Page 109 of My Dark Fairy Tale
Raffaele Romano was not the man of my dreams.
He was the stuff of nightmares.
A dangerous criminal who was so inured to violence, sabotage, and death that he didn’t blink an eye at taking justice into his own hands. With Zhang-Liu, with the shipping company, with the driver who had called me a whore, and finally, with the man who had broken in tonight and ended up with four bullets through his body on the floor of the closet.
That man was no random thief.
He was there with a gun searching for something. No. Someone.
Raffa had enough enemies to rival James Bond.
It was too surreal to comprehend, but the only thing that continued to rise to the surface of my murky thoughts was this:You do not know Raffaele Romano.
He is not the man you thought he was.
You are a silly girl in love with a dream you projected onto a man who was probably laughing at your naivete this entire time.
Shame and heartbreak and horror soured my gut so that this time when I sobbed, I gagged, bile having surged up my throat.
“Posso aiutarla?”
Can I help you?
An officer in the standard blue uniform stood at the door, a cell phone held to his ear. He peered at me through the murky glass and then unlocked and opened the door.
My fist fell to my side listlessly as panic followed swiftly on the heels of the bile at the back of my tongue. I did not want to speak to the police. Even if I didn’t know Raffa, even if I’d loved a mirage, there was no way I could turn him in.
Not after everything that had happened.
My heart simply wouldn’t allow it.
“No, I mean,yes,” I amended, holding up my hands as I backed away slowly. “I’m fine, thank you.”
When he only frowned and stepped forward, I repeated myself in Italian, adding, “Really, I’m just great. I got a little lost, but I know my way home now.”
The officer glowered at me, murmuring something too low and fast into the phone in Italian for me to discern before he hung up and stuffed it in his pocket. When he moved forward this time, I wasn’t expecting his swiftness, and he caught my wrist with a painful grip.
“You are covered in blood,” he informed me, as if I wasn’t aware.
And truly, in the chaos of it all, I had forgotten. Now that he mentioned it, I could feel the dried gore tightening my skin, making it itch. When I gave in to the impulse, my fingers came away flaked in dried blood.
“Come with me,” he said, tugging me inextricably into the station.
Alarm cracked through my cool resolve, lava hot once more and flooding my entire nervous system.
“No!” I almost shouted, trying to wrench my arm out of his hold without any progression. “No. I do not have to go inside. There is nothing. I just hurt myself.”
“I would like to hear why you are covered in blood and bone,” the officer demanded as he opened the door and hauled me inside the cold reception area.
I shivered violently, but it had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.
“You can tell me why a young tourist arrives at the police but does not want help,” he continued with narrowed eyes before taking my arm again and leading me through a mostly empty bullpen to a side room with a metal door.
“I wouldn’t want to waste your time,” I tried again, my heart beating so loudly I couldn’t focus, vision swimming. Oh my God, I thought, I was going to get Raffa arrested when all I wanted to do was just get away. “I’m an American. I have rights, and you can’t just—”
The metal door banged shut in my face, and there was a rusty whoosh as he slid a lock into place. When I tested the handle, I was not surprised to find it locked.
“Fuck,” I murmured, curling my arms around myself, blood flaking off my arms as I did and falling like macabre confetti to my feet. “What have I done?”
