Alright well. I haven't really posted anything in, like, a year and my other stories I just didn't feel like picking up... I just don't know what to do with them and I got distracted with school and I totally didn't care about it anymore. But I started writing this awhile ago and I'm sick - DURING SUMMER VACATION EHEHE SO FUN GAISE - and I just wanted to post this for the hell of it. I stopped writing for my friend with her little Caterina character but I like Sicily - everyone deserves a vacation there ugh it's really pretty - so this character is still Sicilian and she basically still has the same life story thingy if you read my drabbles but yolo. And I know none of y'all actually read this little bit but I felt obligated to throw this in. ALSO the title totally has noooooothing to do with anything in the story at all, I just had that word stuck in my head for whatever reason. It's definitely subject to change. Soooo go on and read, yeah?
Slowly, she picks her way through the market, taking great care not to bring much attention to herself. The guards here are harsh: even a young girl like her is suspicious, no matter if she's browsing at a distance or talking politely to the stall keeper. At all times, she can feel someone's eyes on her, and she's never sure if it's a customer or one of the guards. Bastards.
A woman with a basket stuffed full with anything and everything is bustling right towards her. She smiles, noticing how easily she could snatch at the half-filled coin purse sitting atop rolls and rolls of brightly colored cloth, most likely a new shipment. She calculates her steps, the time allotted before she's about to act. Three, two, one.
"Ay, mi dispiace!" she apologizes to the woman, dropping to her knees, who smiles at her sweetly. Kindly. She would feel guilty later. But not now. Coin is coin. "I am so, so sorry! I wasn't looking, I was... Ay, I'm sorry!"
"It's quite alright, cara," the woman says softly, kneeling down to collect more of the cloth herself. "I completely understand." Now, now. She pretends to place it in the basket as the woman turns to her left, completely blind to her next move. She shoves it into her sleeve, drops it into the pocket of her heavy skirts. The jingling would be muted against the heavy wool.
"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" she says, inhaling deeply the scent of the sea around them. Beautiful Napoli. Doesn't come close to her real home, not close to Sicily. "Enjoy the rest of it!" The woman nods stupidly, charmed by this suave little girl. Fourteen years old and she's snatched all of those florins away. She feels the heavy purse hitting her knee, softly jingling as she walks. This could get her by for the next three months.
For hours and hours, she carries on uninterrupted, weaving her way expertly through the marketplace. She's snatched the smallest of things; a small porcelain saucer, one that would perfectly match a Vittoria Scaglione's fragile little teacup for a few coins; bread to keep her stomach full as she walked and gawked at the dress shop; a long roll of thick rope for Franco, one of the grimy thief boys that will occasionally offer her shelter when she's desperate enough to accept it; a box of sweet cakes left foolishly on a ledge by a young girl distracted by her even younger brothers, three of which she ate for herself and the other three she planned on saving for some of the orphan children she often sees wandering around the gutters. Today has proven to be a productive day.
She licks and sucks sweet lemon off of her fingers, strolling into the open street. From here, she can see the ocean, brilliantly blue. Boats are docked in the harbor, fishermen still lounging about on the docks after a long day's work. Thieves that she easily recognizes, Franco's friends, dash about on the rooftops, completely in view of the guards who do nothing about them. And just yards away is what she fears most: the woman she snatched the coins from angrily snapping at a gangly pair of teenage boys, meant to be the guards, the security of the market. The woman points an angry finger at her, screeching something loud enough for most people to hear, something that falls on deaf ears.
All she can do is run. She disappears into throngs of people, sliding down a sandy hill. Ignoring the roughness of the sand now caught in her skirts, she dashes for a cove Franco brought her to, one close enough to the shore to walk to, but hidden from view unless you stand on the opposite end of the shore. They'll have lost her by then. She'll be in the clear.
"Sandro!" one of the boys is shouting from behind her, and she knows he's close. Goddamn, she shouldn't have gone for a dead end. Goddamn it all. "Sandro, get her!"
She comes to a stop. No point in struggling anymore. Who she thinks to be Sandro turns around, lunges at her, then straightens himself out when he realizes she's giving herself up willingly. The boy from behind her grips hard at her shoulders as if she's going to try to escape, kick at his groin and spit in Sandro's face. "Just take me," she mumbles. "I don't care anymore."
"I TOLD you, I BOUGHT those," she hisses through her teeth, pointing at the rope, the saucer, and the box of sweet cakes sitting on the table outside, just out of her reach. The bars of her little cell press painfully against her arms and chest, and she leans her forehead against them in exasperation. "I stole her coins, but believe me, I bought that."
"It's funny," one of the boys says, tapping his finger against the cord of rope. "Sailor reported this stolen earlier. Said he left it on a table, and when he came back - poof! Gone."
"Blacksmith had an extra, completely useless roll!" she shouts, her voice echoing around the small room. "He sold it for me for so little even I couldn't believe it."
"Even if you DID buy it," Sandro begins, "how would we know it was your money?"
She pats her side firmly, at the filled coin purse sewed into the side of her dress. "I keep my money close at hand. And trust me - THIS is mine. What little I've been able to keep."
"Mmm," Sandro nods. "Alright, I'll believe that's yours. Can't prove otherwise. The exact amount Signora Russo said was in her purse is still in the purse. Your money is your money. But, she may be asking for repayment."
"I repaid her! She received her goddamn money! I gave it back!"
"Yes, but the wealthy are never satisfied."
The other boy - Piero, she remembers now - sighs loudly. "Stop, Sandro. We have more things to worry about. Like her NAME."
She clenches her jaw, her fingers tightening around the bar. No one else sits on the crude wooden benches behind her. It's just her and them in this tiny little room, and she's wondering if they're even really guards, if they're just teenage boys playing around and falsely imprisoning her just for fun, just to ruin her day.
"What's your name?" Sandro asks, coming close to the bars. "Hm, cara?"
If it were any other day, she would have found him attractive. Deep green eyes identical to hers are flecked with little hazel spots, but they're much brighter in comparison to olive skin. Dark hair falls just past his ears, and he's built wide, strong. His shoulders are broad and his arms are muscular and he can't be any older than seventeen. She would have swooned at the sight of him. But it isn't any other day, and as of now, she's fighting the urge to punch him in the face. "Put down anything you want," she says sweetly, cocking her head to the left and smiling. "You can put me down as goddamned Lucrezia Borgia. I don't care. You don't care. I'm in here for the night and I'm out in the morning, no? Isn't that what you told me?"
"I can change that any time, principessa." Sandro grips her wrists hard through the bars. "I can make this worse than before."
"What will you do? Have me hung? Ship me to America?"
Sandro's jaw clenches. He has nothing to say to her anymore. One hand travels up to her face, taking her chin in his hands. He tilts her face to the left, then to the right, and his opposite hand slides from her wrist to grip her low on her back. "She isn't bad looking, Piero," he calls to the boy behind him, who meekly opens his mouth and shuts it. It's clear who's in charge. In a lower voice, he says to her, "You know, if Signora Russo isn't asking for any repayment, you could always do something for me."
Hands squeeze her behind and she's had it. She spits right in his face, her breathing coming in hard gasps as he gapes and wipes it out of his eyes. She backs away from the bars as he charges at them, yelling obscenities at her like she hit him, like she completely emasculated him. Settling herself on one of the sagging benches, she steadies her wobbling knees. It's been so long since someone's been mad at her like that. Since anyone at all has attempted to discipline her. Screaming erupts outside that she recognizes as Signora Russo. "Where is that grimy little gutter whore?"
"Right in here," Sandro answers gruffly. "Would you like to see her?"
"Unlock the door, idiota! I want to see the stupid girl that thought she could do this to me."
Within a few minutes, the woman is in front of her, seething and red in the face. Still so angry. And yet she's completely indifferent, ignoring Signora Russo's bug eyes. "What made you think you could get away with this?"
"I've gotten away with it before," she answers quietly. "You were stupid enough to leave your coins in the open. Ripe for picking."
"Because I trust others enough to leave me as I am! To let me shop in peace! Is no one of a good heart any longer? Where have the good Christians gone? You'll burn in hell, you dirty little stealing rat," Signora Russo screeches at her. "You will BURN in hell."
"Good Christians?" she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "You come in here yelling bloody murder! Your money has been repaid. You should be relieved, you should be grateful, you should be SATISFIED! And yet you're here screaming in the face of a teenage girl, asking for revenge. Good Christians FORGIVE, idiota. They don't want MORE."
"I. Deserve. More."
Anger wells inside of her. How ignorant are people? "Would you like to know what I would have DONE with the money?" she says. The Signora nods. "Well, I would keep a bit for myself. Just a bit, for a cheap dress if my others are too torn and worn, or at a rundown inn if it's raining. The rest I would split amongst little orphan children, the other dirty gutter thieves that need money. To live. We're children without parents that need to survive."
Signora Russo doesn't skip a beat. There is no pity in her eyes, no guilt, no shame. It's as if she didn't hear a single word. "Your circumstances are unfortunate, my dear, and I apologize. I am truly sorry. But you don't need to include me in your sick little plans. And I request repayment." Long fingers wrap around the necklace that has hung around her neck since she was eight, since she pried it off of her Father's bloody chest. Pure silver. "I want this."
She smiles calmly. "Family heirloom. I'm afraid you can't have it."
"Well, I'll take it anyway." The clasp is undone as Signora Russo yanks it off, holding it up in the meager light to examine it. Rage swells up inside of the thief girl sitting on the now quaking bench, and she realizes it's because of her fingers wrapped right around the edge, gripping so hard her knuckles have turned white.
"I'll do what you want. I'll clean your home, I'll help you with whatever, I'll teach your children how to swim - I will repay you in favors, but Jesus Christ, let me keep my necklace."
Signora Russo shrugs, smiling down at her. "I would rather something of value."
"It's all I have of my parents," she says, and she can feel her throat tightening, burning. It becomes more difficult to swallow and her eyes begin to burn, as well as her cheeks, her ears, her neck. She is not looking forward to shedding tears, especially not here and now. "Please, Signora, I'm begging you."
Yet the indifference remains. This ignorant woman shrugs, wrapping the cord around her neck. The charm catches the light, the strange triangular charm, some kind of symbol of something incredibly important to her father. A symbol she's seen all over but can't quite place. "It's quite nice, I think. Not exactly a diamond or pearls, but -"
Coins slap against the desk outside. Signora Russo turns around abruptly, and Sandro and Piero look the slightest bit intimidated by whoever just entered the room. She can see the shadow of a man cast long across the dirt floor, the hum of a deep, quiet voice. Sandro nods respectfully, rising to his feet to come stand by the cell door. "Come," he says softly to her, waving her over. "She's leaving, Signora Russo."
"I've gotten what I wanted," is the woman's smug answer. "But I'd like to see the poor soul bailing out this dreadful child."
She bites her tongue hard, stepping nervously out of the cell. Two things are on her mind: one, and most importantly, she needs to get her necklace back. Two, whoever it is bailing her out must have been sent by Franco. How long would it take her to repay him? But she has no idea who this fine-dressed man is. He's tall, and breaking into his forties, a handful of wrinkles lining his face. He smiles warmly at her the moment he sees her, but his eyes grow flat as he catches sight of the necklace around Signora Russo's neck.
"I believe that is hers," he says simply, pointing at her. "I will pay you whatever you ask, as long as it is rightfully returned to her."
"I don't think you understand, Messere," Signora Russo begins flirtatiously. "She -"
"I understand damn well, believe it or not. Now I would like you to return that to her immediately, and you will be compensated. I shan't have it any other way. I'll keep you here all night if that's what it takes for its return."
Signora Russo unclamps the necklace, tossing it haphazardly at her. "You know what - I don't care. Take it. None of you are worth my time or energy. Goodnight, Sandro, Piero, and you, rude sir. Wait until my husband hears about this."
"I know Stefano very well," the man replies, to Signora Russo's dismay. "You two have a nice supper."
The thief girl gawks at this strange man, standing tall and grinning at her, as if he knows her. And she can almost swear she knows him. From somewhere, her muddled memory, she places his face and his voice, but she can't remember when she met him, if she did at all, if this isn't her optimism messing with her head.
"Come along," he says, waving her towards the door. She stays where she is, her feet planted to the ground. "Ah, mi dispiace. We haven't had proper introductions. I am Giovanni Auditore. I was once friends with your family." And he smiles again, this time with some meaning. She still has no idea who he is. But he's her way out.
Willingly, she walks ahead of him, up the stairs and out the door. They're across the street from a line of small shops - a bakery, a small eatery, a tailor's shop, and a very, very small bank. He's right behind her, his footsteps falling heavily.
"Grazie, Signore Auditore," she finally says after a long moment of silence. They're so close to where she saw Piero and the other boy listening to Signora Russo's whining, and the ocean to her right is black, the moon hovering just above it.
He smiles down at her. "Believe me, it was no trouble."
"I should be heading home soon. Far too late for me to be out." She returns his smile, though she's sure hers doesn't look as genuine as his.
"And where is this home of yours?"
"A neighborhood you'd rather not travel into."
"Ah, but I would. If it's no place I should be, then it's definitely no place you should be."
"I've made my home there. I've made my fair share of acquaintances. I belong there, believe me. So thank you for this kind favor. I'm very grateful. But I have to go home, Signore."
She's speeding up her step, planning on darting into the next large group of people, just a few hundred yards away, all of them surrounding a fire eater in awe. He's just reminding them of the festivities of Carnivale, looming ahead. Only a few weeks away. Such an easy few days of thievery, the time she and Franco rake in the most they ever can the entire year.
"Stop trying to run from me, Apollonia." She stops short. Unless necessary, she never says her name. And even then it rarely is her name - she'll try Sandra, Flora, Simonetta, Giuliana. Any name in the book. Only the close few know her real name.
"How do you know my name?" she mumbles, and she inexplicably feels the need to cry. Her brows are drawing together and her lip trembles violently, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Maybe it's because he sounded so much like her father.
No, he sounded just like her father.
"We met once. You were only a child. I was friends with your father; we were business associates. I saw you being taken, and I made it my business to check into all of the so-called prisons in Napoli." His explanation is so calm and clear and she knows it's true. In fact, she's remembering him now, how she peeked in on him and her father drinking late into the night in his study. Apollonia remembers him clearly.
"You know what happened to him, then?" she says, squeezing her eyes shut tight. "What happened to all of them?"
He nods stiffly. "Si. And I'm sorry."
The rest of his words drown out. Snippets of what did happen to her family flash in her mind: her sister Ariana draped over the sofa, blood and guts all over. Her oldest brother Vito thrown over the stairs, his neck broken at an odd angle, blood dripping from his mouth. Her mother raped and stabbed, but she didn't die for hours. She was still bleeding, painfully slow on the dining room floor, and Apollonia sat beside her and cried and cried and cried until she closed her eyes and her chest stopped weakly rising and falling.
Vincenzo and Alessandra are out there somewhere. But now, she wonders if she'd like to know where they are. If things would be the same.
"Did you hear me, Apollonia?" he says, and her attention is brought back to him. "I'll help you. I'll bring you back to Firenze. I can give you a good life. Repayment for something your father did a long, long time ago for me. It's the least I can do. Please, please let me."
She sizes him up through bleary eyes. She's fully aware this is the best offer of her lifetime, the only time she'll come close to living comfortably again. Giovanni, a friend of her father's, in his silken clothes, his soothing voice, offering her something she would, could, SHOULD accept. The fact she even has to think about it...
"I know, I know this is all odd. I know it may seem like I'm lying. But I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon, and -"
"Si," she nods, wiping at her running nose. "What better option is there?"
"You'll come?"
Apollonia smiles weakly. "A friend of my father's is a friend of mine, Signore."
I WANTED THAT RUSSO LADY TO BE A HUGE BITCH CUNT SLAG OK. I was really pissed off when I was writing this and yeah. The drama was completely necessary. And if shit doesn't add up I'm sorry, I just didn't wanna edit anything because I'm a half-ass writer and beta readers are intimidating all around. But it's a whole Sicilian soap opera up in here ma friends.