The morning air in the penthouse was shaded with a nervous, electric energy that seemed to draw upon me and feed upon me. While I packed a small duffle bag, an impassive member of Dante's staff, a grim-looking woman, shuffled around laying out clothes for the trip. Beautiful cashmere sweaters, linen trousers, and a simple but elegant sundress—everything in washed-out shades of cream, grey, and navy—possessed an ocean-villa worker's elegance. Those were Isabella's clothes. Before leaving the room, I stole one last glance at the antique-looking jewelry box on the dresser. The diary lay in its safe confines, cradled within, my most damning secret. Leaving behind the diary felt like leaving behind a chunk of my soul, a rather terrifying gamble; but taking it was simply not an option. I had to trust that it would remain concealed.
The departure out of the city was a silent procession through the surreal. We sat silently in the spacious back seat of the Maybach, the city of steel and glass steadily fading, giving way to rolling green hills and eventually, the distant uncanny glare of the sea. The transition in the exterior world mirrored the one inside me, bid adieu to the known territory of my captivity, and stepped into the unknown heart of the Moretti mystery.
Dante had changed in the countryside. The hard-edged, city-slicker Don had softened somewhat. He stared contemplatively outside, a faraway look in his eyes, as if lost in some bittersweet reverie.
"My father was never fond of this place," he muttered quietly. "The wind from the sea dampened his bones. But she loved it. Escape is what she called it."
He was testing me; one spill of his mother's history to see how I would react. I drew on the diary, remembering Isabella's words. "The city is a cage of noise," I said, my eyes lost outside the window. "Here... you can hear yourself think."
I saw that wicked flash of satisfaction again across his eyes as he gazed intently at me. He presumed she was somehow with me, her voice, her memory in my words. Encouraged, I grew bolder the nearer we got to the coast, the salty scent thick in my nostrils. "I remember... the trees," I said, pretending to drift off into some hazy dream. "They were so tall. They used to block out the sun on this road in the afternoon."
"They still do," he replied, voice almost beneath a whisper.
Finally, we swung down a long, going-private drive between battered old cypress trees. That was when I saw it. The villa sat just as it was drawn in the diary: a beautiful, solitary house of whitewashed stone, perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the crashing gray sea. Merry and elegant, with a profound sense of sorrow about it; isolation that was both stunning and highly unnerving. A beautiful place to hide, a beautiful place to die.
As the car rolled further to the climax of gravel, jasmine fumes wafted in through the open window. My blood thrummed through every inch of me as this visceral confirmation of the diary's truth trickled through my veins. This was it.
An elderly couple had appeared from the house as Dante opened the door to the car. As the housekeeper, the woman with a tight grey bun, and her weather-beaten husband turned to face me, their eyes widened with shock and something that might be fear. Hands went to the woman's mouth, and shock replace astonishment upon the man's countenance as he simply gaped. They were witnessing someone who should have been long dead walking the earth—me.
The pair remained transfixed as Dante, unswerving in his seamless focus on me, rounded the car and opened my door. His eyes possessed a strange fire, strange in its possessiveness; I had never seen it before. This was the culmination of his fantasy, seeing before him his Isabella standing at the confines of her sanctuary.
"Wlcmoe home," Dante said, thick with an emotion I couldn't quite place, extending his hand toward me.
After a moment's hesitation, I placed my hand in his. He held me firmly, possessively, as he began to guide me toward the great oak door of the villa, parting the still-gawking staff as if he were ferrying their resurrected queen. Walking inside over the threshold sent shivers down my spine, cold and certainly not from the sea breeze. I was now all inside; let the hunt begin for the letters that held the past and the now unfolding future. And here, I was, utterly, terrifyingly alone with the man who would destroy every piece of his world in front of him.