Winona [18+]

chapter seven

JUNE 14, 1985

SALVATORE RINALDI

As a child, Salvatore Rinaldi made puzzles of his own using craft acrylics and cheap synthetic brushes from the dollar store. Kids in his class struggled to color in the lines but, at the ripe age of four, Salvatore could create works of art that were extravagant and demanded attention. He painted detailed landscapes and scenes over cereal boxes before cutting them into puzzle pieces, shapes that were messy but did the job just right. He'd spend hours and hours putting the pieces together again, recreating the bigger picture.

Gifted, they all called him. Gifted.

Now, he couldn't quite understand the puzzles laid out before him.

"You haven't said a word since you arrived this morning." Catarina poured black coffee for him, leaning over the counter in her red silky robe. She looks well-rested with a glow on her face, no signs of puffiness under her eyes or exhaustion in her bones. He envies her. "Why are you back?"

"I needed a break."

It became clear to Salvatore last night that Zara was eerily right. The manor is alive. It fed off his sanity and toyed with his mind like a parasite. He could no longer work or sleep. Not when the walls tormented him with images of Winona D'Alia.

The hardest puzzle to solve yet, but also the most exhilarating.

The youngest D'Alia was a force to be reckoned with. Her rebellious nature could cost him everything, but he was curious. Infatuated. She's infuriating and intriguing; remarkably deceiving. One look into her amber eyes and Salvatore could cave to his knees, wishing he could take away her pain, fix the broken promises, and put her together again.

"How is your work coming along?"

"It's not. There's been no progress, yet. You would know if you returned my calls."

Catarina raised her brows in shock. His accusatory tone did nothing to reduce the tension and he could see her reaching for excuses, trying to come up with the right words to say.

"Why didn't you call?" He pressed, meeting her distant gaze. Hell, it felt like swimming oceans and crossing rivers just to meet her where she was. "I've been gone for six days. Why didn't you call?"

"Do you want me to call every hour? What do you want me to say?"

"Anything." Salvatore blurted. "Tell me about your day. Tell me about your work. I don't think you understand how... isolating that place is. It's fucking with my head."

"I... I didn't call because I thought you needed time to settle."

Catarina reached for her lighter and, with shaky hands, fumbled with the box of cigarettes.

"I need you." He retorted. "I need you there with me. Give it a chance, Catarina. I think you'd like it there."

"Is this your way of asking me to come with you?"

"Yes."

"God, Salvatore, we've been over this. Do you really expect me to leave behind my work? My responsibilities?" Catarina blew out smoke and waved it away. "You haven't been making any money off your art! It's... It's been months since you last sold a piece. One of us has to have a real job."

Silence filled the space between them. A terrible, uncomfortable silence...

"Say something." He looked excitedly at Catarina, then back to the canvas hung up high in the gallery. Vibrant hues of yellow, green, and red created silhouettes of New York City in a manner never seen before. It captured the vibrancy of the fast-paced city, with clusters of people going on about their day. They were painted dark gray, depleted by the demands of the city, giving away their color to those pesky corporations and buildings...