Page 4 of His to Destroy

“My name is Mira Rossi. Not Almeria or whatever it is you just called me,” I say sternly, hoping my attitude will make him have a think.

But he doesn’t buy it. His eyes narrow slightly.

Then his gaze shifts, catches on Luca behind me.

I move instinctively, putting myself between them.

"Please leave."

Gaspare doesn’t argue. He just stares at me, something unreadable churning beneath the surface.

Then he turns and walks out, without uttering another word.

The bell chimes again as the door slips shuts.

And the storm he brought with him lingers in the air like static.

Sleep eludes me later that night.

Luca climbs into my bed sometime past midnight. He doesn’t say a word, just curls up beside me and falls asleep with his fingers tangled in mine.

It’s not unusual for him to do this. Try as I might, for some reason, the boy always prefers being in my room and bed to being alone in his. Almost like he knows what being alone cost his mama.

I don’t want to think of that night in that light whenever I hold Luca. The circumstances surrounding his birth may not be pleasant, but he’s undoubtedly the best thing that has happened to me. His presence in my life rocked me, yes, but it’s also given me a new sense of purpose. I live every day for him. And if it weren’t for him, I know for a fact that I wouldn’t exist on the earth anymore.

I stare at the ceiling, haunted, my hands running through Luca’s soft, thick and full hair.

Gaspare found me. After all these years. After all the precautions.

Why now?

What does he want?

I haven’t thought about him in so long. Since the nightmares reduced. Or maybe I have. Maybe I think about him every time I pass a dark alleyway or smell rain on concrete.

He wasn’t the one who hurt me that night. Not physically.

But he might as well have been.

He left me there to be used. Broken and alone.

Because of a diary. Because of a crush. Because he believed the worst of me and never gave me a chance to correct the impression.

I can still hear his voice, laced with contempt. "Don’t lie to me, Almeria."

And I can still remember the way he walked away, never once looking back.

The next few days pass in a blur of anxiety. I jump at every noise. I keep the shop door locked during hours I never used to. I walk Luca to school myself, eyes scanning every shadow.

And then, on Saturday, he comes back.

This time, I see him approaching. And without thinking, I glide to the door, locking it just before he reaches the handle.

He stands outside, one hand in his pocket, the other falling, away from the door handle, loosely at his side. He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t yell.

Just waits.

After five minutes, I roll my eyes, take in a deep breath and step out. Luca is at a friend’s house for the morning, and the shop is empty.

---