Demand (14 page)

Doing what I can right here and now, I pick up the remote and begin flipping through channels, and sure enough, I find two American news stations: CNN and Fox. Memories don't stir in my mind, but the familiarity is a welcome sensation and I keep the TV on. Obama is president. Biden is vice president. I know these things easily, but I have no clue how government works in Italy—which shores up my conclusion that I hadn't been in Italy very long when I ended up in the hospital and with Kayden.

Unzipping my purse, I remove my journal and pen, and cautiously seal Charlie back inside. Opening to a blank page, I will memories to come to me and fill the pages . . . but I am as blank as they are. I start drawing the butterfly again, tracing it over and over, outlining the curves of the wings. The sound of the newscaster talking intrudes and I decide to give up on memories, changing the channel to an Italian station, making a list of words I want to look up. Music would be even better, since songs repeat words over and over. Yes, I decide. I need music, but this Italian thing isn't going to work without a computer to look up words. I'm sure Kayden has one I can use, but for now, I start writing down words from the TV that sound familiar:
ciao, bello, prego, la ragazza.

And suddenly, I'm back in that moment where I found David dying on the pavement.

I rush to him, and there is blood oozing from his chest. “I'll get help. Hold on. I'll get help.” I start to get up and he grips my arm.

“Wait,” he hisses. “Don't . . . give . . . him the necklace.”

“Who?”

“Don't give him the necklace,” he whispers. “Hide it. Hide . . . it. . . . Don't let them have . . . it. He's not what he seems.”

I blink back to the present and try to collect all of my thoughts, and I write them down.
He is not what he seems
and then
THEM or HIM
, as I remember David referencing both, which could have been a misspeak considering the circumstances. Or maybe he was referencing both Niccolo and his people? Or maybe Niccolo and whoever runs the French mob Kayden had mentioned? I write down:
Who is the head of the French mafia?
And it feels important for some reason.
Who runs the French mob? Do I know?

The TV invades my thoughts, the Italian confusing me, and I switch back to the news. “Next in headlines,” a female newscaster says, her voice cutting through the memory as well, and I grab the remote to mute the volume when I hear, “Money and power—”

“Money and power,” I whisper, writing those words down and staring at them, another memory taking shape. I shut my eyes and am transported to another time.

I am sitting at a restaurant with HIM, who remains faceless and nameless. I can feel his energy. I know who he is in some part of my mind, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot picture him. But still I am there, at the table. I can even see the black turtleneck sweater I'm wearing when the waitress stops beside us, speaking in a language I don't understand. HE rescues me, ordering for me, and I feel a little less out of my element.

But then the images shift and I'm back on his bed, naked and tied up. I've been there for hours.
I'm cold. I'm scared and angry when finally he comes to me, but unlike the last time I lived this memory, I don't experience the moment he enters the room. He, whoever he is, is just suddenly naked and at the foot of the bed. He is standing there but I refuse to look at him. I hate him. I thought I'd loved him.

The bed shifts and his hands come down on my knees, and before I realize what is happening, he's pressing them to my chest. His fingers dig into my legs and he moves closer, leaning over me. And damn it, I am looking at him when I swore I would not. “You're angry,” he says.

“Two hours,” I say. “Two hours, you left me here.”

“I told you not to leave the house.”

“You don't own me. You can't tell me—”

“I can and I will. And I left you here to make sure you think twice the next time you consider disobeying me. A painless punishment, considering how disobeying me might have ended. I am a powerful man, angel. You know this. My enemies will lash out at anyone I care for. And that's you. So if I tell you to fucking stay in the house, I fucking mean it. Understand?”

His demand is guttural, the rasp in his tone telling me he truly feared for me. “Yes,” I say, realizing now that I really was in danger today—because he isn't the only one who will do anything to win. His enemies will, too.

He stares at me for several seconds, weighing my reply before his voice softens. “Good girl.” He lowers my legs and slides between them. “There is always a price for power, but losing you will not be mine. I protect what is mine.” He leans into me, his cheek pressed to mine, his lips at my ear, to add, “And you are mine.”

My eyes pop open at the memory that ends in the exact same place as when I'd had it before, and David's warning comes back to me.
He's not what he seems.
I write that down and underline it.
He was not what he seemed.
David was talking about the man in my flashbacks. I know it, but I'm not sure if I knew “him” before David's warning, or after.

“Ella?”

I blink and look up to find Giada rounding the couch, and only then do I realize that I'm on the floor between the couch and the table, on top of a soft brown rug.

“Can I sit?” she asks.

“Of course you can sit,” I say. “It's your brother's store.”

“That he hates,” she says, claiming the cushion. “I am making him miserable. That's not what I wanted.”

“You seem pretty miserable yourself,” I say, moving to sit on the opposite end of the sofa.

Tears well in her eyes, and she glances skyward. “You think?” She swipes at her eyes, as if angry she's showing weakness, then fixes me in a surprisingly direct stare, her voice unwavering. “I just don't want The Underground to take him like it did my father.”

“Like I said outside the store. There are people in life who are risk takers. We have to decide to either embrace that part of them, or to walk away. Those are the two choices.”

“How do you ever leave someone you love?”

“It's not about how. It's about why. It's about not tormenting yourself and them with your fear.”

“I'm not leaving,” she says, straightening, her hands settling on her knees, repeating the words more fiercely. “I'm
not
leaving. Adriel is all I have. He's my family.”

“You want to stay—and yet you betrayed Kayden by calling Gallo, and you did it in his own home.”

“You, Adriel, and Marabella have made that mistake abundantly clear. Believe me, I get it.”

“Backing down because we got upset doesn't mean you get it. It means you don't want to hear us bitch anymore.”

“Enzo was bleeding to death, and Adriel wanted to go after the people who did that to him. All I was thinking about was saving Adriel. Can't you understand that? Can't any of you understand that?”

I think of my father lying in his own blood and I say, “Yes. I do. I've lost people. And so has Kayden—everyone he loves. You don't seem to understand, or even try to understand, that Kayden inherited the huge burden of being The Hawk. Losing Enzo gutted him.”

She considers me a few beats. “Enzo disobeyed his orders?”

“Yes. He absolutely did. Kayden was concerned about him when he went missing, and he told me the details.”

“It wasn't a hunt Kayden sent him on?”

“No. It absolutely was not.”

She inhales and lets it out. “Adriel won't move away, because he needs to be close to all of this. And I won't move away, because I need to be close to him.”

“What about moving out of the castle, where you aren't reminded of all of this so readily?”

“That's like giving Adriel a license to hunt.”

“It's only a matter of time until he does that anyway. Let him be who he is, and give yourself permission to find out who you are, too. And just know this before you say no. Kayden sets ethical boundaries for his Hunters. He expects safety over money. He protects his people at all costs, and would die for any of them. He set up a massive trust fund for you to honor your father. How many people would do that?”

“You really believe in him.”

“I believe in him completely. Passionately. And I won't lose him due to your risking his life and safety, like you did last night.”

“And your life,” she says. “Last night you said—”

“That you endangered all of our lives,” I quickly insert, wishing I hadn't spouted off last night. “And you did.”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I truly am, and I don't know how to fix this.”

“We'll talk to Kayden—but I want you to think about what you really want to do, first. And talk to Adriel.
Really
talk to him.”

She nods. “I will. Thank you, Ella. I'm glad you're here.”

“Me, too.”

A buzzing sound goes off and my eyes go wide. “Please tell me that's not a breach alarm.”

“It's not. It's the buzzer to the front door for the store, and our pizza, I'm sure. Adriel ordered for himself as well, so I'm sure he'll grab the delivery, but knowing him, I'd better go get ours before he eats it, too.” She stands but never makes it any farther before we hear, “The food has arrived.”

Surprised to hear Marabella's voice, I shut my journal and twist around to find her entering the living area with several pizza boxes in her hands. “Had I made this, it would have been better,” she declares. “However,” she adds, setting the boxes down in front of me, then straightening, her hands settling on her robust hips, “I do know the owner of this restaurant and he's almost as good in the kitchen as I am.”

“We're settling for his,” I say. “When can I try yours?”

“You could have tried it today, but no one asked me,” she scolds. “I'll make one for you and Kayden tomorrow.”

And while her words are as warm and playful as ever, her energy is as uncharacteristically dark as her black dress, and, concerned that the death of Enzo has rattled her, with no one to offer comfort, I ask, “Will you join us? Aside from loving your company, I could use some help learning Italian.” I glance between her and Giada. “Can you ladies help?”

“Of course we can,” Marabella replies, crossing her arms in front of her and studying me. “You really do need to learn Italian to live here.”

“I really do,” I agree. “I hate it when people are talking around me and I have no idea what's being said. Why did you both learn English?”

“I learned when I started working here in the castle,” Marabella replies. “And Giada was brought up bilingual by her father. She even went to one of the American colleges nearby.”

“I'm a good teacher, too,” Giada interjects. “In fact, I've been thinking about looking into a teaching job.”

I flash back to my friend Sara's apartment, both of us sitting on her floor, with papers on her coffee table.
“It's going to be a long night of grading these papers for class tomorrow,” Sara says. “How about we order pizza?”

The memory is gone as fast as it begins, and I find myself frowning at the idea of me being a teacher. That doesn't feel right, though I am certain my mother was a dance instructor, maybe music, too, and I'm very maternal with Giada. But grading papers doesn't feel like music or dance.

“I'll get us all drinks,” Giada says, snapping me back to the present. “We have Coke Zero and water.”

“Water, please,” I say, writing the word
teacher
in my journal.

“With or without gas?” she asks.

I frown. “Gas? Why would I want gas? What does that mean?”

“Bubbles,” Giada says, her eyes lighting.

“Ohhhhh,” I say, laughing. “You mean sparkling water. For Americans,
gas
means you ate something that doesn't agree with you. I guess I've just had my first language lesson. No bubbles for me.”

“Gas for me,” Marabella declares, and we all start giggling.

Then Giada joins Marabella, saying something to her in Italian before hugging her.

Marabella's eyes meet mine and we share a look of hope. Giada isn't completely lost, and it is then that even without my memories full recovered, a sense of family and belonging comes over me, which I'm certain I haven't felt in a very long time. Giada releases Marabella and walks toward the kitchen.

Marabella seems to decide to stay for lunch, claiming the chair next to me and softly murmuring, “You're good for her, Ella. For all of us.”

“The feeling is mutual,” I assure her.

“You're good for Kayden.”

If only I knew that without any question, I think, fighting the urge to grab my journal and start reading through the notes I can't explain to her or Giada.

“Knives, forks, napkins, and drinks for three,” Giada announces, returning and sitting down next to me before handing me a small box. “Four cheese. I hope that works. It seemed the most American.”

“Any cheese is wonderful,” I say, eagerly opening the box to find a delicious-looking concoction. Then I look at Marabella. “They didn't cut my pizza.”

“We Italians don't pick up our pizza.” She holds up a fork and knife and then hands them to me. “Our way is this way.”

“You're making me work for my meal,” I say, accepting the utensils. “I can live with that,” and boy, do I. In one bite I'm moaning with the delicious, rich taste of the white sauce under the cheese, and as silly as it might be, I wish that I were experiencing this with Kayden for the first time. But I'm not and I'm eating it now, and eating it all, with a bonus of Marabella and Giada giving me a language lesson. And before long, the food is gone, and with Marabella and Giada's prodding, I'm repeating English words and their Italian equivalents, writing them down in the back of my journal, and I've lost track of time.