Chapter Eleven.
Franchesca's Pov.
I returned to my room shortly after midnight, my boots sounding lightly on the exceedingly shiny floor. The clinic wing had been uncannily quiet. Alessandro was improving, his breathing was smoother, and his reflexes stronger. For the first time in days, I permitted myself hope. Just a little bit.
I closed the door softly behind me, listening as the faint click echoed in the quiet house. The amber glow of my bedside lamp stretched out yellow shadows on the cream walls. Everything was too quiet.
I shrugged out of the coat and flung it over the chair, pulled off the gloves, bending bruised fingertips from the long day. Red marks around my knuckles pulsed numbly. And the smell of antiseptic still hovered on my palms like a ghost. I stood up, walked over toward the dresser and grabbed my phone. The stillness clung tighter.
I fumbled and then dialed the number memorized by heart. It rang twice.
"Francesca?" my brother's voice came through, warm and worried.
"Hey," I breathed, the sound of him easing the tangled tension in my chest. "How are you?"
"Better now that I've heard from you. It's been days, Kiddo. Are you okay?"
I crept onto the edge of my bed and grasped the phone. "Yeah. Just... It's just tiring. He's so close and one mistake and I would be messed up. "
"Is he suspecting anything?
"Maybe… I don't know. He's strange. One moment he's icey cold, and the next he's almost… human. It's like walking around in bare feet on shattered glass."
He paused for a moment as if trying to digest all I had said. "That man murdered our parents. Don't let him get under your skin."
"I haven't forgotten that," I whispered, closing my eyes. "Not for a second Matheo."
His voice grew suddenly gentle. "And you? How are you getting by? Eating? Sleeping well?"
A dry laugh escaped me. "I'm trying. Alessandro's stable tonight. That's going to help me sleep well."
"Good. Just be careful, okay? If anything goes wrong…"
"I'll handle it," I cut in quietly. "You know I will."
"I know. I just wish I were there with you."
"You are," I whispered. "You always are."
We spoke for a while later, catching up and shortly after, we said our goodbyes in hushed tones, passing strength to each other like coals being passed from hand to hand. Once the call ended, the silence took over again. It felt closer.
I let the phone drop onto the nightstand and sank back into the pillows, releasing a long breath.
The sheets wrapped around me like a protective armor. The room was dark. Silent. Safe, or at least pretending to be.
But I'd never really had faith in the safety in this place.
My breathing slowed as weariness pulled at me like an undertow. And then, sleep took me.
...…
It started as a mist of sound and color. Then, too quickly, too vividly, everything flooded back. The air was thick with moisture. I could still hear the blasted cicadas, singing on, oblivious to the horror soon to be unleashed.
I was ten again. Helpless and frozen.
My little fingers gripped the wooden shutters, eyes squinting to see through the slats. My heart thudded in my ears. Below, Mamma stood in the doorway, fearfully talking to a man, no, a beast with a gun.
Her voice trembled, something it never did. "Please," she said, tears shining in her eyes. "We have children. For their sakes, let us live."
My brother's arm was around me, his hand covering my mouth. His body tense. His breathing quivering.
Then came the flash. Then the loud noise followed.
Something I had come to know as a gunshot split the night like lightning tearing the sky. Mamma staggered backward. Blood burst across her chest. Her wet, horrible gasp shook through me.
"MAMMA!" I tried to yell, but my brother's hand stayed firm.
We trembled together, frozen in wordless agony. Papa rushed forward, catching her before she hit the ground. His scream tore from him like a wild animal.
"No! Elena, no…"
More shots were fired, one after another.
Blood spattered on the floor. Papa twitched as bullets struck him, dropping beside her. They went down together, still clasped in each other's hands.
My scream died in my throat, strangling under my brother's hand. I struggled in his firm grip. Couldn't breathe, couldn't move.
I saw the flash of gold on a gloved hand. The man cleaned the barrel of his gun and shoved it back, his face half concealed.
A sob ripped out of me in my sleep. My body trembled.
The dream twisted and now, I was older, watching it all occur again.
My parents spread motionless. The blood spreading like ink around them.
I crept forward, my voice trembling. "Mamma? Papa?"
No answer.
I reached out, my cramped hands trying to touch them, to confirm that they were there, but I couldn't reach them.
Then… Mamma stirred. Her head creaked stiffly, unnaturally, around, her dead eyes empty, but focused intently on mine. Shivers ran down my spine.
"You should have saved us," she whispered.
A knock sounded.
It was soft. Once. Then again. But I did not hear it.
I was still falling, spinning in the memory.
Blood clung to my fingers, warm and damp. My brother's voice was far away, muffled and underwater. "Frankie! Frankie, get down!"
Another knock, firm this time. Three distinct knocks.
Silence.
Then a hushed voice called: "Francesca?"
My eyes instantly opened.
I gasped, inhaling a lungful of air as though I'd been submerged under water. The room came into view—dark, quiet, and real. My night light cast a soft glow over the familiar shadows. My legs were tangled in the blankets, my body covered with sweat. I held the blanket in white-knuckled fists, trembling from the effect of the dream.
Another knock sounded. This time I heard it clearly.
Someone was at my door. I sat up, still panting, chest moving in and out. My cheeks were wet with tears that I
hadn't even realized were falling.
My past obviously has a grip over me, and the only redemption is revenge.