Page 107 of I Would Beg For You

The big man lets me go as he turns and screams. It’s an unholy sound, and he roars with rage and frustration watching the fallen form of the boy in the doorway of the vault door.

Is he dead?

There’s blood pooling around him, and he isn’t moving.

When the big man turns to me, his eyes are wide, manic. His face contorts like that of a monster, his mouth curling into a snarl as he roars again, spittle flying from his lips as words from that unknown language pour out.

He’s cursing me. I know then the boy is dead.

His boy?

He’s on me in the next second. His hand grabs the back of my head, and he slams my face into the wooden table. Half of my mind goes black, the other seeing stars. I know I’m about to pass out. As I slither to the floor, he kicks my back, over and over and over again. I don’t even have any strength left in me to scream. All I can do is wrap my arms around my knees, curling into myself. He sometimes misses the small of my back and hits my shoulder blade—it hurts less this way.

Then he stops, but the relief is short-lived. He grabs me by the hair again and drags my body across the floor, through the pool of the fallen boy’s blood, and into the dark room. Once we’re in there, thanks to the sheer strength of him, he half-lifts me just by holding my hair—I’m beyond pain by this point—and slams me into the wall near the cot.

I don’t move. I can’t. I don’t even know how I’m still conscious after all this.

I hear him fall to his knees in a thud behind me. He’s crying, mumbling. He’s praying, at some point. Or is it a lamentation?

It’s strange how I don’t lose consciousness. Or maybe I do, and I can’t tell the difference. Time stops, warps, flows again, just like before. At regular intervals, the man comes into the room and goes on a rant again, before kicking me in the back. At one point, he grabs my hair again, but he stops just short of bashing my head in against the concrete floor. Small wins, I suppose, though the kick that comes after it is more violent than any of the previous ones.

My eyes are closed tight, and this time, I’m freefalling inside.

I think I can see my mother… No, it’s a memory. I’m a child sitting in her lap, looking up at her as she smiles and laughs before bending to kiss my head.

There’s Valentino looking at me with so much fondness—it’s from our dance at the wedding of Don Giorgio’s grandson. Another time when he’s tucking a lock of hair behind my ear,fingertips gently grazing my cheekbone. His face tense as he feeds me bone broth while I lay in bed against propped up pillows. Him releasing my hand outside the office of the county clerk on the day of our wedding, not looking back at me before he gets into the car…

A mist of grey fog is distorting the image now, wrapping, swirling, twisting around me. I’m losing all my bearings. I’m screaming, but I know no sound is coming from my lips. I’m falling again, and this time, it looks like nothing will stop it.

Until a bright light erupts. I’m suddenly in a bubble inside the grey, and there’s someone with me. It’s a little girl. She has light hair, brilliant blue eyes. She touches my chin, smiles at me.

“Get up,” she says.

“Who…who are you?”

“Serafina.”

“What—”

“Get up, Mommy.”

Mommy?

I blink at her. “Where are you?”

She giggles. “Inside you, silly. Get up!”

“No, wait…”

She’s moving away, as if a corridor has opened behind her and is pulling her from me at warp speed.

I try to reach for her, and scream when my battered and bruised body lands onto the cold, hard concrete floor of my jail. I’m conscious again, can feel the musty air, the metallic scent of blood overlaid on it.

Trying to escape, the boy, shooting him—it all comes back to me.

As do snatches from the freefall. My mom. Valentino.

Serafina…

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