Old Flame: Dante’s Story by Sam Mariano
7
Colette
My back achesfrom sleeping so long and my body is too warm from being wrapped up in blankets all night. It’s summertime, but Dante keeps the air in the house cool, especially at night because we always enjoyed snuggling under the covers. There was no snuggling last night, though judging from the sight of the wrinkled bedsheets on his side, he did sleep in here with me all night.
I sit up and look over at his empty spot, waiting to feel it, but nothing comes. No shameful trace of pleasure, no bitter pang of a once-sweet memory, not even sadness. I guess I’m still fogged from the Valium I took yesterday. That’s probably a blessing, so I won’t complain.
Fabric rustles as I push my legs over the edge of the bed and I look down to see I’m still wearing my wedding dress. It’s loose, halfway off my upper body. The sight of it makes me sick now, so I abruptly stand and wrestle my way out of the once-beautiful gown. It’s ruined from sleeping in it all night, anyway. That’s okay. I never want to see this dress again. Once I get out of it, I bend down and ball it up, then I carry it into the bathroom and shove as much of it as can fit into the small waste bin.
As soon as I make my way back into the bedroom, it occurs to me I have nothing to wear now. I go to my old walk-in closet, wondering if perhaps Dante had the foresight to buy me a couple of outfits. Actually, lack of foresight isn’t likely the reason if he didn’t. Of course he would have thought of it, but he might have decided not to get me clothes anyway as another form of punishment, or even just practicality—I’m less likely to try to escape if I’m naked.
I hate having these nuggets of knowledge. I hate some of the darker things I know Dante’s family is responsible for because I can’t think about it now without chiding the younger version of myself, demanding to know why it didn’t bother me as much then, why I didn’t get out then, when maybe I could have.
I keenly remember one of the first times it hit me. We were curled up on the couch, eating popcorn from a shared bowl and watching some dramatic thriller about a ring of human traffickers. Naturally, they were the bad guys in the movie, but it hit me they were the ones he sided with when I caught us shaking our heads at the screen at the same time, but for very different reasons. Me, I felt bad for the girl cowering and afraid. Him, he was impatient with the head bad guy in the scene for being too soft. We were still pretty newly dating, so I didn’t know exactly which dark deeds his family had a hand in. As we kept watching the movie, I realized my boyfriend sympathized with the villains, not the protagonists. On a hunch, I started asking him questions between handfuls of popcorn and sips of red wine—why the bad guys did certain things, or why they didn’t do certain things. He had all the answers. It was like watching the movie with a pro. Even though his knowledge led me to the impression the rumors about his criminal ties might be legitimate, it didn’t scare me.
It should have. It should have occurred to me as I sat on that couch with him, drinking that wine he poured, that perhaps I was a mark myself. That even if I wasn’t, that he could ruin lives so casually and then go home at night to watch movies with his date like he hadn’t a care in the world meant he was someone I should stay far, far away from.
Instead, the verification of his danger turned me on. When he took my wine glass from me and put it down, when he pushed me back on the couch and climbed on top of me, my heart certainly pounded, but not from any kind of fear. I was seduced by him in every way, no matter what atrocities he was personally responsible for.
I was a dumbass.
A humorless smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I replay that memory of old Colette, foolishly falling for Dante instead of using her head and running for the hills. You dumb bitch, I tell her, now that it’s too late to save either of us.
I finally pull open the door of my walk-in closet, reaching inside to turn on the light. I remember the last time I opened this door, too—to clear out all my shit when I thought he was letting me leave. I’d been so uncertain that day, already missing him, wondering if I was making the right decision. My heart ached merely moving my things out of his house, so how much more intense would the ache get?
The closet isn’t empty, but it doesn’t have as many items as it used to, either. Dante always spoiled me when it came to material possessions, and I think he has more money now than he did back then. A few nice dresses hang from the racks, a few pairs of shoes line the bottom—black, shiny, patent leather pumps, some Manolos that tell me he remembers my favorite brand of shoe. I spot a cute pair of Manolo sandals with a shiny black strap around the ankle and across the toe that I instantly love. Dante could never pick out a shoe to save his life, though, so the sight of these perfect ones only pleases me for a moment before settling in my stomach like a ball of unease.
Did someone else pick them out for him? It may seem unfathomable that a normal man might make his girlfriend pick out shoes for the woman he was ditching her for, but Dante is such an asshole sometimes, I honestly wouldn’t put it past him. He wouldn’t even lie about it, he would just straight up tell her she had to pick out some pretty shoes for me, and I had better like them.
I draw the Manolos out and try them on. It’s a low heel so it’s more comfortable than some of the ultra high ones he has bought for me in the past. Leaving those on, I check out the other shoes and also fall in love with a warm, cinnamon-red pair of pumps that make me think of Christmas. Stepping inside, I move each hanger to see what I might be able to wear. Other than the dresses that look suitable for family dinner at Mateo’s house, there’s just a green silk skirt with a white blouse and blue blazer.
I actually would have probably worn a pencil skirt around the house when I was dating Dante, but now that I’m stuck here I don’t care about impressing him. I want to be comfortable, so I step out of the shoes, push all the heels back where I found them, and shut the closet door.
I go through all his dresser drawers next, thinking maybe he cleared one out for me, but there are no comfortable clothes belonging to me here. On top of the dresser is a recognizable pink striped bag from Victoria’s Secret. I can’t imagine him going there by himself either, but I peek in the bag and see it’s full of bras and panties in my size. He must have bought these to tide me over until he retrieves my things. At least, I assume he will at some point retrieve my things. Seems a waste to leave all my perfectly good clothes at my aunt’s, where I was staying until the wedding since my apartment lease was up a month prior.
I wonder now if doing things differently would have changed how it all turned out. I had lived with Dante outside of marriage, but even engaged to Declan, I wouldn’t move in until we were married. If I’d been in bed beside him on the morning of our wedding, if I’d been in the car with him on the way to the church, would he still be alive? I don’t think Dante’s goons would have run the car off the road with me inside, but perhaps Dante would have just acted sooner.
Or maybe the fact that I refused to live with my fiancé helped him justify his actions, helped him sell himself on the lie that I didn’t love Declan, that he could squeeze him out of the picture and win me back if he really wanted to.
Leaving the bag and shaking off thoughts of Declan, I rummage through drawers trying to find something to put on. Dante mostly wears suits and button-down shirts, so there’s not much in the drawers. Gym clothes, a few sweaters, a pair of high-quality charcoal gray vacation shorts, a pair of jeans I don’t recall ever seeing him wear. Sleep pants and a few T-shirts. I suppose I could wear one of those.
Sighing, I grab a black T-shirt that smells like him and pull it on. Figuring I’m here by myself, I don’t bother with pants. My stomach clenches around nothing, reminding me that after being in bed for so long, I’m also starving.
As I make my way out of the bedroom, I can’t help wondering if Sonja still works for him. I imagine she does, but I obviously don’t know her schedule anymore.
Sonja had never been particularly fond of me before I left Dante, and the loyal servant won’t like me any more after all that went down. A sane person might think that Sonja would hate him as much as I do, but that sane person would be wrong.
Knowing what I know about his family’s business, I doubt she’s so much a paid housekeeper as an unpaid domestic worker. I don’t know for sure, Dante never confirmed, but I know Mateo’s housekeeper is unpaid, and that woman is as devoted to him as Sonja is to Dante. I don’t know if the women are crazy, they’ve developed Stockholm syndrome, or the lives they led before were really so bad that being owned by the Morellis is a step up in life for them. Whatever the case, they’re indoctrinated, so I expect my exit will have left a bad taste in Sonja’s mouth that will be quite evident when I see her again.
Much to my chagrin, it doesn’t take long for the reunion to happen. When I get to the kitchen, I see the older woman standing at the sink, hand-washing dishes despite the top-of-the-line dishwasher installed beneath the counter. I approach warily in case she hasn’t noticed me yet, but my movement catches her attention. Sonja flicks a glance in my direction only long enough to acknowledge and dismiss my presence, then she returns her attention to the plate she’s scrubbing clean.
“Is he here?” I ask, my voice sounding rough even to my own ears.
Sonja’s tone is brusque with a hint of annoyance. “No. He’ll be home for lunch. You slept through breakfast.”
In the old days, regardless of her feelings toward me, Sonja would’ve offered to whip up something if I wanted it.
“I’m not hungry anyway,” I lie, seeking out coffee instead. Dante always had some with breakfast, strong and black, so bitter it made my toes curl, but there is none left in the pot for me this morning. Maybe there was, but Sonja dumped it out just to be spiteful when she realized I was awake.
I could be just as petty and ask her to make me a fresh pot, but I’m too tired to battle with Sonja today. Going to the fridge, I grab a bottle of cold water instead.
Since real breakfast isn’t an option, I grab an orange out of the fruit bowl. I consider taking it over to the table, but I don’t want to stay in here with Sonja.
“I’m going outside for a few minutes.”
“Don’t go far,” Sonja warns, leveling a look of censure over her shoulder.
“I’m not even wearing shoes, Sonja.”
I hear her muttering at me, but I don’t wait to hear what she says. Dante’s house is huge—not as big as his brother’s, but it’s not meant to house as many people so Dante doesn’t need an entire compound. Still, it’s significantly larger than anything a single family really needs. Sonja lives in a small gardener’s cottage on the property so she’s never far in case Dante needs something.
There are several living rooms, but I head to the one at the back of the house. Sunshine spills into the room from the many windows. Dante’s house is situated right on the lake, and from here, I have a perfect view. When we first bought this place, the lakefront back of the house was a real selling point.
The “back yard” is fenced in to protect the babies we expected to have someday from wandering down here, but the yard is so large it’s sectioned off. The fenced in, kid-friendly area is more of a side yard, and the actual back yard is back here on the lake, an adult haven. When I open the towering back door, it leads out to a massive stone patio off the back of the house. It overlooks the lake and our private beach, accessible via the stairs off the back patio. Two loungers are still set up where they used to be with a little table between them. Dante and I would sit out here in the evenings, talking about our days and watching the water. Sometimes we would go on evening rides on his boat, and it was so convenient—we barely had to leave the house to go.
Curling up on the chair that used to be mine, I alternate between studiously breaking off a piece of my orange and gazing out at the smooth, blue water.
It feels so wrong to be sitting here in my favorite peaceful place. I don’t deserve to have peace. Dante sure as hell doesn’t. A wave of exhaustion rolls over me just thinking about it though. I know Dante murdered my fiancé, I know I am morally obligated to be miserable and make him miserable in tribute to Declan, but I’m glad he’s not home because I just don’t have the energy right now.
I should have brought wine. Instead, I sip my water and finish my orange. I stay outside until Sonja comes looking for me. I figure she is just checking to make sure I didn’t waste my time and hurt my feet trying to escape, but then she calls out and tells me Dante is on the phone for me.
“I don’t want to talk to him,” I tell her.
“I don’t care,” she snips.
I roll my eyes but nonetheless climb off my chair and head back inside the house. Dante still has a landline. Sonja lifts the phone to tell him she found me—like I was missing—then hands it over. I feel a bit like a sullen teenager in the presence of a stifling authority figure when I take it from her and put it to my ear.
“What?” I demand.
Sonja shakes her head at me and mutters something in a language I don’t know. I’m sure it was insulting.
Dante’s voice is warm on the other end. “Good morning to you, too.”
“I woke up in your bed, so it’s not a good morning,” I inform him.
“You could’ve woken up in a ditch, then it’d be worse, wouldn’t it?”
“Jury’s still out,” I mutter. “If you’re going to make me stay here, I would at least like my own room. I know you have the space.”
“I do, but we’re not going to sleep in separate bedrooms, Colette. That’s not how this is going to go.”
“How do you think it’s going to go, Dante?” I ask him, leaning against the counter. “I’m not your girlfriend. I’m your slave. Just one more defenseless woman whose life you’ve stolen like it was your right.”
“Poor you,” he says, dryly. “Make sure Sonja gets out the mop to wipe up all the tears you must be crying all over the marble floor.”
“Money isn’t everything. You should know that by now. I’m as much a prisoner in this big, expensive house as the girls you sell.”
The line falls silent, but I can practically hear his annoyance at me for referring to his criminal activities over the phone. Even though I hate him, the sharpness of his voice makes me flinch when he snaps, “I won’t be home for lunch. Tell Sonja when you’re hungry and she’ll make you something.”
I don’t care that he won’t be here, not really, but since Sonja just finished telling me he would be home for lunch, I argue. “Sonja said you would.”
“Sonja was mistaken,” he states.
“Will you be home for dinner?”
His tone is entirely noncommittal, forcing me to earn company I don’t even want. “Perhaps.”
Gritting my teeth, I do my best to ignore impulses that have lain dormant for so long, I thought they were gone. Dante generally chose to be nice to me, but he can play me like a fiddle when he wants to. An unpleasant symptom of part of his job being to train women to want to please him, he knows how to dangle his approval in front of you like food in front of a starving dog, to make you crave it and him, even when by all rights you should want to rip his head from his shoulders. The Morelli men of my acquaintance are all very manipulative and adept at bending the wills of weaker minds to align with theirs.
My mind isn’t weak anymore, though. I swear it to myself, shaking off the old instinct. Refusing the temptation to worry that I’ve displeased him, the errant thoughts already skating across my mind that I could fix it if only I said or did some certain thing.
No. I am not his pet, not this time. I’m not here to do his bidding or make him happy. I don’t need or want his approval. I’d rather he got sick of me and realized this has all been a mistake. He may have wasted Declan’s life, but at least I could save the rest of mine.
Not that it feels like that’s worth much anymore. The guilt holds me under, makes me feel terrible for even drawing breath when I’m the reason Declan is gone. He was a lawyer, a protector of innocents, and now he’s gone so this vicious criminal can have me.
If one of us had to die for my stupid involvement with Dante Morelli, it should have been me. I’m the one who made these choices, and no one else should have paid for them.
There’s relief in my cocoon of sadness because at least there I don’t have to think. I curl up with it as I successfully resist Dante’s attempt to control me, as I offer back an apathetic, “All right.”
He’s better at this than I am. Seeing my rebelliousness for what it is, he ups the ante by disconnecting the call without so much as another syllable. Displeasure sinks in my gut when I realize he hung up on me. I swallow it down, along with the vague sense of embarrassment. Sonja is standing right here watching, so she knows I didn’t say goodbye, but I replace the phone on the hook anyway.
A smug smile pulls faintly at the wrinkled corners of her mouth, like she’s satisfied that he hung up on me. Straightening my shoulders like it doesn’t bother me, I grab my water. I could go back outside, but all I want to do is curl up in bed by myself, so that’s what I do.
