Chapter 3 Unwanted Memories

She blinked, then lowered her head. Her cheeks flushed.

That awkward little smile again-tight at the corners, more guilt than gratitude.

It made me uncomfortable.

It was sometime past two when I finally got into bed.

The mattress was soft. The duvet held just enough weight.

I'd cracked the window earlier, and the room still carried the scent of lavender oil.

The air had cooled. My skin hadn't.

I was exhausted. I still couldn't sleep.

One wall away, Livia was on the sofa. Quiet. Maybe asleep. Maybe staring at the ceiling. Hard to tell with her.

She'd pulled up things I preferred buried. Made me remember things I didn't ask to remember.

I used to be like her.

Careful. Grateful. Always watching myself. Always checking if I'd said too much, if I was taking up too much space.

I kept track of every favour like it was a ledger-what I owed, how I could pay it back, when I could clear it.

I thought that made me safe.

Or as safe as I could be in the Bellarmine house.

My mother had married into the clan. Seraphina Fabron was Port Azure's prize doll. Rich, young, always trailed by cameras or cousins.

She was twenty-two when Remigio Bellarmine decided he wanted her.

He was fifty-four.

She had to say yes.

He liked her face, her manners, her legs.

He used everything he had to get her-money, pressure, whatever else old men in suits use when they want something prettier than their previous wives.

She lasted six months. Played the part.

Then one morning, she said she was going shopping with friends.

She didn't come back.

She'd planned it. The escape, the car, the man waiting at the docks.

That man-my father-wasn't much. Said he loved her, but he nearly bailed the second he heard the Bellarmine name.

He'd tried to stick it out at first. Took her hands, put her on a boat, and ran.

They didn't get far.

Someone tracked them down before they crossed the border.

He was dumped in the sea.

She was dragged back, three months pregnant and still bleeding from the beating.

She begged Remigio to let the baby live.

He let her keep me.

I was proof she'd tried to leave. I was her punishment.

My mother wasn't built for cages. Remigio's control made her skin crawl.

She waited. Watched.

When I was just over a year old, she ran again, this time with me in her arms.

We stayed hidden for a while.

A small town in the hills. Damp walls, steep roads, shops that closed by noon.

From three to seven, that's where I lived.

She sold fruit and vegetables on a folding table outside the train station. Bought them cheap from the farms nearby, then resold them for whatever she could get.

She fought over prices. Argued over bruised apples. And had fun doing it.

Her hair was always tied up in a lopsided knot. Dust clung to her scalp. The wind had cracked her lips. Her skin had lost its colour.

Her hands were cut and dry no matter how much balm she used. She wore shapeless clothes from discount bins-thick denim, old linen, jackets with broken zips.

Nothing ever fit properly.

Most people didn't look at her twice.

But I watched her every day.

Her face still had the shape of who she used to be. The high cheekbones, the sharp chin, the almond eyes.

If you stared long enough, you could see it-what made Remigio want her. What made that man take the risk.

At night, she read to me. Nietzsche, Rilke, Goethe.

I didn't understand the words. I only listened to the rhythm, the way her voice dipped and slowed, the rasp at the edges.

It was the poorest four years of my life, and it was the best four years of my life.

I didn't remember Remigio or my father, didn't know my mother was different.

I learned to boil pasta at five. I swept the floors, crossed three streets to buy eggs.

The only unhappy part was when I stayed home while every other child on our block walked off to nursery school with finger paint on their sleeves and biscuits in their lunchboxes.

They had glitter glue. I had bleach.

At night, she taught me to read. She wrote the alphabet in pencil on the back of old betting slips and made me sound out the words until my throat ached.

We couldn't afford nursery.

I never asked about my father.

She told me to be good, so I was.

I didn't whine. I didn't mention the see-saws or plastic bricks or crayon drawings I heard the neighbour's son talk about through the walls.

Five thousand euro was more than she made in three years. I knew that too.

One afternoon, I came home from the market and saw three black cars blocking the alley. Glossy. Silent. Clean enough to reflect the broken bricks of our wall.

A few of the neighbours had gathered, muttering behind their hands.

I stopped. My palms were damp. My rucksack strap was digging into my shoulder.

I didn't have a father. So I made one up.

I told the neighbourhood kids he was powerful.

I said he had every kind of car, that he'd show up one day with chocolate and toys, like something out of a film.

I said he was busy. Too busy to visit, but he would. One day.

That day came. And I couldn't move.

A man I didn't recognise walked me inside.

My mother was on the floor in the front room, shoulders hunched, arms tight around her knees. Her eyes were red.

When she saw me, she broke completely.

She just folded in on herself and wept.

I crouched beside her and rested a hand on her back.

'Signora Seraphina, come home with us. Look at her, Elettra's not a child anymore. You can't keep her in this place, surrounded by god knows what. Papà's been unwell. He misses you. He couldn't come himself, but he sent me.'

That day was the first time I saw Aurelian Bellarmine.