20

Callahan
I let her go. Let her slip away. I don’t know how I have the self-control to do it.
That night, I don’t even trust myself to sleep in my own bed. Not with her in the room across from mine.
There’s something about Portia. Something inexplicable.
It’s true what I said. There’s an emptiness inside me. A hunger I need to fill. I want to fill it with her. In the morning I take a shower in the bathroom in my office. I jerk off but it doesn’t take the edge off. I want her. I need her.
Fuck.
I sit behind my desk and am running my hand through my hair, trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me when Lenore knocks then opens the door to my office.
“Did you sleep at all?” she asks me, setting the tray down and arranging a pot of espresso, a cup and a plate of food I won’t touch.
She glances at the photos strewn across my desk, careful to set the things down around them. She doesn’t comment on any of it.
“I’ll sleep tonight.”
“Antonio just got in. He’s having a shower and will be down soon.”
I nod. I have to remember Antonio can take care of himself. He has a hard time being in the house.
Harder than me. I know that. I understand it.
“Is Portia down yet?”
She shakes her head. “No, Sir.”
“Go get her. Bring her in here.”
“You could be less heavy-handed with her. You scare the poor girl.”
I look up from the desk. “Well, maybe that’s a good thing,”
“Callahan – ”
“Get me the girl, Lenore.”
She looks like she has more to say but purses her lips, nods and leaves.
Portia asked me last night why I haven’t put her in a cell, and I don’t know why. I don’t know what it is about her. I’m not sure what happened last night. How things went so off the rails. Maybe it was meeting with the families. Seeing them all again like that. Maybe it was the killing after. That couple. It didn’t feel right. Maybe because they were old. I don’t fucking know.
All I know is it didn’t feel right.
I take out the ledger from the bottom drawer. The ones who aren’t tattooed on my chest I keep track here. I write down their names, write down the dates next to them.
Before closing it, I leaf through the pages and read some of them out loud. It’s a ritual of mine. Every time I add a name, I read from the list those that felt like the couple from last night did. A remembrance of sorts. Not that they deserve it.
They had a hand in my family’s massacre, no matter how small. I gave my uncle the instruction years ago. I wanted anyone who had anything at all to do with their murders, no matter what role they played. He has obliged me. He does good work.
Thorough work.
But maybe the ones that don’t feel right are a mistake. He’s not infallible.
There’s a knock on the door and I close the ledger, expecting Portia.
Lenore enters with another tray carrying a second coffee cup and more food. “Portia will be down in a few minutes. I assume she’ll eat with you.”
“I wasn’t inviting her in for breakfast.”
“Well, the girl needs to eat and if she’s in your house, you’re the host.”
“She’s not exactly a guest. Take those away.”
Lenore stops, looks up at me, eyes narrowed, jaw set. And I have a flash of memory. It’s that look. The one she used when she was angry with any of us. My smile must confuse her at least momentarily before I school my features and tell her again to take Portia’s cup and plate away.
“You listen to me, young man. Portia is your guest. Period. You will feed her. And you will treat her with respect.”
I snort.
“If your father were here.”
“He’s not here!” I snap and instantly regret it. “Fuck.” I shift my gaze away then turn back to her. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I know how you miss them, but I’m worried about Portia, Callahan.”
“Why?”
“She had the window wide open when I went up there.”
My heartbeat doubles at this, remembering our conversation two nights ago. “What was she doing?”
“I don’t know. She said she was just taking in the sea air but I’m not sure. You just take care with her. They hurt her too, remember. They killed her parents too and God knows what else they’ve done to her or her cousin.”
It takes all I have to keep myself behind my desk.
“I don’t interfere often, but this needed to be said,” she adds on.
“Fine. You’ve said it. You can leave the things. I’ll make sure she eats. When I’m finished with her, have Alec take her down to see her cousin. Heathcliff Esmeralda will be by in about an hour. I don’t want her to see him here.”
She nods without questioning me and I wonder again just how much Lenore truly knows.
–
Portia
I walk downstairs unattended and find Alec waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“This way,” he says.
I follow him through a corridor I’ve not yet explored to the last door. Alec knocks and opens it on Callahan’s command. He stands aside and I walk in to find Callahan freshly showered, although looking like he hasn’t slept, wearing a different suit than he had on yesterday.
The other man is there, too, on the couch. He’s sipping from a cup of coffee. Cerberus, who was lying on a bed in the corner, leaps toward me. I get the feeling I’m disturbing his morning nap.
Leaning down, I pat him affectionately. “Good doggy.”
Callahan stands up and looks me over, then dismisses Alec. He rubs hand over his clean-shaven face like it feels foreign to him. Maybe it is because I’d assumed the five-o’clock shadow was permanent. Actually, I hadn’t realized I’d filed away so many details about his appearance and it annoys me a little that I did.
The memory of what happened last night is making my cheeks burn. Making more than that burn. I touched myself last night. I hated myself for it, for thinking of him, for feeling his hand on me there. For remembering the feel of it. For coming at the thought of it, of him, his mouth on mine, eyes on mine, hands on me.
Blinking my gaze away, I banish the memory and concentrate on petting Cerberus who nuzzles my neck when I crouch down.
“Cerberus,” Cristiano says and points to his bed.
“Leave him be. I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do.” He snaps his fingers and the dog obediently returns to his place.
“He’s quite the guard dog,” I say, trying to get back to our banter. Trying to pretend like what happened last night isn’t on the forefront of my mind.
Is it on his?
I straighten to take in the study. When I see the blanket and pillow on the edge of the couch, I wonder if he spent the night on it. It’s a beautiful broken-in Chesterfield that spans the whole of one wall.
“He doesn’t like most people, actually.”
“I wonder where he gets that from.” I smile, look to Cerberus and give him a wink. He wags his tail and I see Callahan shake his head in my periphery. It gives me a small sense of satisfaction.
The man on the couch clears his throat and for a moment, it looks like Callahan forgot he was even in here.
“Antonio, this is Portia. Portia, my brother, Antonio.”
Antonio nods to me but he doesn’t smile, so I don’t either. He doesn’t like me, and I don’t like him, so I guess we’re good. Except that he’s got a gun in a holster on his shoulder and I have nothing.
I look around the room. The study itself is beautiful, richly done like the rest of the house, with antique furnishings, a wall of books, and dark curtains to filter the sun.
The smell of whiskey and Callahan’s aftershave, same as in his closet, linger in the air, making me draw out each inhale.
This little fact irritates me and when my mind wanders to last night, to our kiss, I fist my hands and squeeze my eyes shut to force the memory away.
“We’ll go into Naples today to buy you some clothes.”
I open my eyes, look down at myself, at the same dress I wore yesterday. I still don’t know whose it is.
“How long will I be here?”
“You’ll be here for the foreseeable future. Sit.” I take one of the chairs in front of his desk.
I watch him put a ledger away and notice the stack of photos he’s got turned upside down on one corner.
“How long will you keep Nathan down in that cell?”
“I’m undecided at the moment.” He pours coffee for both of us. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.”
He pushes one of the plates of food toward me, but I don’t touch it. I sip my coffee instead.
“Whose room did I sleep in?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Your sister?”
“She was only five at the time of the killings. Her best friend was sleeping over. Mara. Lenore’s granddaughter. She disappeared. Just vanished into thin air. No body and we haven’t been able to find any trace of her. Did your brothers ever mention a little girl?”
I shake my head, but I know what he’s thinking, I’m thinking the same thing, Flesh trade. She’d be fifteen now. And the real creeps like them even younger than that.
“She’s probably dead,” he says but I know he doesn’t believe it.
I nod half-heartedly and when I look up, his eyes are intent on mine.
“Do I need to put bars on the windows, Portia?”
“What?”
“Lenore said you had the window wide open.”
“Your concern is touching.”
“Do I?”
“I’m not going to kill myself.”
“If you do, I’ll throw your cousin out the same window. Are we clear?”
“You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”
“Who’d be in charge of the cartel now that your brothers are dead?”
Swift change of topic. “I don’t know,” I start. I haven’t had anything to do with the actual running of things ever and I’ve never wanted to. “Half of them left when Vincent and Gregory killed our parents. The other half have probably gone to the highest bidder now that Gregory and Vincent are dead. They’re nothing but mercenaries.”
“Well, the family seems to be reuniting.”
“What?”
He turns over the stack off photos and holds them out to me.
l put my coffee down and take them, flip through them. For a moment, it hits me like deja vu. Our old house, a huge but cozy estate on acres of land protected by forest. I haven’t seen it in ten years. I’ve been in Italy ever since the coup.
I touch the whitewashed wall, see the welcome mat with the once-bright red poppies on it. They were my mom’s favorite flower. Her favorite color white. She told me once that dad wouldn’t let her name me White Lily. He thought it was too western a name – my mom was half-American and lived most of her life in the states. She met my dad on a trip home. But he did allow Portia, after her favorite Shakespeare character, which is how I ended up with my name.