his lips. I don’t know how he can make me want to kiss him all the damn time. I’ve been with a few other men before. Never for long, but still. And they never had this effect on me. With them, it was like we were just going through the motions. With Carlo, it’s like not even a hurricane could stop us.
Carlo bites his lip as he studies the painting: a hole surrounded by black hairs.
“I don’t understand,” he says.
“It’s a portrait of you,” I reply. “An asshole.”
His laugh seems to catch him off guard. It booms like a gunshot. Then he shakes his head as he pulls me toward him, like he just can’t believe me.
“You might be the funniest woman—”
He sighs when his cell rings from his pocket.
“Can you ignore it?” I plead.
“No,” he says, stepping back. “Never, unfortunately.”
He walks to the office area as he answers. “Wait,” he barks a moment later. “Nario, slow down. Right now? Right this fucking second? Okay, I’ll be there. Keep them safe and call Durante and the Albino. I’ll bring Ubert.”
When he turns back to me, he’s like a different man. His eyes are darker. His body is no longer trembling. He’s still; focused. All except for a subtle tremor in his hands as they clench into fists.
“I have to go.”
“Okay—”
But he’s already out the door, breaking into a jog.
I try and use the opportunity to remind myself that this has gone far enough already. Whatever he just had to leave for, it was clearly mafia stuff, criminal stuff. I tell myself that there couldn’t be a more perfect moment to explain why I can’t let this go on. We’re having a good time, and then he has to run off to execute someone or get in a gunfight or whatever the hell it is he does. Which is exactly what I was trying to escape when I first ran away.
But even as I try to convince myself of this, all I hear is his laughter. And all I feel is his teeth on my ear as he told me he was addicted to me.
I spend the rest of the day in the studio, painting more than I have in years. I didn’t realize just how much I missed it until I get the chance to do it again. Afterward, I grab a quick bite to eat with Emily in her attic, munching on pizza as she tells me about her latest twist idea: a secondary character is secretly the heroine’s ex-husband. I tell her it’s a great idea, but I don’t stick around for long. All the talk of secret pasts makes me nervous.
Later, I swing by Carlo’s office, hoping to find him. All day, as I painted, I was thinking about my place here at the house. I was thinking how I can’t just be a prisoner anymore. I get that he wants to keep me safe, but Emily and Alda are allowed to leave, as long as they have guards with them. Surely I should be allowed the same?
I’m nervous as I knock on the office door. Maybe I’m overestimating how much he cares about me. Maybe he just wants to keep me here like his little pet. If that’s the case, I’ll be forced to go back to being the old Hazel. The woman in the painting. I’ll break out of these shackles—Carlo be damned, feelings be damned.
“Yes?” Carlo calls.
He’s sitting behind his massive oak desk, picking at the wood. His shoulders are slumped. His eyes are faraway, intense. I can tell he’s thinking about work. Part of me wants to ask what, exactly. Part of me is scared to.
I walk over to the desk and stand behind him. I put my hand on his shoulder. I massage, squeeze, hoping to comfort him.
“Carlo,” I whisper. “I can tell you’ve had a hard day, but there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Yes?”
“I need to be able to leave the mansion. I want you to take me somewhere. A restaurant, the movies, a play, a club, anything. But I can’t stay here anymore. I’m going crazy.”
“I thought you liked it here.”
“I do,” I assure him. “But just think about it. I’m used to running twenty miles around the city, along the docks, the wind in my hair. This is—I’m not built for this.”
He stands up slowly, turning to me even slower. He’s wearing his shirt with the sleeves rolled up, knuckles grazed and raw. He walks around