Chapter 192 Rosalia
The cold is seeping through the soles of my boots, numbing my toes at first, and then traveling up my legs with icy fingers intent on reaching my warmth. The walls are made of stone, with no furnishings or decorations, and the sort of smell that tends toward mold and desperation, the sort of cell meant to remind one just how small they are, and unnecessary. The only source of light is a dim fixture overhead, casting shadows with a life of their own across the cell floor.
I’m sitting on the concrete, knees to chest, embracing my self-hug. Every second is a lifetime. Time is a blur, the struggle of my memory trying to hold onto warmth, happiness, and the sun. Life before this place, before everything that is happening now. Rafael, Rocco, and the child growing inside of me, to what I had believed was my safe world.
Then I hear it. The sound of shoes against stone. The echo rings oddly, deliberately, with too much weight. I raise my head, narrowing my eyes against the darkness. The figure appears.
“Rosalia.”
I see my father.
His voice is cautious, controlled, but I hear the shaking underlying it. It isn’t fear of me, but fear of being caught.
“Father,” I say, my voice tight, trembling. My hands are grasping my knees. “How are you here?”
"No, listen," he says, taking a step back and putting his hands into the pockets of his coat, as if he's huddled with some secret weight upon his shoulders. "You don't understand, my dear," and he nods his head in my direction. "I didn't. I didn't have any choice in this, okay?"
“No choice?” I laugh bitterly, my laugh cutting enough to sting my own ears. “You sold me out. You handed me over. To them. To the Valenti.”
He winces, looking momentarily at the shadows behind me. “It is not like that…”
“Not like that?” My voice shakes, high and accusatory. “You put my life at risk, my child, all of it. For what? For money? To pay off your debt?”
He swallows, but he doesn’t deny it. The words lie between us, sharp as knives. He was never going to protect me. Not ever. I realize this now, as clearly as the light of the pale winter sky I’ve missed. My blood simmers with anger, the cold around me paled by the treachery.
“I did what I had to do,” he says finally, his voice shaking. “I… I needed to survive. You wouldn’t understand…”
"Survive?" I whisper harshly. "You did this, you put yourself in this mess, why am I tangled with it? Why do I have to pay for your sins?”
“I’m sorry. I….”
Before he can respond to the question , before the words can even fully settle into the air, another sound erupts into the room. Gunfire. Abrupt. Cracking into the silence.
The echo resonates off the walls, sending shivers along my spine in pure terror. Bullets fire, shattering whatever illusion of space I'd managed to cling to. My father freezes.
His face goes white.
The last things he'd said are lost in chaos.
I dodge sidewise out of habit, my palms scraped on the concrete, sounds of gunfire shattering in my eardrums. Gun smoke stings my eyes. My heart thrums with savage pressure, churning adrenaline through my veins.
And then I see it.
A flicker of motion. My father's eyes go wide with realization and horror. He reaches for me, for the life he has betrayed. But it is too late.
A bullet rang out. Blood burst across his coat. He stumbled backward, his body thudding into the wall. I couldn’t look away. My gut turned violently. I wanted to shout, to beg, but the cry was lost in my throat.
He collapses, shuddering, gagging, a pitiful, human sound as sharp as a blade cutting through the anger and the panic.
It constricts in my chest. I hate him. I hate him for what he did. I hate him for what he put me through. I hate him for his presence now when he thinks he has the right to explain, to justify himself.
Yet a piece of me just can’t look away. A part of me is breaking in ways I don’t know how to react to. A piece of me just freezes up at the significance of watching the man who raised me, failed me, but ultimately meet his end because of the same chaos he brought into our world.
The gunfire ceases abruptly. The sounds stop, and an oppressive quiet settles, with only my labored breathing interrupting.
I creep towards him despite myself, drawn by a combination of fear, anger, and sadness.
“Papa…papa wake up.”
I shake his body violently.
“You can’t die now, you can’t just leave me here.” I say sobbing.
“For…give… me.””
My fingers lay on his shoulder, weakly, shaking. I feel nothing but the truth of betrayal and consequence. There is no solace here, no protection of a father.
I stumble backwards, my knees weakening from under me, and I reach out to hold onto the concrete wall. My sight blurs. Gunfire echoes through my ears.
Footsteps scrape against the floor.
Calculated.
I stiffen, my back rigid as my body goes into automatic mode. My hand goes to my belly, fingers spreading over the gentle swell that presses against my coat. My heart is a riot in my throat, thumping so hard I can see the beat.
He is tall, strong, with broad shoulders, too neatly dressed for an establishment of this kind. His coat is dark, impeccable. Not a drop of blood on him. Not a sign of disarray. His features are tranquil in the manner that repels me, in the manner of someone going about their chores, with death being no more than an item on an inventory.
He looks at my father and then at me.
And then he smiles.
“You're welcome,” he says nonchalantly.
My breath catches. “What?”
“You see the body on the floor,” he says and points to the body on the floor with his chin. “You owe me a favor. No one wants a father like you. So cheap he sells his own daughter to settle a debt.”
My nails bite into my palm, he continues. I don’t trust my voice, so I keep quiet.
He takes a step closer. Then another. Every step feels like a noose tightening around his neck.
'Antonio talked too much,' he goes on. 'Cried, actually. Begged.' He glances briefly at my belly, and a convulsive jolt goes through my chest. 'Men always do when they realize they've run out of currency.'
My breathing becomes shallow now. Controlled. I will not give this man the satisfaction of watching me fall apart at the seams.
“What do you want?” I managed.
His smile grows wider, pleased. "Cooperation.”
The word lands heavy
“You see,” he says calmly, circling me like a predator that knows its prey has nowhere to run, “we didn’t want to involve you this way. But family makes people… compliant.” He plants himself right in front of me. Too close. I can smell his cologne, sharp, expensive, all wrong. “If you want to walk out of here alive. if you want that baby to live,you’ll do exactly what you’re told.”
Fear crashes into me so powerfully it almost knocks me off my feet.
I swallow hard, compelling myself to sit up straight, to be there. Faces flash in my mind, Rafael, Rocco, Fiorella. Please. Please be near. Please be tearing this place apart already.
“Please have mercy, don’t hurt me or my baby.”
He laughs softly. "Mercy is conditional, sweetheart. And time-sensitive."
My stomach clenches painfully. I huddle into myself, automatically protecting myself. All the possibilities come hurtling through my mind at the same time, what if Rafael doesn’t arrive on time? What if this situation ends with me lying on the same floor as Father?
I feel small. Afraid. Angry.
I lift my chin.
“I'm listening,” I repeat, even while my hands are shaking.
‘Good girl.’ He extends a hand, turning my face up by my chin. I lock up, every muscle screaming. ‘Stay that way.’
He steps back, pleased with himself, and waves to someone out of sight. I hear shifting in the back of me, guards adjusting their arms. The room seems to be shrinking with every passing second.
As he turns to leave, however, he pauses at the door. “Your husband is very angry,” he says off-handedly. “That makes men sloppy but I know he will want his wife and baby safe and we will grant him that as long as he complies.”
The door slams shut.
I’m alone again.
I sink back against the wall, legs buckling beneath me, gasping for breath as the first sob erupts silently from my chest. My hand presses against my abdomen, kneading frantic circles.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, not quite sure whom I'm comforting. “He’s coming. Papa will come.” I say to my baby and hold on to that firmly as I cry, weeping for the loss of my father and the situation I’ve found myself in.
Because if Rafael doesn’t reach me soon. I don’t know how much longer I can survive this place. And neither does my baby.