A big thank you to Aphaea21, the guest, Phantomgirl24, BehindTheMask31, Badpixie06, peanutpup, smrb, YinuoTong, and SpookyMormonHellDream for the lovely reviews! I so appreciate them!

So, for some reason, a lot of people couldn't access chapter 48 :( I hope that this is fixed now (and that you can see this chapter).

TW: Self-harm

Enjoy!


Erik

Chapter 49

The Blade

A knock sounded at the door to my room.

I opened my eyes and bolted upright, forgetting for a moment where I was. I recalled the day before. Being offered a room. Being given a meal. A bath. Salvatore. Falling asleep in the tub. Then being awoken and escorted back up here, where fresh clothes were laid out for me. Several pairs. I changed and promptly fell asleep again.

I looked at the window. From the bright light shining in, I guessed that it was probably high noon.

A knock again. "Erik, are you there? Or have you decided to run away after all?"

Giovanni.

I rose from the bed - a very comfortable bed - and went barefoot to the door. I opened it. There he stood, with his cane, leaning on it. He smiled at me, black eyebrows raised almost to his salt-and-pepper hair.

"Well, good afternoon." He straightened. "May I come in? I'd like to talk to you."

I nodded and made way. He wore a cane, and had a limp. I could outrun him if this came to danger.

Giovanni entered, looking around the room as if examining it, as if it wasn't his own property. "How did you sleep?" he asked. "Oh, and you can close the door. This will be a private conversation."

Reluctantly, I did so. "I slept well."

"Good." He went to the table in the corner and took a seat. "Come. Sit. I want to discuss."

I walked tentatively to the other chair, across from him. I sat as well.

"I spoke to Carmelo and Vincenzo," he started, placing his cane against the wall. "You made many mistakes while attempting to steal."

I stared at him. "Sir?"

"Well, for one thing," he said, leaning back. "You never attempt a theft of that magnitude, not while there are more of them than of you. I don't care how fast or big you think you are. It rarely ends well."

I blinked. "I - sir, I don't-"

"No, the best thing to do is get up close, undetected, and pick pockets. Or, better yet, cause a distraction. Or wait for them to put the bag down and then take it, unnoticed. If you want to steal a large sum of money, it needs to be when the money is isolated."

I paused, a growing feeling of unease beginning in the pit of my stomach. "It sounds, sir, as though you have plenty of experience."

He grinned. "You might say that." He drummed his fingers on the table. "This is a thieves' den, after all."

I felt cold. "I see." That would explain the bag of money Carmelo and Vincenzo were carrying.

"Would you like to learn how to be a better thief?"

I stood, eyes widening. "I knew there was a catch."

His voice was calm. "No, Erik, there was no catch. I told you that you can leave anytime you'd like."

"And no doubt you will hold over my head the fact that I now know what this place truly is. No doubt you will keep tabs on me, making sure I tell no one. It will be that, or join you. Yes? Well, I know your kind. Publicly charming, privately cruel. You might think that keeping me here by threat isn't imprisonment, but a cage of invisible bars is still a cage."

He wasn't smiling anymore. He watched me, closely, for a few moments. Then: "Many before have reported this as a thieves' den, and many more will. The police know. I pay them off. They do not care. So long as I do not make too much noise, so long as I give them a cut of what I earn, they leave me be. In fact, they laugh at those who try to take this establishment down; they tell them to stop jealously conspiring against the hospitable, charitable Signor Billisi. You could tell the entire city, Erik, and it will not make a difference."

I didn't sit down. My body felt rigid.

"Now." He leaned forward. "It wasn't only the boys I spoke to. I spoke to Salvatore as well." He paused. "Did you know that that is not his birth name?"

I continued staring, silently.

"His birth name was Jacob. No last name. Just Jacob. Born onto a plantation in Georgia - the United States of America. Taken from his mother and sold to a different plantation when he was six. Sold again when he was twenty. His master, a multilingual traveler, took him all over Europe. It was in Venice that Jacob finally killed him, ran, found me. He chose to stay here, changed his name, and has been a masterful thief. A wonderful member of the family." He paused. "Did you know any of that?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Salvatore told me something last night," Giovanni continued, softly. "He told me that you had a master, too. That your master hurt you." He looked at my arms. "Let me see your wrist."

My arms locked at my side. "Why?"

"I will not hurt you," he whispered. He held out a hand. "Let me see your wrist."

I looked at his palm. "Why do you need to see it?"

"I want to look at it." When I didn't move, he removed his hand and went into his pants pocket, where he retrieved a rectangular piece of metal. He handed it to me. "Here. This is a switchblade. Flip the switch on the side and a very sharp knife will appear. If I attempt to hurt you, drive the knife deep into my arm. Go on. Take it. A bit of insurance for you."

Slowly, I reached out and took the metal. I switched the blade out, immediately feeling better. Safer. A knife in my possession again. Then, just as slowly, I placed my other wrist in his hand, keeping the blade in close by, a reminder for him not to try anything.

He pushed the sleeve gently back - as he did so, my heart pounded, and I saw with horror that he was looking for, and found, my cuts and burns.

"Salvatore," he said, staring at the wounds, "said that you told him your master did this. Is that true?"

I didn't respond.

"Or," he suggested, finally bringing his eyes up to mine, "is it true that you did this to yourself while in his care?"

"Care is not a word I would use," I breathed shakily.

He nodded. "No, I suppose that is the wrong word. Forgive me. French is not my first language." He nodded to my wrist. "Did you do this to yourself?"

"Why are you sure he did not?"

"Did he?"

A long pause. I wanted to lie. But the way he was looking at me, like he actually cared about the answer, didn't let me. "No."

"Hm." He let go of my wrist. "How many of these do you have?"

My heart beat hard. I didn't say.

"Are they all over your body?"

I nodded, very slightly.

"And this one-" He pointed to one of the cuts. I quickly moved the sleeve to cover the cuts and burns. "This looks fresh. When was this done?"

"Last night. Before I came here."

"Why?"

"Because I hate myself." I'd never voiced it. It was true, of course, but I'd never said it out loud. I felt a lump form in my throat.

"And why," he asked calmly, "would that be?"

"Look at me."

"I am."

The tears sprang to my eyes. I wiped them away with a shaky hand.

"How old are you, son?"

Son.

My eyes widened at the word. "Twelve."

"A very young age to begin self-hating. I'm sorry." He looked at the blade, still pointed at him. "Do you hate people, too?"

"Yes."

"Don't."

I nearly scoffed. "Excuse me?"

"Don't hate people."

"I think, sir, unless you've been through what I have, you don't have a right to tell me-"

"I have no idea what you've been through, Erik, and I never will. Not unless you decide to share. Even then, I will never understand, truly, the pain of it. But I've seen pain and cruelty too. I've hated myself, hated others. I've been angry. I've felt grief. More than you will ever know. But one thing that I have learned is that hating others - and hating yourself - does nothing but give those that you hate power over you. It lets those who made you hate yourself win."

I'd stopped breathing, listening to his every word.

"So be angry, Erik. Feel deep, burning anger. Feel grief, for all your life could have been but wasn't. But do not hate people. Love them. Love them even while they hate you. Prove to them that you are human - more human than they could ever be."

I lowered the knife.

"And as for your self-hatred - that may take more time. But promise me this. Should you ever feel the need to die, the need to end your own life, do not do so out of pain. Do not do so out of grief or loneliness or anger. If you are going to choose to die, die for something bigger than yourself."

I found myself sitting in the chair. I didn't remember lowering myself. I didn't remember allowing myself to cry, but my face was wet with tears.

He held out his hand again. "Let me see the blade."

I handed it to him, my fingers feeling numb.

And to my horror, he put the blade to his own wrist and cut. Deep. Blood pooled there and dripped onto the table.

My mouth went dry. "Why-"

"My thieves are a family in this home. And while you stay in this house, you, like all my guests, are family, too. All of us. So I see that you slit your wrist out of pain, I will slit mine to share the hurt. We will do so together." He handed me the blade. "Go on. Your turn. I will match every single one."

I didn't take the bloody blade. I only stared at it, dumbfounded.

"Why do you not continue? Do you no longer want to harm yourself?"

"I do want to." That was true. Too honest, I thought, but I didn't care. "Just not right now. Not while you're here."

"Why?"

I looked up at him, very gradually, and my words were small in my mouth. "I don't want you to cut your wrists."

"And I don't want you to cut yours. Yet here we are." He put the knife down. "Are you sure you don't want to? It really didn't hurt that much. I can continue."

I shook my head, more tears falling.

"Whatever you say." He shrugged. "But do me a favor and be honest. Tell me going forward when you decide to put a blade to your skin, so that I can do so as well. It won't do for you to bear that burden alone." He stood. "Now, would you like to learn how to be a proper thief or not? Whether you decide to work for me, or you decide to take your skills to the street and continue on your way, is of little consequence to me. I simply loathe the idea of someone having such...improper technique as you showed last night. Not when I had the opportunity to educate."

I felt too numb to truly think about it, but my soul must have wanted it, for I said, "Yes. I will learn."

"Good." He went for his cane. "Also, that book there, the black one on the top shelf-" He pointed. "That book has Italian-to-French translations. You'll have to learn backwards, but you seem intelligent enough to handle it until I can find a French-to-Italian book for you. I'll have to teach you proper pronunciations. But tonight, that is your first assignment. Learn fifty new words by tomorrow morning."

He picked up the switchblade, still slick with his blood, and flipped it closed. He pocketed it, and left me alone.

But even through the numbness, the tears that still fell, I felt somehow less lonely than before.