Falling for Deceit || WATTYS 2017

11

The dagger was wrung into the flesh. The tortured cry could have buckled knees. Blood swelled up in the wound and trickled down the cotton material of the shirt. The silent gunshot brought the drunkard to his death on the cold pavement. But he was bringing Vincent with him.

"Miss Marino."

The images faded from my mind and took residence in the back like photography shots flashing past my eyes. I stilled my nervously clutched hands that were wrung around the coffee cup and glanced up through a blurry line of sight that was wet with tears. I had been sitting here for four hours straight, and each new hour had been meticulously pronounced by the elegant chime of the grandfather clock in the corner. The once living, breathing kitchen was completely silent, and I heard every sharp click of the heel as Mrs. Green walked towards me with steely eyes and grim determination in the purse of her lips. I didn't have the energy to spring to my feet and force a polite nod to the infamous Housekeeper, so I nodded silently in tired greeting. To my utter shock, the elderly woman suddenly sat down in the seat opposite mine and stared at me across the table with those hawk-like eyes. There was no emotion other than resolution and resilience in the wrinkled lines of her face, and yet the words that she spoke were unbelievably soft for her. "You care for him, do you not," she declared sharply, more like a statement than an actual question. I straightened in my chair.

"Is he okay?" I asked, trying to make my voice seem stronger in front of this unforgiving woman. "Will Vincent be okay?"

"Mr. Farwell has been accorded the appropriate medical care and is now resting. He has been so for the past two hours."

Two hours.

I shifted in my seat and willed my gaze to be steady as I met her eyes head-on. "And I have only been informed now." The sharp set of Mrs. Green's jaw didn't go unnoticed.

"Indeed. Mr. Beretti thought it more suitable that you be informed of Mr. Farwell's welfare rather than imminent death." I leaned back in my seat and lost all of the tension in my limbs as disbelief made my fingers fumble with the cup.

"Mr. Beretti," I repeated, staring at the smooth table that stretched in front of me. Mrs. Green nodded out of the corner of my eye, her hard stare unwavering.

"Indeed. I suppose it was to spare you any disappointment if Mr. Farwell had met his end." This made me look up again, and I felt the sudden annoyance seep into my words.

"Disappointment. He assumed that I would be disappointed if Vincent died?" I gritted out, the venom staining the words. Instead of answering, Mrs. Green stood up from the chair and neatly pushed it back against the table, before folding her hands behind her back with distinguished authority.

"In fact, I did not come here to discuss Mr. Beretti's motives with some poor, torn-up maid." She spoke this with now clear disgust. And gratefulness towards the woman that I had moments before quickly evaporated and I narrowed my eyes at her.

"I am not torn-up," I retorted, standing up and pushing the chair back in the process. "I simply do not understand why I was not informed-"

"Mr. Beretti demands your presence and has sent me to escort you to his office."

Not requests. Demands.

He's your superior and the leader of one of the most powerful Italian mafias on the East Coast, I reminded myself, untightening my grip on the steel table's edge. I smoothed my hands down over the now wrinkled, emerald dress and straightened my spine. I tilted my chin up and regarded the Housekeeper with no emotion nor defiance whatsoever. "Lead the way, Mrs. Green." She huffed and spun around on her heel before marching out the kitchen with a head held high. I followed, staring straight ahead, one foot in front of the other. Left. Right. Repeat.