wasn't as good in foreign languages as I thought, and often ended up butchering the pronunciation. Mr. de Lucci didn't mind and tried not to laugh at me that much. But at times I would mess up so badly both of us couldn't remain focused and serious.
During almost every lesson, there was a moment when he'd talk about his home in Italy and how he missed his family and friends. Even though my family and the few friends that I had weren't thousands of miles away, I could relate to my tutor because I also hadn’t seen them in little over a year. I often imagined how May looked now; perhaps taller, and her hair longer. Was she okay? Once, I had gathered enough courage to ask Alessandro if I could see my little sister—at least from a distance—but he refused and told me to never bring it up again.
I couldn't share any private information about my life with Mr. de Lucci, but I was more than glad to listen about his and—after a while—we developed a platonic friendship. Somehow, those three evenings a week cheered me up a little and distracted me from my loneliness.
Alessandro was rarely home and—even when he was—he'd notice me only around dinner and bedtime. I had lost count of the times his whispered endearments and skillful hands woke me up in the middle of the night. The first few months of our marriage were the most difficult to bear, but in time, I learned to anticipate the interlude of pleasure and pain that came together with Alessandro's lovemaking.
The physical discomfort became easier to sustain, but the emotional scars took their toll on me, and I had no way of healing them because they didn't stem from the sort of violence I could describe or even understand. Alessandro had never once hit me or threatened me when it came to sex. Instead, he used the lingering chemistry between us to slowly coerce me into submission, and wouldn’t relent until he got what he wanted.
Though he had never said it in so many words, it was clear he had all the control and I had none. The only option given was to bend to his will or bear the consequences, and he had made it abundantly clear what would happen if I displeased him. Afraid for my family's well-being, I didn't put up any more resistance. For months on end, I walked on eggshells and suffered in silence. Every night he inflamed my body with consuming passion, and then left me all alone in bed. I was always left feeling confused, used, and ashamed. More often than not, I had cried myself to sleep and prayed for deliverance from this hell, even though there would never be any escape. Deep down I knew it.
As it was, Alessandro Damiani appeared to have been more powerful than God himself. Everybody cowered in his presence and did whatever they could to appease him, so I was no exception. Even Mr. de Lucci picked up on the dangerous atmosphere whenever he visited the house. Our lessons were always conducted in the beautiful library on the second floor. Despite the fact Alessandro treated him with a rare show of hospitality and rarely checked on us, I could tell my tutor was often very guarded and cautious beneath the surface. One evening, I’d found out why.
That night's lesson consisted of learning the vocabulary for naming parts of a body in Italian. Mr. de Lucci had a picture of a girl, and when he pointed to a certain part of her body, I had to name it. He sat closer to me than usual, but I didn't think anything of it since both of us had to be able to look at the picture. It went well for the most part and he complimented my progress, but then the tip of his pen paused on her hair, and I couldn't remember the word.
“La...la pelle?” I whispered with uncertainty.
Mr. de Lucci smiled and shook his head.
“No, Olivia,” he said softly, and his fingers brushed against my cheek. “Questa è la tua pelle.” Then, he trapped a strand of my hair between his fingers. “E questi sono i tuoi capelli.”
This is your skin...and this is your hair...
Frozen, I remained staring at him, completely taken aback that he continued touching me. Italians were very hot blooded and didn't deter from getting—what some deemed as—too close during a conversation, but this felt wrong.