew what he was doing, but he was not pleased with the end result.

“Principles are not the same thing as action, Mi Bella.
That
is the moral of the story.”

“And faith without works is dead,” the woman replied.

“Yes, this is also true, but there is a difference between the actions designated by faith and direct action.”

The man’s final words echoed in my mind in conjunction with the image of the cat tattoo on her shoulder.

My mind flashed back to a moment where I saw a man sporting that same tattoo on his hand. It was a photographed picture on a surveillance screen. The man was dangerous and was targeted as a major terrorist threat. The image was a video clip in my mind where he was speaking to a group of people about the value of direct action as a tool for radical social change.

More images flashed in front of my mind, and I found it difficult to focus.

“What the heck is wrong you?” the woman asked, targeting her question toward me.

“Nothing,” I shook my head and offered a smile. “It’s been a rough day.”

She nodded, accepting my statement, and turned back to face her father.

“I’ll be back to pick this up in a week or so. Can you put it somewhere safe between now and then?”

“Of course. Anything for you, my daughter.”

She leaned in to kiss him on the forehead, and I saw the man’s face relax into a state of ease. It was obvious to me that he loved her very much, even in spite of the fact that her decisions were causing him some degree of anxiety.

“Have a good chat with your friend,” she said, casting a glance of uncertainty toward me. “I hope he is as good of a friend as you think he is.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Mi Bella. When you live as long as I have, you tend to be an excellent judge of character. You’ll figure that out soon enough.”

The woman left the room with a roll of her eyes and stalked off to conquer the next set of events within her day. She was driven, and I could tell that there was a lot on her mind. When she was gone, the man stared at the bag in front of him, and then stood up to stretch.

“That was Maria, my daughter.”

“Charming girl,” I replied.

He let out a laugh.

“Just like her mother,” he said, seemingly lost in thought.

“Look, friend,” I said, keeping the pretense of familiarity up for the moment. “Looks like things are getting heavy around here. I think it might be best for me to leave.”

He nodded.

“I see. And where will you go? To the American Embassy, I suppose.”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

The man nodded again.

“Do you have a name?”

Thomas Reydan,” I replied automatically, “I’m a Canadian.”

“Is that so? And what are you doing in Italy?” the man asked, ignoring my desire to leave.

“I don’t know.”

“Ah, probably an unfortunate tourist. Got mugged, perhaps, and fell into Laguna Veneta. You are a miracle.”

I shook my head. He was getting a bit agitated, and his patterns of speech were increasing in rapidity.

“Do you like soccer?” he asked, not pausing for a response. “Perhaps you made a bet with some of the locals, without understanding the passion of Italia.”

He nodded at himself.

“Surely there is a reason why I dragged your unconscious body out of the water five days ago, only to surgically remove a bullet from your left shoulder. Not to mention letting you rest in an unconscious state for the majority of the last week.”

I paused, thinking about the context of his statement. He knew more than he was letting on. I thought about trying to change the subject, but I was tired. I couldn’t focus, and to make matters worse, the man was stressing me out. If I had been in a better state of mind; if my body had been healed; if I wasn’t so completely and utterly at a loss for how to move forward in this scenario, I might not be so easily distressed. All I can say is that losing track of your memories, and waking up in the middle of a foreign country is not an easy process to work through. I had to simplify, and I had to act promptly.

“What’s in the bag?” I asked.

“Not sure I should tell you. After all, there is actually very little you have told me. And let’s be honest, not a bit of it is the truth. So until you are comfortable enough to know where you are going, and how you will achieve that goal without any money, or papers or friends — I suggest you stay put.

You could go to the embassy. Of course, unless you’re willing to tell people that you are actually an American, you’ll first have to figure out how to get to Rome, which is not a small journey. After all, Rome is where the nearest Canadian Embassy is. If you’re going, to be honest about yourself, and share that you are an American, then you can go to the U.S. Consular Agency near the airport.”

“How did you know I was an American?” I asked, letting my hand fall down to my side.

“Did I mention that incidentally, right now the police are looking for a group of Americans who blamed for an attack on Italian civilians last Tuesday night? Apparently three women and one child went missing in Giudecca, and three men were killed in an explosion of some kind.”

He bit his lip, and I could see tears starting to form in his eyes.

“Not that you would know anything about that. You’re a Canadian Tourist, right?”

He stood up and walked away from the table.

My hand reached out toward the small of my back. I couldn’t remember if I had attacked those people or not, and I decided that to be on the safe side, I should be prepared to defend myself in the event that this man thought I did.

“The funniest thing about the current here at Laguna Veneta,” the man continued. “Did you know that there is a riptide that travels exclusively between Giudecca and Lido?”

He walked into the other bedroom and began to lift some of the furniture from its position.

“That’s where we are right now,” he laughed uncomfortably, “Lido.”

I stood up from the table in order to watch him. He didn’t have to pry too hard. The mattress was moved, and some loose flooring was cast aside. Then, the man was on his hands and knees digging through a concrete cell located just below the floor. After a moment, he produced a handgun.

Acting on instinct, I charged at the man.