That night, I fall asleep quickly, my body exhausted from the day.
I dream of Giorgio.
We meet in a dark hallway somewhere inside the house, and he takes my hand, confidently lacing our fingers together as if he’s done it a million times before. I glance down at where we’re linked, and his tattoo, the crest of the Casalesi, winks at me. He’s in a midnight-blue suit, I’m in a sheer nightgown. He leads me down the hall, our footsteps and the rustle of our clothing the only sounds in the air.
A door opens, and we step into the library. Giorgio leads me to a leather armchair and takes a seat in the one across. On the table between us is a book. He picks it up and starts reading to me.
Jane Eyre. The scene where Jane and Rochester kiss in front of Mrs. Fairfax after they’re caught in the rain. Giorgio’s voice is expressive. Hypnotic, even. I can almost hear the pattering of the rain against the windows of the library as he reads. The sound of the rain grows and grows in intensity until it’s like a cascade of bullets, and I can no longer make out his voice.
Quiet, I whisper. Quiet.
But the rain won’t listen, and Giorgio soon disappears like an apparition, leaving me alone amongst the bookshelves.
A chill drags over my skin.
I don’t like rainstorms. I need to wake up.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
My consciousness claws its way out of the dream. I blink into the darkness of my bedroom, but the rain persists.
The mattress squeaks as I sit up against the pillows, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. When my bleary gaze lands on the window, my heart sinks.
Rain pours down the glass in rivulets. The wind howls loudly, like a wild animal in heat.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid with fear, and I’m teleported right back to New York.
Glittering hotel lobby.
Imogen’s red lipstick.
The rain coming down in sheets.
We marveled at the weather as we waited in the lobby for the car that was supposed to pick us up. Our umbrellas were comically inadequate. We giggled about it. There was a good chance they would fly right out of our hands as soon as we stepped outside, but we were desperate not to get wet before the main event of the trip. Lunch at Eleven Madison Park, the best restaurant in the world. I wanted to eat there so that I would understand what the pinnacle of culinary success looked like. I thought it would help me decide if it was what I wanted to do. It was the whole reason I convinced Imogen to come to New York.
When the car arrived, we lunged outside, screeching loudly as water slapped against our bodies. The back door swung open, and we slid inside.
A minute later, Imogen was dead, and all I could hear was rain pummeling against the car. The soundtrack to the worst moment of my life.
My chin bumps against my knees, and I claw at the sheets. Panic spreads through my lungs.
There was a man in the back seat of the limo. Lazaro.
We only noticed him after we already started moving, while we were wiping our wet hands on our clothes. He was sitting in the corner, his legs spread wide, his leather shoes shiny. Imogen stiffened beside me. Somehow, he noticed that minuscule movement. It made him smile and ask for our names.
Why did I answer him without thinking?
Naive.
Stupid.
I press my face into my palms and weep.
This is what happens whenever I allow myself to remember how quickly things can fall apart.
The rain drowns out my cries, relentless and uncaring about the misery it brings. What I wouldn’t do to erase the past, to wipe it away like condensation on the bathroom mirror. But there is no trick for that.
Maybe the only way to get past the pain is through it. I haven’t allowed myself to feel much of anything since Imogen died, and the feelings have been accumulating. The more I put them off, the stronger they’ll grow. Even now, their power makes me cower. My chest shakes with sobs, and I fear it might cave in.
The side lamp turns on, and the bed dips.
I startle and shove myself into the corner of the bed as I meet a pair of azure eyes.
Giorgio observes me, a deep line etched between his thick brows. “I heard you crying.”
I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand, my gaze snapping to the window.
His own follows.
He stares at it for a while. “You don’t like when it rains.”
I give a small shake of my head. I should say something, offer an explanation, but I can’t. Forcing my lips to move feels like the hardest thing in the world right now.
“Do you want to be alone?”
Our eyes clash, and I pray he can sense the words I can’t say. Please don’t leave. It’s not as loud with you here.
After a moment, he nods.
Noticing the chatter of my teeth and the tremors coursing through my body, the frown on his face deepens. I feel pathetic. Who the hell is afraid of rain? It’s not logical, but my body doesn’t seem to care. The bedpost digs into my back as I press my curled-up form against it.
“Come here,” he says gently, lifting the duvet and motioning for me to get back under it.
I gnaw on my lip. With some effort, my limbs manage to get unstuck, and I slide under the blanket, moving closet to Giorgio in the process. He tucks me in, brushes a strand of hair out of my face, and looks down at me.
The shadows dance around us.
“Why?” he asks.
I shut my eyes. Something inside of me urges me to confess, but when I try to speak, no sound comes out.
He blows out a slow breath, his gaze skating over my shivering form. “You’re still cold.” His palms drag over the outer online of my body, but the duvet is too thick for me to feel the heat of his touch.
The chill in my bones is so deep, I’m afraid even a boiling bath wouldn’t be enough to get it out. “I-I’m freezing.”
Giorgio rakes his fingers through his hair and looks conflicted for a moment, as if he’s weighing a few options.
When a hard shiver runs through me, he appears to make up his mind.
He lifts the duvet and climbs under it, settling behind me.
What!?
The world tilts on its axis as my mind tries to make sense of what just happened.
Oh my God.
Silently, he turns me on my side, tugs me to his bare chest, and reaches over to turn off the bedside lamp. Then he tucks his heavy arm under the duvet and drapes it over the dip in my waist.
“What are you doing?” I choke out, finally regaining my voice.
“Getting you warm,” he says gruffly, his chin bumping against the top of my head. His furnace-like chest is flush against my back, his hips lined up with my own.
My butt is practically in his lap.
He’s engulfed me.
I take tiny breaths through my mouth as I try to calm down. He drags his palm up and down my arm, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s still trying to warm me up.
I’m already warm. It’s official. Giorgio is the world’s most effective heater.
“Better?” he asks after some time passes.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t stop his gentle caresses along my arm. Eventually, my pulse starts to slow down, and I feel safe enough to close my eyes.
Giorgio adjusts his position, and I feel his next words drift over the back of my neck. “Tell me why.”
I swallow. It’s easier to talk when I’m not looking at his face. “It rained the day it happened. The day Imogen died.”
The movement of his hand slows. “Your friend.”
“Yes. Now, whenever it rains like this, I have a reaction. I can’t control it.”
“Flashbacks?”
“I see it like a movie inside my head. The sequence of events from the moment we stood in the lobby to the second she died. I think she knew something was wrong when she saw Lazaro in the car. She took my hand and held it firmly. Right before he shot her, she squeezed my fingers very hard, and then the pressure was just gone. Her death was tactile. One moment, she was so alive, and the next she was dead.”
A low sob escapes me. Giorgio pulls me closer, like he wants to take me inside his body, and his lips brush against my nape. “Breathe. I’ve got you. It’s all just ghosts. One day, they’ll leave.”
His chest expands and then contracts. I model the pace of my own breaths on the rhythm he sets, and soon we’re moving in tandem. It’s shocking how comforting it is to be held like this. I’ve dealt with all of my previous panic attacks on my own.
“Do you have ghosts?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“Have yours left?”
His voice drifts down my spine as he says, “Some. Some still come from time to time.”
“Sometimes, I see Imogen in the shadows at night,” I confess.
“What does she do?”
“Nothing. She just stares at me with a bullet wound in her head. I wish she’d say something, but she never does. I try talking to her, but all I get back is silence.” A silence that rings with accusation.
I hear him release a long breath.
“You’ve killed men, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
“A lot?”
“I’m a Casalesi,” he says by way of an answer, and I don’t press him for specifics. It’s all relative, I suppose.
“Are they your ghosts?”
“No. My conscience is clear with most of them. It’s the ones that never should have died that haunt me.”
“Me too. There was no reason for Imogen to die. It feels like a cruel fluke.”
“It was. But sometimes life is reduced to just that.”
When he drapes his arm back over my waist, I gather up some courage and drag my fingertips over his skin, feeling the coarse hairs on his arms. His body stiffens, but he doesn’t stop me. If it were daylight, he would. I’m sure of it. But with the rain and the darkness wrapped around us, it’s like we’re suspended in time and space, floating in a universe with different rules.
His body molds to mine, and his breathing grows deeper. When I’ve nearly fallen asleep, the rains stops, and the noise quiets.
