He took his eyes from the rearview to glance at the money still clutched in his hand—payment she had given him to be forgotten. Quickly, he looked back into the mirror. The bills were thrown from his grip and fluttered onto the passenger seat. Unbuckling the seatbelt, the taxi driver quickly exited the taxi and hurried around it.
"Signora!" he called. The girl turned. She had the look of someone who had found hope. But it was a misplaced one, and the driver silently begged to God he would be able to make her see that. "Signora, please! Just get back into the taxi! You can have your money back—I'll drive you home!"
"I thought…" It was too dark to see, but he could tell she was crying. "… I told you to go."
"Whatever you're thinking, just—please! I'll take you home, just don't… just don't." He dared to take a step towards her, and it pushed her back by one.
"You don't know!" she cried. "You don't know what I've been through! What she's put me through! Nobody cares! Nobody loves me!" Her hands balled into fists, and something seemed to possess her as her voice suddenly elevated into a shriek. "This'll show them! This'll make them all pay!"
"You're right," the driver replied. "You're right—I don't know. But please!" He clasped his hands out in front of him like a beggar. "This isn't the way. You won't win by doing this." His hands parted, and one reached tentatively towards her. "You win by going on—seeing another morning. Signora, it may seem like no one cares, but I promise you that someone does. Maybe you can't see them. Maybe you haven't met them yet. But there is always someone who cares."
The girl hesitated. The driver took another step, and this time she didn't back away. "You're just a stranger," she whispered. "You're just a stranger and you're the only person who's been nice to me."
"Stranger, friend—we're all human. That's why I can't leave you here, Signora. Please, just step away from the rail. Come here. It'll be alright."
The girl hesitated, and then to the driver's immense relief she began to step towards him. It was as if those first few steps gave her renewed courage, because then she hurried towards his outstretched arms. She buried her face into his chest. The driver rocked her back and forth, patting her back gently like he would with a child.
"Mamma said God had sent angels down to walk amongst us," the girl cried, her voice muffled against his dress shirt. "I didn't believe her before."
"Signora, I'm no angel," the driver replied gently.
"You are!" the girl insisted. "People feel only cold and prickly to the touch, but you—you feel warm. The first warmth I've ever felt. You're an angel."
This time, the driver didn't correct her. After a moment, he said, "Let's get you home, Signora. Out of this cold. Come back into the taxi, and I'll drive you home. Free of charge." He let the girl go, but could feel her reluctance.
"I can't go home," she whispered. "That's where they are—that's where she is."
The driver hesitated. He wondered if maybe the girl was being abused, but she didn't look like it… not that he would know. From the way she was dressed, and the amount of money she had shoved into his hands, she seemed well off. There were obviously demons roaming in her life—the sort he couldn't come close to understanding. But all he could do was see her safe. All he could do was drive her home.
"Signora," he said, "I want you to make a promise."
The girl regarded him with her glassy eyes. "Promise you what?"
"Not to me. Make a promise to yourself. Think of it during the drive. By the time we get you back home, I want you to have named a way you'll change your life for the better, so that this bridge and everything that brought you here will be nothing but a bad, distant memory. Do you understand, Signora?"
"Yes."
He brought her back to the taxi. She gave him a new address, and the driver knew he could trust her this time. He made a U-turn on the bridge and drove back into the heart of the city. The ride was spent in silence, though the driver occasionally glanced at her through the rearview. She was a young, beautiful thing—probably around the age of his own daughter, if he had to guess. As he navigated the roads, he thanked God over and over again for sending him down that street when the girl had waved for a taxi. For letting him keep her from becoming a tragic story at the muddy bottom of a bridge. It couldn't have been a coincidence, so the driver called it a gift instead. A gift for his last day as a taxi driver—the only life he had ever known.
The house he pulled up to was enormous. The driver kept his shock internal as he gazed up at it. It was the kind of home he had only ever seen from a distance or on television. He drove slowly along the right side of the circular driveway and stopped by the stairs leading up to the front door. He heard the girl undo her seatbelt and turned to gather up the money piled on the passenger seat.
"Did you think of a promise, Signora?" he asked.
"I did. I promised myself that I'll feel a warmth like yours again, even if I have to make it myself."
"That's the spirit," the driver said. With the bills bundled in his hand, he held them out towards her. "Free of charge. That was my promise, wasn't it?"
There was a pause. "No," she said. "You keep it. As a gift, not payment." She had already opened the door before he could protest.
It was his last chance before she closed the door. Even if she needed a taxi again in the future, he wouldn't be the one driving it. Quickly, the driver said, "Have a good night, Signora. Have a good life."
"Thank you." It was her last words to him before the taxi door closed. He watched her climb up the steps. A woman emerged from inside the house, hurried down to her, and hugged her tightly. The driver noticed how the girl's arms remained at her sides.
He put the taxi back into drive and circled back around the driveway. As he was leaving, he glanced back up at the rearview and saw that the girl had pulled away from the woman's embrace and was watching him leave.
That night, the taxi driver went home. He unbuttoned his dress shirt and removed it, knowing he would never wear it again for the rest of his life.
He had never missed a day of work. He had driven people around Milan six days a week—sometimes a full seven because he was determined to be able to send his two kids to university. He had given himself barely any time to breath, and none at all to discover the tumor in his brain until it had gone to the point when the doctor told him that he had two years left. Eight months if he didn't receive treatment, and he hadn't because then there would have been no money left for his children's tuition.
If he'd had his way, he would have continued working until his very last day. But the headaches were getting worse, and he'd even had a seizure—though thankfully not while behind the wheel.
And so after the night he had driven a girl from the bridge to her home, the taxi driver retired to spend his last few months quietly fading in a hospital. He'd taken the money from the girl and handed it to his wife, telling her to add it to the savings account. He'd kissed her and told her to take the children and visit him in the hospital, but not too often because he knew that every visit would hurt them.
At the hospital, he made a ward mate who was in the same boat as him, though this man had undergone treatment for a year before giving it up. The ward mate was quiet and often kept to himself, spending the evenings with his face stuck into the latest additions of the Corriere Della Serra that the nurses would give him. On the rare occasions that the ward mate felt like talking, he would tell the driver of the stories he'd read about.
Then, a few days after he had been admitted to the hospital, the driver heard a story that made him sit up in shock. He told the ward mate to be clearer. And, as he listened to the news of a girl's body that had been found at the bottom of the bridge with short rails, he suddenly began crying. The ward mate was startled at his reaction and couldn't understand why this anonymous death had affected him so.
Weeks passed by and the driver's health continued to rapidly deteriorate. It got to the point where he was completely bedridden, was on constant medication to treat his terrible headaches, and spent most of his time sleeping. He was scared, yes. He knew it wouldn't be long. But at the same time, he was tired and ready to leave the pain behind.
One day a nurse approached him and told the driver that a visitor was here to see him. He was surprised—his family had come by just a few days ago. But it wasn't his wife and children who walked in today. It was a young woman with long chestnut curls. She carried with her a vase of flowers.
He saw the pearl necklace around her neck and, when she sat down next to him, looked into her eyes and remembered them. He reached out for her with his hands, and she took them with her own.
"I thought," he told her slowly with a weak voice, "when I heard the story in the Corriere…"
"I kept my promise," she told him quietly. "The one you made me make to myself." He was happy to hear it. He told her that her hair was very pretty, but she seemed to ignore the comment. He then asked her about school, and she replied that she was headed to London in a few months for university. That made him feel an almost fatherly pride.
She asked him if he'd known about the tumor on the night he drove her home. He answered truthfully. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Signora. You had enough troubles."
She didn't answer, and instead leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "I won't be sad," the girl said. "God is taking His angel back."
She stayed with him a while longer. He was already exhausted by the time she was getting ready to leave—he no longer stayed awake this long nowadays. But before she left, he remembered to finally ask for her name.
The girl quickly glanced around before leaning down towards him. In a low voice, she told him, "My name is Alessandra."
She had looked fearful at first when he stepped in and unplugged the curling iron. It had showed in her eyes when she looked up at him. He only stared back with his cool, calculating gaze and said to her, "You don't need it."
"What are you playing at?" she demanded softly.
Stefano's hand came down over the warm curling iron and scooted it down the bathroom counter and away from her. She could have sworn her heart was beating loud enough to hear. "Alessandra, amore mio…" The mention of her name—her name—after all these years made her heart skip a beat. "The jig is up. Why keep hiding?" His fingers crept into her hairline, combing through the length of her straight tresses. "This—this is what I've been waiting for. I married a cocoon, knowing that one day the seams would burst apart and what would emerge from the ruined husk would be…" He trailed off, though she could see the end of his sentence within his eye.
Alessandra turned away and stared warily into the mirror. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since she'd seen that face. "What do I have," she asked bitterly, "that Celestina didn't?"
"What kind of artist would I be had it not been for your inspiration?" Stefano said. "The voice of creation I heard—it wasn't coming from the lips I saw. It came from the ones underneath. Hidden. But you couldn't really hide from me, could you?" Alessandra watched him in the mirror as he moved behind her, gripping her arms gently. "The entirely different animal wandering until she found another one. Oh, she stayed under that sheepskin, but I recognized that scent as soon as I came across it." He turned his head, burying his face in her hair, and breathed in deeply. She felt the heat of his breath as he continued, "Being married to that silly brat—it was fun for a while. But you of all people should know that every good performance needs a close. Dragged on for too long, it loses its shine. So, amore, the curtains have closed and the performers have shed their costumes. It's time to show me your true face."
The lacerations inflicted from the birthday party still stung deep within her chest. For next day, she stayed confined in her room. The porcelain ballerina was her only companion. She spun on her platform, playing her soft lullaby.
Alessandra lay on her side, watching the light fade through her window. She thought about the warmth she had felt that night. Signora, I want you to make a promise.
Her hands tightened, bundling the sheets firm in her grip. I promised myself that I would feel warmth again. And if this home won't show me any, I'll burn it down to feel it.
The lullaby drew to a close and the ballerina stopped her pirouette. Alessandra didn't know what pushed her to get out of bed. Whatever it was, it told her to pick the music box up and carry it with her. With it tucked under her arm, Alessandra opened her door, crossed the hallway, and opened the one to Celestina's room.
The room was empty, but she knew her sister was there. The bathroom light was on. As she neared the lit doorway, Alessandra felt the slight dampness from the finished shower cling to her skin.
Celestina was standing in front of the mirror, blow-drying her hair. She didn't notice Alessandra until she was standing in the doorway. When she finally did see, Celestina gave a little jump and frowned. Setting down the blow dryer, she said, "Lessy! Don't just barge in like that, just because I do!" She placed her hands on her hips. "What do you want?"
"You still haven't apologized."
"For what? For slapping you in front of everyone?" Celestina scoffed. "You were asking for it, drunken mess that you were. If anything, you should be apologizing to Mamma and Papa for running off like a crybaby. Mamma kept freaking out about how you'd never come home. But I knew you would—you always do eventually."
"Do you enjoy this?" Alessandra suddenly demanded. "Being so horrible to me? Grinding me to the ground time and time again?"
"Enjoy it? Like some kind of freak?" Celestina retorted. "You make it too easy, Lessy. You're an oddball. You make people uncomfortable. Why would anyone be nice to you?" She turned back to the counter, and Alessandra saw her stick a hand over the curling iron to test its heat. "But don't worry, we'll soon be far apart where you won't have to hear me and I won't have to look at you."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not going to the University of Milan like you are. Papa is sending me to the Royal Academy—in London, you know."
"You're leaving?" Alessandra said, wide-eyed.
"What's with that tone, Lessy? I thought you'd be glad to see me go. Oh, but I'll come home for Christmas. Our favorite holiday."
Alessandra clenched her teeth together. Her pulse pounded through her veins, and within it some quiet voice murmured. "No," she growled. "No… I won't let you."
Celestina looked up at her sister, her brow furrowing. "What?"
"I won't let you go off and get the happy endings that you don't deserve, Cellie. I won't let you get away." She took a step into the bathroom. The terrified look that suddenly appeared on her sister's face gave Alessandra a rush she had never known before.
"Lessy—!"
"People only love you because of what's above your skin, Cellie. But I know you—the real you. You're ugly, hideous. And if people could see what I do, no one would love you! Then you'd how it feels to be…" She took another step, crossing into the doorway.
"The entirely."
Celestina shrank back.
"Different."
The hand holding the music box clenched so tightly that it shook.
"Animal!"
Celestina suddenly shrieked, and as she did she flew forward and tried to run past Alessandra. With wide, crazed eyes, Alessandra turned after her sister. The music box flew up. Its corner struck Celestina's skull with a sickening crack.
The scream cut away to dense silence. Her body collapsed on the ground. The edges of Alessandra's vision were starting to creep in as she looked down. The tile underneath her sister's head was stained in droplets of red. Celestina twitched. From her mouth came choked breaths, though to Alessandra's ears they were as loud as screams. Or maybe that sound was the shrill ringing that rattled in her head.
Panicked quickened Alessandra's heart. She couldn't let anyone hear—she had to stop the sound! Dropping down onto her knees, she clamped both hands over Celestina's lower face. Her sister stared at her, struggling meekly. Alessandra kept her grip tight over Celestina's nose and mouth, hissing, "Shhhh! Shhhh!" and hoping that no one would hear the screaming that filled her ears.
Finally, after what felt like years and years of agony, Celestina stopped moving. Her eyes no longer bore into Alessandra, and instead stared listlessly up at the ceiling. And, more importantly, the screaming had stopped.
Suddenly, Alessandra let out a gasp. She pulled her hands away and peered down at her sister. She wasn't moving… she wasn't moving at all.
"Cellie?" Alessandra whispered. "Cellie? I—I didn't mean it." She looked up at the music box, and then back down at Celestina. Reaching down, Alessandra tilted Celestina's head and saw with horror that there was blood filling the seams between the tiles. She quickly fell back and scooted until her back hit the base of the bathroom counter. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, and she fought to pull in breaths.
Then, in a quiet voice, Alessandra said, "I feel… I feel warm." She slowly looked up to where the warmth was coming from. A hand rose to grip the edge of the bathroom counter as Alessandra pulled herself up onto her feet. And then she saw it, sitting there on top of the marble. The silent witness.
Alessandra stuck her hand out and hovered it over the curling iron. The air around it felt warm.
She found a dress from her closet—a pretty silver one. It had been one of her favorites. She dressed the body in it. Then she took a pair of ankle-strap shoes and left them by the window.
After her shower, Celestina's hair had returned to its natural straightness. And in that silver dress, she looked exactly like… the perfect way out.
Alessandra opened the window and felt the cool night air rush in. She dragged the body over and pushed it out. A loud crunch came from the flattened shrubbery on the ground below. Next, Alessandra tossed the shoes out as well. She made one last trip to her room to retrieve her car keys.
She kept the headlights off as she drove the silver Bugatti out to the side of the house. There, she retrieved the body and shoes and stowed them away in the car's small trunk before steering around the circular driveway and away from the house. Once she was on the road, she turned her headlights on.
It was a miracle she didn't manage to smash into anything, given how hard her hands were shaking and fast her heart was racing. Her eyes flew to every headlight she passed, terrified that each one would know what she'd done and what was curled up under the silver hood.
Finally, the car slowed as it came up onto a bridge. It steered onto the emergency lane, where it came to a complete stop. Turning her head, Alessandra looked out the right-side window and saw the short railing next to the car. She reached out and opened the car door, but quickly yanked it shut when a car flew past in the lane next to her. Alessandra watched the car speed away, trying to steady her shallow breaths. Through the window, she glanced around for any other passing vehicles. The bridge was dark and empty.
Quickly, Alessandra popped the hood open and got out of the car. She came around to the front. In the dim moonlight, she could just make out the silhouette of the huddled form. With one last glance around, Alessandra heaved the body out. The weight of it in her arms made it feel as though Celestina was struggling to break free.
This is what you deserve! Alessandra screamed in her head. This is what I deserve! She was up at the railings now, pressing against it. The overwhelming urge to jump had returned to her, an unseen hand pulling at her from the darkness below.
And so she let go, and felt lightheaded during the fall. Then came the sharp thud of impact, which woke her up like a slap. She stood there for a moment, feeling confused yet determined at the same time. Returning to the car, Alessandra retrieved the shoes and closed the trunk and door. She went to the rails and placed the shoes onto the ground next to them.
Alessandra peeked over, but the darkness had swallowed the sight of her sister up. She was hoping to at least catch the faintest glimpse—capture a mental snapshot of this moment. But the moon tonight wasn't bright enough.
Finally, Alessandra dangled the car keys over the edge. Before she let them go, she whispered, "Here, in case you want to make your way back home." Her fingers parted and the keys too disappeared into the depths.
A taxi was driving along the road with its sign lit when the driver spotted a girl waving for him. She got into the back and gave him an address, telling him to take her home.
How Mamma and Papa cried at the news. Papa shut himself in the study and, for the next week, only emerged for the funeral. The moment they stepped back into the house, he disappeared back into his self-made prison. She and Mamma, still dressed in their funeral black, sat quietly in the living room. She watched as her mother dabbed away the last traces of her tears with her damp handkerchief.
Celestina had been surprised at how many people had been there for Alessandra's funeral. She had watched how some cried and others mourned in solemn silence. The pastor had spoken beautiful words in Alessandra's memory. As did Papa. As did several others. Celestina had listened closely to all of them, taking in each and every word.
Francesco had been there too. He had sat next to Celestina. During service he'd taken her hand, but Celestina for whatever reason quickly pulled it away. He figured it must've been because of the grief.
When the gathering dispersed to leave, Francesco quickly caught Celestina before she reached her family's car. He hugged her, and then kissed her. Celestina wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. When they parted, he whispered to her, "I'll visit you in London, okay?"
Celestina, who had her lips pressed against Francesco's shoulder, lifted them just slightly to murmur back, "Alessandra is gone forever and you are already making future plans with me?"
"Stellina, you are the one I love. You're the one still here." He gazed down at her. "Remember what we talked about before your party? Of course I'm thinking about our future."
Celestina looked back up at him, though her eyes held none of the affection that Francesco's had. "You don't feel warm," she told him simply. "Not like I thought you would." She pulled away from him and headed to the car.
Sitting here now in the living room, Celestina watched her mother. "Did you really mean all those things you said at the funeral?" she suddenly demanded. Her mother looked up, startled.
"Of course I did, cara. Alessandra was my life, my love. And now she's gone, but I still can't bear to believe it."
"What about… me?"
"Please." Her mother looked weather-beaten. "Don't start this again—not now."
"I'm just saying," Celestina insisted, her voice growing slightly irate. "If you loved her, why did you never tell her while she was still here?"
"I tried, Celestina! You saw me—I tried everything in my power to show Alessandra that I was still her mother and loved her as one, but she was just too—too different!" Looking thoroughly upset, her mother rose to her feet. "I… I don't want to talk about this." With that, she hurried out of the living room.
Acardi Club Milano was a mix of sophistication and sleaziness—like a cocktail with the perfect mix of both. An irresistible taste that hid the poison underneath. It sat on the east side of Milan, hidden away at day but impossible to miss at night. It was the kind of club that everyone wanted in on, but very few people did. Two bouncers in fine dress that hid none of their bulky physiques always stood watch at the door. Inside, there was even another that guarded the entrance to the VIP lounge.
But what kept the uninvited away weren't the bouncers that always looked ready to cave heads in. It was the name attached to the club itself. And if there was one rule whispered within the underbelly of the city, even among its law enforcement, it was that no one was to mess with the Acardis.
But… okay, sure—even with those whispers flying around, the terror inflicted just at the mention of his surname, Raffaele Acardi didn't feel all that menacing. But he loved the importance his family name gave him, and he loved the luxury. Maybe he wasn't as formidable as Papa or Nonno, who really ran the family, but who cares? He was still young and there was still an endless supply of booze and women waiting for him.
To that end, Acardi Club Milano was a goldmine—endless drinks for him on the house and the prettiest girls in all of Milan waiting in line for a chance on his lap. Raffaele had instructed the VIP bouncer to let any single girls in without question. And even if they lied about being unattached, it didn't matter to him so long as they were willing to keep up the lie for the night.
Tonight, as he stepped into the lounge, his eyes were immediately drawn to the bar. There was a girl sitting at the counter, a Bellini in one hand. Now if there was one sight Raffaele couldn't stand, it was a pretty piece drinking alone.
He perched himself on the stool next to her and introduced himself. As always, as soon as she heard his surname, her eyes lit up with wonder. Snared like a rabbit. Raffaele knew he wasn't going home alone tonight.
He made a show of waving the bartender over. Still holding the girl's gaze, Raffaele said, "Whatever her tab is, erase it." The bartender, of course, obliged without question. Nodding towards the plush leather booths at the other end of the lounge, Raffaele asked if she wanted to take a seat with him. The girl took her drink and followed him to a corner booth. As they walked over, Raffaele didn't miss the looks of stark jealousy the other ladies in the lounge were flashing over. Don't worry, he thought smugly. There's plenty of me to go around. And he knew they'd all wait for their turns.
When they were nestled together in the booth, Raffaele wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulders and asked for her name.
"Celestina."
"Pretty name for a prettier girl."
She gave a tinkling laugh at his remark. As she did, Raffaele studied her closely. She was gorgeous—straight up fuckable. He'd make sure she was allowed to be a regular to the club and, by extension, his bed.
Brashly, Raffaele reached with his other hand and gently tugged one of her curls, watching it bounce back as he released it. Suddenly, he felt her place a hand on his knee.
"Raffaele." She purred his name, and the way she did made him long for her to move her hand up closer. "I've heard that you're a bad boy."
Well, it was true that he and his older brothers liked to rough people up—make the people Nonno wanted gone disappear. But a girl like Celestina didn't have anything to fear, not with a face and body like that. He flashed her a grin. "You don't have to worry," he told her. "I'll be a good boy if you want."
Her hand suddenly slid up his thigh, and he felt the sensation pulse through him like electricity. "Don't be."
He was starting to like this girl more and more. It was time to ditch this club and get to a place that was a little more private, more intimate. And more well lit so he could watch her undress. With his face still leaned close to Celestina's, he have a slight jerk of his head towards the door. "Why don't we get out of here?"
The girl responded only by gently biting her lower lip.
Celestina, Raffaele declared to himself, had been without a doubt the best lay he'd ever had. He'd never known exhaustion like this before, and it had for some reason left him more satisfied than ever. He heard the noises coming from the bathroom and quietly waited for Celestina to come back to him. When she lay back down, Raffaele scooted over to wrap his arms around her and pin her body against his. Normally he liked having his own bed to sleep in, and usually kicked the girl out after he'd had his fill.
But there was something about Celestina. He craved the feeling of her skin and the softness of her body like a drug. They'd have another rough, wild go in the morning, Raffaele decided, and then he'd boot her out onto the street. They never liked that treatment, but they always came back for more anyway.
As dawn settled, he made good on his word. He had her pinned against the mattress, grunting heavily into her neck, when he heard her say it.
"I love you."
He was always disappointed whenever a girl let slip those damning three words. It meant he'd have to tell the VIP bouncer that she was no longer welcomed in the lounge. And honestly, how could any girl think that the Raffaele Acardi would settle for just her?
He was in the middle of deliberating whether to ignore Celestina's words and carry on until climax, or cut things short and disappoint her with a not-so-mutual reply. Lifting his head, Raffaele looked down at her. But as soon as their eyes met, he froze. There was something in her gaze he couldn't stop staring back at. It nearly made him miss the realization that Celestina had her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him down like a prisoner. He began shivering, though he couldn't tell if it was from pleasure or something else. Whatever it was, it forced the words out of him.
"I love you too."
Raffaele's two brothers were the first to learn that the impossible happened—that their little brother, the biggest lech in all of northern Italy, was in a relationship. When they saw her, they found it a little easier to understand though they were still chuckling in disbelief. Little Raffy was the guy who thought with his dick first at all times—and without a doubt this was no different. They figured he just wanted to keep this one around a little longer, as much of a catch as she was. But it wouldn't be long, they knew, before he would miss the thrill of the chase and the one night stands. They thought he was being the manipulative one.
They didn't notice the change at first because it only slowly began to creep in whenever he was around her. When Celestina wasn't near him, he was the same old Raffaele they always knew. They didn't see the thin strings attached to him. They didn't feel it pulling at their own limbs. They didn't, until they murdered Francesco Casale.
They had long forgotten why. They had long forgotten why they pulled him into that dark room, why they tied him into that chair. Why they used hands and tools to break and rip and twist things from his body to make him scream and bleed.
But she didn't forget. With a nail filer in one hand, a leg crossed daintily over the other, she reclined comfortably in her plush little armchair. And when she asked Raffaele to move out of the way so she could get a better view, Francesco saw her. And he pleaded with her, begging her to tell him why she was doing this. It was then that she finally lowered the filer. Her legs uncrossed and she planted both feet firmly down as she leaned forward.
"Why?" she repeated softly. Then, in a voice that grew louder with each word, she said, "Because I want you hear you squeal, little mouse!" With that, she leaned back, resumed filing her nails, and let the show continue.
After a while, she yawned and stood. "I'm getting bored," she announced. "Wrap this up. And Raffy…" Her tone became sultry. "Meet me upstairs when you're done."
It took a long time for the coroners to identify the body found washed ashore on the river as Francesco Casale. And when the news made rounds on all channels, it was then Mamma Acardi had discovered what her boys had done. She confronted them, and they stayed in stoic silence as they listened to their mother's tirade.
"Do you understand what you have done?" she demanded. "That was Casale's boy! You cannot just kill anyone you please! You cannot run the Acardi name through the mud like that! How on earth did this happen?"
In a very small voice, Raffaele was the first and only to answer. "Celestina."
At that her name, Mamma's eyes were lit afire. "That girl," she seethed, "is nothing but trouble. Nothing but trouble! Do you hear me, Raffaele?"
"But—!"
"She cannot be a part of this family! Will not! You separate yourself from her, or I will bring this up to Nonno." At that, Raffaele's eyes widened. "Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Mamma."
Raffaele was hesitant to give Celestina the news. He had, by now, convinced himself that he was utterly in love with her. But perhaps it was better this way, he reasoned. He had never been a man of commitment, and planned to stay that way until his family forced him to get hitched. He didn't know what it was about Celestina that made him change, but now was the chance to finally take his life back.
He wasn't sure how she would take the news. He'd expected her to scream and cry and hit him at the very least. But there was none of that. Celestina was eerily quiet. Raffaele saw the stark displeasure in her eyes, but whatever else was on her mind was completely veiled.
Suddenly, she surprised him by saying, "Your mother really does care about you, doesn't she?"
Raffaele blinked. "Yes, I guess she does."
"You've broken my heart, Raffy. Before we part, can we have one last night together? Just one? After that, you'll never see me again. It'll be goodbye forever."
Raffaele hesitated, but Celestina had pressed up against him. Her arms were draped around his neck, and her fingernails gently scratched the back of his neck just the way he liked it.
"Sure. One more night."
The next day, Celestina was gone from Milan and on her flight to London. No one saw Raffaele until a maid let out a scream from his room. They found him slumped over the foot of his bed, a bullet wound in his temple and a handgun loosely gripped in his hand. There was a note on the floor by his foot. On it was only one sentence scrawled in messy hand:
Il diavolo é una donna.