and then bend his useless ugly cock around to the right angle and then, like, just do it. Just fuck himself.”
Ubert is smiling at me like I’m crazy. I rant on.
“He might have to put a mirror in front of him as he does it, though. Y’know, since he only cares about himself.”
He shakes his head and leaves silently. I slump on the couch and let my hands drift over my belly. I try not to think how Carlo looked sitting at the side of that pond, Angel’s photograph in his hand. I had no idea that Dad did that to Carlo De Maggio’s family.
But how can he blame me? How is that fair? Maybe it’s because I lied to him. But, okay, so I’m supposed to stroll up to this man who hates my family and tell him I’m his perfect hostage? In what world does that make sense?
I go to bed to take a nap, something I rarely do. I guess it’s the pregnancy. I can’t sleep, though. I just let my hands drift over my belly, imagining what he or she will look like. Will she have my freckles? Carlo’s blue-green eyes? Will he like to cook or paint?
Will he be an asshole, like his dad, or a lunatic, like his mom?
An hour or so drifts by. I head to the studio. I haven’t been in here yet because it’d be like admitting I’m thankful for this little show of humanity. But I’ve gone too long without painting.
I set up my easel and mix my paints and lose myself in the process. It’s almost like the swirling of the mixing paints is hypnotizing me. Enough so that time passes without me even realizing it.
I look up when he walks into the room. He stands with his hands behind his back so that his steel-gray suit tugs at his shoulders. He’s gotten his hair cut, too, shorter and spikier now, but still smoothed back. His blue-green eyes have this weird iciness to them. His shirt is white, and slightly see-through in the sunlight coming in through the window. His ridged abs are just about visible.
“You tried to run away,” he says simply. “Twice. And you called your brother.”
I flinch. I knew Ubert was going to tell him about the second attempt, but the rest? But then I just turn back to my work. “I’m sort of busy here, Carlo. Unless you’re gonna give me permission to get out of here and never come back, can you kind of, like, go screw yourself?”
Carlo walks up behind me, slowly. I feel tiny hairs prick all over my body. Annoying shivers move up my spine. I grab my brush and turn, flinging paint at him. It’s only once the green is splattering his shirt that I realize this could be construed as playful, so I leap from the stool and back up, hands raised.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that. You’re freaking me out.”
“Why?”
“‘Why’?” I mimic back in a high-pitched voice that annoys me as soon as it leaves my throat. “You’re a criminal. A killer. Who knows what you’ll do?”
He narrows his eyes at me. Stop messing around, he’s saying. I hate that I can still read him. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe there’s this alternate universe where I fall into his arms and we just hold each other. We don’t even need to say anything. He knows I forgive him and I know he forgives me. All good.
That might exist somewhere. But it isn’t this universe.
“What do you want?” I ask rudely. “Why are you still standing there like a fucking weirdo?”
His jaws tighten. His eyebrows knit. He looks almost pained by what he’s about to say. “You need to stop trying to run, Colleen—”
“If you call me that again, I’m going to shove this paintbrush down your goddamn throat.”
He goes on. “I’m not letting you take my child—”
“I don’t see a baby in your belly.”
“But once you have given birth to my heir, you are free to go. But before that time comes—”
“Wait a second.” I walk over to him, standing close. I can smell his cologne. Why is he using cologne? Did he spray it just for me, or is it habit? Is he seeing somebody else? That thought should mean nothing to me, does mean nothing to me. “Wait, just hold on. Are you really going to stand there and tell me you’re gonna kidnap our baby and make it so I can never see it?