Page 29 of My Dark Fairy Tale
Slowly, methodically, with an audience of three, I beat Galasso Pagano to death.
And when I was done, I carved “stupratore” into his forehead with the edge of my knife and watched as Ludo lifted the body in his gloved hands to transfer it to my vintage Ferrari waiting in the back alley, driven there by Carmine. He would take them into the countryside and stage a car crash somewhere deep in the valley. With his blood alcohol content high thanks to the drugs and the wine, there would be no doubt the accident was of Galasso’s own making.
Except for those letters across his forehead deeming him a rapist.
The police would not have enough to make a case for homicide, but those who lurked in the unlawful shadows would know a message had been sent from the Gentleman of the Camorra, and they’d live in fear of receiving it themselves.
Do not fuck with me or mine.
When I’d decided that Guinevere was mine, I was not sure and didn’t linger on. The point was, it had happened, and I wasn’t the kind of man to worry about why.
Chapter Seven
Guinevere
I sat for all of sixty seconds on the edge of the bed Raffa had lent me in his Florentine palace, feeling confused and downtrodden by his sudden cold dismissal after a lovely day together, before I told myself to stop being anidiota.
Raffa may have rejected whatever bond I’d felt growing between us, tenuous but sticky like the first tendrils of a spider’s web, but that didn’t mean all of Florence wasn’t waiting outside these doors for me to explore. I had money (from Raffa) and clothes (also from Raffa), so what was stopping me from setting off on my own adventure?
Raffa, really, or the thought of him.
After such a short time, I shouldn’t have been able to factor him into my Italian fantasies so easily, but dreams floated across my consciousness like scenes from a much-loved film. Twirling in that field of poppies, in that dress he seemed to love, only to tumble into his strong arms, the two of us then crushing the delicate blooms beneath our bodies as we had sex in the grass. Sucking aged Modena balsamic off his thumb while we shared a meal in the city, and laughing with him when he teased me for enjoying everything with a little too much enthusiasm.
Exploring alone seemed desaturated now, but I wouldn’t let my trip be derailed by a moody Italian.
So I grabbed the big raffia YSL bag Maria Lucia had thrust into my hands at one point that morning, along with the thick handful of euro notes Raffa had given me, and set off to take in the city.
Just as I was opening the front door, Martina appeared, silent and terrifying with a cleaver, of all things, in one hand.
“Going somewhere?” she asked with a raised brow.
I eyed the knife and swallowed. “Yes, I thought I’d check out the city because I’ve been cooped up indoors for too long. I’m sick of waiting around for adventure to come to me.”
For some reason, this seemed highly amusing to her. “Si, capisco. Have fun, then.”
“Do you have any suggestions for a nice place to grab dinner?” I asked after a brief hesitation.
“Where are you headed?”
“I want to see the Duomo,” I admitted, a little sheepish because I felt like such a tourist admitting I wanted to see the most famous site in the city.
But Martina only nodded. “Of course, why don’t you try Trattoria Umberto? It’s on the way to the Duomo, across the river. Eat first and see the Duomo for the first time under the lights. Something tells me you will like it better at night.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Walking around Florence after dark made me apprehensive after my encounter with Galasso, even though I’d looked up safety in Florence at least a dozen times before I’d left Michigan. It was safe to walk through the center at night, even as a lone woman, as long as I stuck to the main thoroughfares, which would be thick with tourists. I just had to watch my belongings and stay away from dark corners.
Which was easier said than done, really, when I’d always been drawn inexplicably but inexorably to the shadows.
I thanked Martina, ignoring her manic grin and the gleam of the cleaver, and pushed into the hot evening air. It was thick and stagnant,but I could smell garlic and cooking meat from the little restaurant down the street, and on cue my stomach rumbled.
As I headed toward the Arno and the famous Ponte Vecchio, my phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out to see the screen lit with two missed calls and three text messages, one from my mother and two from my father.
I chewed on my lower lip as I scrolled them.
Dad: Why haven’t you called? I know you said you were sick, but surely you’re better now.
Dad: Guinevere Luisa Stone, if you do not give me proof of life in the next 24 hours, I will be on the next flight to Paris to find you.
Mom: He means it.
