Last night, some unnatural frenzy seemed to have possessed him, turning him more aggressive and wild than he had ever been when she'd called herself Celestina. The brutality had frightened her, and yet never before had he felt so warm.
Alessandra had long given up hope that she would ever find her Francesco. The men she had found herself with never felt warm—so she had turned brother against brother, spurred friends to murder friends, and convinced lovers to take their own lives just so she could feel the flames radiating from their bodies as they burned.
She'd her fair share of narcissists—they were easy pickings. Easily fed. Easily coerced. Easily made paranoid and delusional with the right words whispered at the right tone.
She'd danced with psychopaths. Dangerous as they were, they were ever so useful with what they were capable of doing. Cold-blooded and violent—quite good at making things burn so she could hold her hands up to the flames. Egocentric as they were, she knew they would never love her on an emotional level, so she fed their carnal cravings instead. Just a few nights, and she would have them hooked to the addiction.
And when they became too dangerous for her, it was time to cut the strings. The deaths were tragic, but they were never questioned. No one noticed that the same woman was always there, crying and seen as nothing more than a heartbroken, mourning lover. No one saw that as soon as she turned away, the tears were gone.
Another useful psychopath—that's what Alessandra thought she had in her hands when a man in the back halls of the opera house had handed her a rose. Now… she wasn't so sure. The gold band on her finger told her that this was different. By all means, it shouldn't have even been there. If the need to cut the strings came, a husband was harder to get rid of than a boyfriend without raising eyebrows.
He called himself an artist, but the things he created were putrid. Despite what Alessandra had him and the world thinking, she never shared in his tastes. What he created were corpses and nothing more—but more important to her was whom he made them from. The stealers of her spotlight, the ones who reminded her too much of her sister.
All these years she had silently resented everyone—even him—for adoring Celestina so. Every round of applause she had ever been graced with was for her sister. Even though she felt it on her own lips, every lover's kiss had been for Celestina. Hell, it was even printed on the marriage certificate in the Krimson City Registry that Stefano was married to a Celestina Amonte.
And even though every bit of admiration drove the woman under the mask that much more insane with hatred, she had been afraid of taking it off. She was afraid that the applause and kisses would go away. She had seen it happen time and time again.
So why, then, had he stayed instead of turning away? She remembered how he had pulled her to bed like he'd wanted nothing else and left her breathless and shaking by the end of it all.
Why? He'd told her why as they lay together. "I used to be fine just being on my own," he told her. With her eyes closed, Alessandra listened as his voice drifted through the darkness. "The one brilliant mind alone in a sea of dullards. But truth be told, we were never fine, were we, amore? We called isolation comfortable because we had no choice. And then, in a twist of fate, the two of us came upon the crossroads and locked eyes. There's no turning back. Would you call it pitiable how much we need one another now?"
Alessandra didn't want to answer. Chained to her own puppet—the notion was wholly ironic, yet unfortunately true. She rolled into his side and rested an arm across his chest, basking in the warmth. "Is that so bad?"
The following morning, she arose from bed long after he did and redressed in the clothes that had lay discarded on the floor. Stefano had already left the house, probably to do whatever was needed to continue tricking the world into thinking he had some semblance of sanity.
Staying at home. Looking forward into the week and having nothing planned. It felt wrong and unnatural. Alessandra sighed heavily as she leaned on the plush armrest and gazed out the window. La Contessa had sung her last. In a few months, she'd turn 32—an old woman by show business standards.
She should have started a family. She should have had a little girl.
Alessandra's head snapped up when she heard the sharp knocking. Letting out an aggravated huff, she rolled her eyes and ignored it. She rose to her feet and walked over to the TV to switch it on. It was already set to the channel that broadcasted past performances from the Krimson City opera house. Once it had served as a good way to do a little… hunting.
But the broadcast was currently in between performances. An anchor was talking to the camera, but Alessandra wasn't listening to whatever they were saying. She heard the knocking again, and her brow furrowed with annoyance at this persistent visitor. Well, even if they heard the television, they'd soon get the idea that they weren't welcomed.
But the knocking continued—a maddeningly slow rhythm that hadn't changed since Alessandra first heard it. Giving in, she stood and marched to the front door. She flung it open, ready to confront whatever thick-skulled nuisance had the gall to bother her.
But what she found was an empty porch. No one was there, and no package rested anywhere. Alessandra looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of any possible troublemakers trying to flee the scene of the crime. Suddenly, she froze.
The knocking was still there. It was coming from behind her.
Slowly, Alessandra looked over her shoulder. She couldn't see where it was coming from, but it echoed from within the building. Knock… knock… knock… Like the slow tapping of footsteps.
Alessandra shut the front door. She followed the sound, her feet moving slowly. As it grew louder, her eyes fell on the closet door. She moved towards it. Reaching out, she cupped the doorknob in her palm and turned it.
All had grown silent as she opened the closet door. Darkness and the dim silhouettes of hung clothes greeted her. With her eyes still focused on the dark shapes, Alessandra reached to the side and flicked the lights on. No one was there.
But she wasn't convinced. Rushing forward, Alessandra began pushing blouses and dresses out of the way. She kicked the heels aside that had been discarded haphazardly on the floor and hurried to the other side of the closet. There were lined Stefano's crisp dress shirts, arranged by color. Carelessly, Alessandra shoved through them as she continued to hunt down the intruder. Again, she found nothing but the white plaster walls between the clothes.
The knocking returned. Alessandra's body tensed. She turned.
There was movement in the gilded, full-length mirror. She saw the impossible reflection of a hand coming from within the mirror, reaching and gently knocking against the glass surface. From where she stood, Alessandra couldn't see whom the hand belonged to. Fear traced her every movement as she stepped towards it. As she drew near, the hand retracted. Alessandra moved in front of the mirror and found herself confronted by her own reflection, staring back with identical wide, shaken eyes.
She stood and waited, but the reflection did nothing but mimic her stillness. Suddenly, the lights overhead flickered. They flickered again. Then they died, giving away to complete darkness. It lasted only for a second before they returned. Alessandra saw her reflection.
No… No, the woman standing there behind the glass had her back turned. She wore a red dress, and her hair fell down her back in swooping, lazy curls. Her arms were hidden in front of her as though she were holding something.
Alessandra saw the head turn just slightly. And then she heard her, as well as the smile in her voice.
"Hello Lessy," the woman in the mirror greeted. "Long time no see."
"What do you want?"
"What do I want?" she repeated. And then she began to turn. As she did, Alessandra saw that she was cradling something against her chest. It came into view—a bundle. "I already have what I want."
Alessandra saw the bundle shift. As it did, a corner of the dark blue blanket fell down. The inside of the blanket was dark and wet, and from the corner dripped red.
"Isn't she beautiful, Lessy? My own little angel."
Suddenly, Alessandra rushed forward. The glass barricaded her from reaching the woman. Desperately, she slammed her hands on the mirror's surface. "You—you give her back!"
"Didn't you say it yourself? I always just take and take and take… Look what I've taken now." The woman gazed adoringly down at the bundle. It shifted again, and Alessandra heard the soft wailing of an infant's cries.
"Give her back, Cellie!" She slammed her hands over and over again against the glass. The mirror shuddered against the wall. "She's crying for her mamma! She's crying for me! Give her back! Give her back!"
The lights disappeared again, plunging her into darkness. When they came back on, Alessandra saw nothing but her tear-streaked face in the mirror. She backed away, as did her reflection.
She was gone. And she had taken…
"Where did you go?" Alessandra demanded furiously. "Cellie, where've you gone?" There was no answer.
And then she heard it—the crisp notes of a piano. The elegant chords of a concluding song, followed by applause. Alessandra stepped out of the closet and followed the sound. She stopped in front of the television. The shot switched from the clapping audience to a beaming anchor.
"There she is!" the anchor announced. "They're already calling her the Petit Maîtresse. Now wasn't that something?" The broadcast immediately switched to a shot of the stage where the young woman at the piano was rising to her feet to give the audience a bow. At the sight of her, Alessandra's eyebrows crashed angrily over her eyes.
"There you are," she hissed between clenched teeth.
She was supposed to have left the theater 15 minutes ago, but she had been sucked into the social media black hole and was caught up with all the posts and incoming messages flooding her phone. With a sigh, she finally shut off the screen and slipped the phone into her bag. It was either leave now and get home late because of traffic, or leave later and get home later because of traffic—Krimson City's roads were always packed.
Clyde had once suggested having a chauffer get her from home to the theater and vice versa, but she liked the freedom of getting around on her own. Besides, it was Friday and she was looking forward to a long-anticipated get-together with some old friends.
As she stepped out into the hallway, the clicking of heels caught her attention. She looked and saw someone coming down the corridor. A bundle of roses was in the woman's arms, tied together by a gold ribbon. Immediately, she recognized the woman, and her eyes widened.
"La Contessa!" she said excitedly. "Wow, it's really you!"
She saw Celestina gave a little wave of her hand as she gave an airy chuckle. "Oh, cara, there really is no need for that," she purred softly.
Her eyes went down to the roses. "Are those for me?"
"They are!" Celestina replied, holding them out. "What a wonderful performance you gave. You practically had the entire audience entranced." She took the roses from Celestina. The woman leaned forward and gave two quick little pecks on both of her cheeks.
"That really means a lot coming from you. You were my biggest inspiration growing up, you know."
Celestina smiled. "Days long past, I'm afraid," she said. Suddenly, the chestnut-haired woman reached out and touched her arm. "Mia cara, I've an idea! You simply must come over for dinner some time! I'd love to hear about what you've been up to these past few years!"
"Oh… Oh really?" she stammered back. "That's… I'd love to!"
"It's settled then! Come—let's talk and walk." Celestina hooked her arm into the young woman's and started walking her down the hall. "The thing is, cara, you'll have to keep this a little secret. Not a word of this to anyone—spoken or typed. Do you understand?"
"Well…" The young woman sounded a little flustered. "Alright, if that's what you want…"
"Oh, no—don't think I mean it like that! You're new to this show business world. There's so many unspoken rules—so many do's and don'ts that could make or break you." Celestina stopped walking, turned to the girl, and took her shoulders in both hands. "It simply wouldn't look well, not well at all, if it were known that you were mingling with an old retired bird like me. Especially since Clyde used to be my manager. Speaking of which…" Celestina leaned a little closer. "He'd probably have a questionable thing or two to say if he knew about this little arrangement. All the better to keep on the down low, hmm? As you'll soon learn, you won't even be able to blow your nose without your manager knowing about it."
Celestina leaned back, and her smile was as warm and inviting as ever. "Which, of course, makes you wonder why I even bother with all this, don't you? If there's one thing I've learned, cara, it's that life is too short to let restrictions dictate you. I'm just hoping that we can be friends. You remind me so much of myself at your age."
The young woman gave a disbelieving laugh. "Me? Like Celestina Amonte? I don't think so!"
"Don't be so sure," Celestina said.
Stefano was tired by the time he walked through his door—tired of dealing with imbeciles and tired of dimwitted critics strutting around in shoes too big for their feet. He was ready to shed his sheepskin and let the real artist emerge. It was time for the Krimson City Killer to make another piece—though he had to admit that the alias given to him by his audience was a little too unsophisticated for his liking.
Nevertheless, with that alias came recognition he so yearned for. But this too came to him warped. Instead of sung praises, the newspapers called him horrific. They referred to his pieces as abominations, acts of unimaginable villainy against humanity. Well, he couldn't have gotten it all. Why ask for the moon?
He thought of the singer at the gala. She'd been easy on the eyes—rather short in stature compared to his other works, but that hardly mattered. He already knew exactly what composition she would make up.
Greeting him as he entered through the door were the live notes of a piano. Stefano saw Alessandra's head peeking up from above the instrument's glossy black top. He had grown to learn that she played in both times of deep joy and agitation. Recently, though, it was getting harder and harder to tell the difference.
Stefano saw her eyes flicker up at him for the briefest of moments before returning to the keys. As he strode past, he loosened the knot of his tie and pulled it away with a sharp yank. He discarded it over the back of a nearby chair and turned to head back to the piano. As the song ended, Stefano spoke up. "Amore," he said, "I've quite the idea for my next work. That girl—she'll do nicely. I think it's time for my little siren to start singing."
Alessandra, though no longer playing, kept her fingers rested lightly over the ivory keys. "Cast her from your mind," she suddenly told him.
At this, Stefano hesitated. "What?"
"She's not the right one. I've found a much better medium for you."
Stefano didn't answer at first. He found this sudden taking of the reins unwelcomed. Alessandra may be his muse, but he was the artist. The work was his to dictate. Before he could voice his dissatisfaction, Alessandra spoke again.
"Understand, darling, that this one is no ordinary girl. I want this one for myself—just until she screams her last and I get my silence back. And then, should you desire it, you can use her for your work as you see fit." Alessandra rose. She stepped over to him, letting her gait bounce flirtatiously. "Won't you let me have this, my darling little photographer? It's important to me."
Stefano was already intrigued, and the feeling of Alessandra undoing his topmost shirt button and stroking his collarbones with feather-light touches sweetened the deal. "Well amore, if it means so much to you, how can I object?"
Her eyes lit up, and Stefano saw the spark of madness within them. "You are so good to me," she purred. She smoothed down his collar with a hand. "Now go and find something nice to wear. This will be a performance I want you dressed in your best for."
For the next few days, he waited—curious to see what his muse had planned for him. He could already feel that this was going to be his greatest one yet, at least until the next.
Then the day before her promised performance, Alessandra had one more surprise for him. Her eyes were afire as she pulled him aside. Without a word, she had taken one of Stefano's hands and placed it over her stomach.
It should have come at no surprise, yet Stefano still had trouble putting his thoughts to words. Alessandra gazed up at him and said, "You'll get your little maestro."
Her words were still ringing in his ears the next evening when the doorbell rang. Alessandra hurried to answer it, her dark red, chiffon evening gown ruffling around her ankles. Stefano caught the sharply sweet smell of her chestnut curls as they fluttered. Tonight was the night of her performance, and so his muse had put her mask back on to play her part.
Stefano listened as she answered the door, greeting someone with wonderfully curated joy. She asked the guest for her coat, still chatting away. Then, as they walked deeper into the house, Alessandra called out, "Stefano, darling, come meet our guest!" On cue, he approached the women. He took the few seconds that it took to cross the distance between them to examine this one.
She was pretty, though she wasn't one who would stand out to Stefano in a crowd. Her medium length hair was a lovely shade of coppery brown, but other than that Stefano found nothing else striking about her. No, this one wasn't fit for that masterpiece he had in mind. He'd save that for the pretty little singer from the gala.
That was Stefano's thinking until the guest introduced herself and he learned of her name. Upon hearing it, Stefano's eye widened with fanatical fascination.
"Really?"
He saw the girl's smile grow slightly uneasy and quickly tempered his avidity. "Your reputation precedes you, Signora. It's no wonder my wife was so eager to befriend you."
The nervousness disappeared. "Oh, that really isn't—."
"Cara!" Alessandra interrupted in a playfully chiding tone. "Never undersell yourself! You are a prize to the musical world and you must never forget that. Now!" With a clap of her hands, Alessandra hurried past Stefano and into the kitchen. "Which bottle are we opening tonight? Chianti?"
"With antipasto? Go with a white."
Alessandra returned with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and an opener in one hand, and a trio of glasses balanced in the other. She handed them to Stefano, saying, "Start us with a glass, won't you darling? I'll go fetch the platter."
Stefano set about opening the bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the girl as she sat quietly at the table. "Tell me, dear, are you from Krimson City?"
"Oh, no, my family's from San Francisco."
"Ah. And are your parents here now?"
The girl paused. "Actually, they died when I was little."
"I'm sorry to hear that." As soon as the cork was out, he tipped the pale wine into the glasses.
"It's okay. It was a long time ago."
"Do you've any family in town?" Stefano asked, already anticipating the answer.
"Yeah… a brother."
"Hmm, that's good. It doesn't do to be alone, isn't that right?" As he finished pouring out the third glass, Alessandra came with the antipasto platter. "It's just the appetizer, mind you," she said.
"Just an appetizer?"
Alessandra gave a light, tinkling laugh. "A standard size for appetizers back home, yes."
"If that's the case, how do you manage to stay in shape?"
"I found ways, especially since my career depended on it." Alessandra gave a wistful sigh. Then, as if to distract herself, she suddenly lifted her glass. "Well, here's to a wonderful evening, and…" Looking at the girl, she continued, "A very close friendship for us. I'm sure this will lead to something… marvelous."
"Hear, hear," the girl replied lightheartedly over the sound of touching glass. Though Alessandra cordially moved the glass to her lips after the toast, the wine remained at the bottom of the swell. Then, she rested it on the table, where it remained for the rest of the evening. After her sip, the girl asked, "So how did the two of you meet? I remember being so shocked and elated at the news!"
At the question, Stefano and Alessandra glanced at one another. The corner of Alessandra's mouth tugged up into a smile, and quickly she lifted a hand to touch her cheek in a display of bashfulness.
"I attended a few of her performances," Stefano spoke up. "Was star-struck by each and every one. As soon as I laid eyes on her, I knew I had to have her."
"I remember when I first met him," Alessandra piped up. "He came up to me after everyone else had left. To say I was charmed would be an understatement."
"That's so sweet!" the girl sighed. "Maybe my future boyfriend will be in the audience one day."
"You mean you've not got anyone?" Alessandra said in awe, lifting a hand to plant over her chest. "I simply don't believe you! Such a lovely thing as you are!"
"No one right now," the girl replied, a little flushed at Alessandra's words.
"Well, early days, cara. I once thought I'd never find the man of my dreams."
The rest of the evening carried on amiably with pleasant chatter over dinner. All the while, Stefano silently wondered where this performance was going. But a performance it was—gone was the broken woman with the cracked mask. Alessandra had reclaimed the role of her sister flawlessly, acting as a living embodiment of that charming socialite.
When dinner came to a close, their guest made hints about whether it was time to leave. Alessandra waved them off, insisting she stay for a bit longer. "I've something very exciting to tell you!" Alessandra said, taking the girl's hand and leading her towards the sofa. "I wanted to wait until after dinner to tell you because—well, I'm just being silly! Sit!" Alessandra had settled down on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her.
With her capturing the girl's attention in its entirety, Stefano was allowed to become a silent audience.
"What is it?"
"Oh, not now!" Alessandra said with a wave. "First, I must ask you…" They chattered away. Stefano could see the hidden excitement emerging more and more in his wife's face—not for the telling of the news, but what was coming up in her script.
Finally, Alessandra's hands shot out and grabbed the girl's. "Cara!" she said in an enlivened whisper. "I'm telling this only to you—but please, not a word of this to anyone else!"
"I promise I won't let it get out of this house."
"I'm sure it won't," Alessandra replied. She leaned towards the girl. "Listen—I'm having a child!"
Judging by the look of unadulterated joy on the girl's face, Stefano suspected she had no knowledge of the first one. "Wow! That's—oh my god! I don't know what to say! That's incredible!"
"I know!" Alessandra's shoulders rose up playfully. "And do you know what the best part is?"
"What?"
"You can't take this one."
Stefano saw the joy quickly drain from the girl's face. She glanced down at their clasped hands. The white fingers told Stefano that Alessandra was squeezing down on them—painfully.
"S-sorry, what—?"
"Oh, I'm sure you are." Alessandra's voice had grown soft. Deadly. "Did you really think I'd let you get away, Cellie?"
The confusion, the fear, in the girl's eyes made Stefano's heart hammer. If he'd been sitting in a theater, he'd be gripping the armrests like vises. So here it was—the big finale. The climax. He could hardly wait.
"Cellie?" the girl repeated. "I-I don't...!" Quickly, she managed to rip her hands away. She rose to her feet just as Alessandra did. Stefano didn't miss how one of Alessandra's hands had slipped under the cushion and reemerged with a long kitchen knife. "Celestina, please! What's going—?" The sight of the knife quickly cut her sentence short.
"You thought you could take it all from me, Cellie?" Alessandra demanded, her voice quickly rising to a scream. "Take my spotlight, take my little girl—take me?" She advanced on the terrified girl, who quickly scrambled back to keep the distance.
"N-no! Please, stop! I don't understand!"
"It doesn't matter if you understand!" Alessandra shrieked. "What matters is that you never, EVER take anything from me again!" The girl had been backed against a wall. Maybe she should have run, but fear kept her legs locked in place.
"Stop… stop! HELP ME!" Suddenly, it was as though she were calling out to someone. "JACKS—!"
The knife ran through, coldly and effortlessly. Watching the cold metal disappear behind flesh, Stefano couldn't help but feel as though he had been stabbed as well—but instead of pain, there was only a deep, unsettling ecstasy.
She fell to the ground and the knife clattered next to her. As she bled freely, she tried to pull herself away. All the while, the choked pleas of, "Stop… stop…" arose from her strained throat.
"Shhh!" Alessandra hissed bitterly. "Stop screaming!" She descended upon the wounded girl. Her hands, claw-like, came down and pressed tightly over the girl's lower face. "Shhh!"
She struggled. At one point, she nearly pushed Alessandra off. But it was all to no avail, and after a very, very long time she stopped moving and Alessandra pulled her hands away. The silence was deafening.
And then it was broken by the slow claps that came from his hands. "That was… magnificent," Stefano said. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you."
A low, dark chuckle emitted from Alessandra. She rose, still staring down at the body. And then she lifted her hands as if to let something drip down her arms. Pivoting them, she proclaimed in a voice that was almost a moan, "Oh, darling, I have never felt so free!"
"And how does it feel?" As Alessandra lowered her arms, Stefano saw the answer clear on her face.