"I am good at two things. Murder and sex."
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Xavier Visconti expected one thing on December 3rd. And that was getting his money back from a spineless woman he had taken pity on. What he didn't expect, though, was to meet his damsel-in-distress.
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Lydia hadn't slept in three days. Nor had she gone to university. She realised how it wasn't quite a big deal—what Emma had said—because now they were away from the horror house. Still, she could barely bring herself to smile. The smallest things, it seemed like, became the biggest triggers.
Had her aunt been right?
Lydia was in no way a model mother. She couldn't even provide the basic necessity that was food.
For the fourth night in a row, she got up from their bed in the dimly lit, sunshine yellow bedroom. They rarely ever went to the other one.
The Australian Retriever, which stayed by Emma's side like a loyal bodyguard, quickly moved up from his bed on the floor and took Lydia's place. Cairo, Mr Visconti's youngest brother, had paid a visit on their first night to welcome them and to let them know his name was Cinnamon Toast Darling.
Emma had burst into giggles at the strange name and Cairo had laughed with her. "That's a cereal name!"
"It wasn't me who named him," he'd defended.
But he also didn't elaborate who it had been. One thing she was sure of, it could not have been Mr Visconti. Even thinking about it seemed ridiculous.
She'd also found out that upstairs was the penthouse where Mr Visconti sometimes stayed. Cairo had been quick to assure her that the man had a permanent home elsewhere. She wasn't surprised that he didn't know the location.
Lydia wasn't sure why she felt scared of Mr Visconti. He'd shown her more kindness than anybody else. Yet she couldn't help but feel terrified when she was in his presence.
Emma loved the man.
That, she could get used to. She was a child. She didn't know any better. However, Mr Visconti got along with Emma as well. The first time he'd picked her up, Lydia thought the worst. Was he going to take her away?
The man confused her. He was nothing like the monster her aunt had described. Then again, it was her fault for believing anything her aunt had to say.
The counter lights were on in the kitchen, giving her a little reassurance. It was pathetic how she was more scared of the dark than her three year old. The clock confirmed it was two am when she sat down on the stool with a tall glass of water.
Everything felt so bizarre. The fridge was packed with food, they had water. The beds did not hurt their backs. The duvets were thick enough to keep them warm. Even when she'd made up her mind to get out of her aunt's house, she knew the only thing better about the other place would be having no aunt.
