Celeste;
Location; Rossi's Estate
Underground base, Right Wing.
2:56 PM.
"You're late." I spit out the words as soon as the annoying groan of the rusty door echoes, heavy thumping of footsteps following suit.
"There was an altercation." He answers dryly. The air feels stiff from what I guess is his mood.
"Dare I ask what that was?" Even though I have already.
Well, he doesn't seem to call me out on that today. Instead, he settles on the seat in my vicinity, its leg screeching, almost making my ears bleed.
I feel tension wrapping around his form in waves—even though I can't clearly see him. "Something is the matter, isn't it?"
He'd told me he'll be back by noon. This is way past that. And…
I sniff, propping my head forward towards him. "You smell like bullets and—ew—sweat."
Piecing it together, I make out that he's been in a fight. "What happened?"
"Nothing important," he snaps, cutting me off. "Have you had lunch?"
"No. I think they believe I'm some feral, spoilt little girl, so they refuse to hand-feed me," a soft laugh rolls out from my chest.
But he doesn't reply. Doesn't even react with those dry, sarcastic quips of his.
"I'll go get you something." The annoying scraping sound grates once more against my eardrums. I figure he stands.
"Something did happen and you don't want to tell me about it?" my brows draw together, intuition warming my gut.
His booted feet pause. "Know your place." And he strides off.
Okay. Damn.
Blinking in surprise, I lack the right reaction to give. So I remain still for a while, befuddled, with creases slashed between my brows.
That's the harshest he's been to me since that night when I thought we formed something like a pact while he fed me in the dark silence.
God forbid a girl dreams of a friend while being held hostage.
Fifteen minutes later, light pours in before it disappears with one swing of the door, familiar footsteps from earlier droning out the quietness.
He sits before me once more. From the outline of his silhouette, he holds a bowl. A warm, savory aroma drifts from it—something simple…pasta tossed lightly in olive oil and herbs—floating into the air and into my nostrils.
Plus, the acrid scent of gun smoke that clung to him is gone.
"So…" I drawl, not knowing what to say. Still hung up on the awkwardness of how he shut me out seventeen minutes ago. It's annoying.
His perturbed sigh slips into the air. "Open up."
I would love to throw a tantrum, but the growling protest my stomach has been waging won't grant me the liberty.
So I do—wide open—and he shoves a spoonful of warm food into my mouth. I bite down hard to suppress the moan of satisfaction climbing out of my throat.
Just when I'm in the middle of swallowing, his voice rings out,
"How's your relationship with your brother-in-law?"
The food immediately gets tangled up in my throat, and a fit of coughs tumbles out of me. Tears blur the edge of my darkened vision as I keel over, trying to stop the burn in my throat.
He moves, gently tipping a chipped-rim glass to my lips. I slurp down the liquid in rapid gulps, a bit of it trickling down the sides of my mouth.
Fortunately, he waits for me to gather myself. I blink, something warm stirring within my chest…something I cannot explain.
"Well, my relationship with Caruso is almost non-existent."
Because there's none.
"We don't talk that much." I cough out the words.
Silence reigns heavy. Only our breaths punctuate the rhythm.
When he's about to shove in another scoop, I ask, "You met him, didn't you?"
I voice out my speculation. I guess it's accurate at this point. Because he'd not kept to his word of coming by 12 PM as he'd said.
Instead, he strolls in reeking of the pungent scent of blood and sweat, and deflects whatever questions I throw at him.
In conclusion, I know for a fact that the altercation he spoke about is indeed Caruso. But…why?
"What do you want anyway? I mean, why did you guys pick me as a form of retribution to…my in-laws?" Since he's refused to respond to my earlier question, I strike for the next, my tongue fumbling on the last part.
"Something only the Giordanos can give." As usual, vague and curt comes his reply.
A scowl settles on my mouth. "It's not going to work," I mutter lowly. "Using me, I mean."
The silence turns taut.
"Unlike what you guys must have thought, unfortunately, I don't think they're fond of me to the extent of agreeing to a war."
"Yet, your brother-in-law just proved otherwise." He says it with a mocking edge darkening his voice.
My breath hitches and I swallow. I make a mental note that it's because of their pride in reputation…or perhaps what they'll gain from me—the person I'm impersonating.
I lack the willpower to argue, so I settle for an exasperated, "You'll see."
And then I eye his figure in the dark, my brows drawing together, and it spills from my lips before I can stop it,
"Why do you refuse to tell me your name?"