Beast and the Beauty

“Help,” I croaked, my throat sore. Attempting to wet it only irritated the sawdust quality, and in my upside-down position, caused me to choke, “Help…”

“Save your voice,” someone said.

“Please,” I pleaded, “Just let me down for a minute.”

“No,” the voice replied quietly, a hint of uncomfort working its way in.

“Just a minute,” I moaned.

“No,” the voice snapped, “Now be quiet.”

My head span, limbs ached, and the pressure on my neck was increasing second by second. Each moment lasted an eternity. Then a near-blissful roaring began in my ears, blocking all conscious thought with its barrier of mentally-created sound, pressing against my consciousness until there was no room for thought.

Words wouldn’t form to warn my captor, so I simply let the welcome darkness swallow me whole.

* * *

For me, it had started a month ago. For my father, it had begun years before I was born, years which had left him distraught, old beyond his years, and bereft of everything he’d ever held dear, including his wife, and now his daughter.

The Mafia aren’t known for their kindness.

They don’t let pleasantries like ‘poverty’ get in the way of collecting on loans. So it was only a matter of time before they followed my father up on his. I can see now, in retrospect, that they’d been hassling him almost constantly. Little things; a nod at the market as they passed his grocery stall, requesting the use of his front room every so often, not paying for an apple… winking at me once I’d escaped infancy.

My father had warned me.

And I’d thought he was being over-protective.

* * *

Consciousness didn’t hit me, or seep into me like a drug, or simply appear. Instead it flowed in and out, letting me capture moments of sound, or smell, or simply pain from hanging so long. Little bites of consciousness which I could have done without. During my longer moments I caught snippets of someone talking seemingly to themselves, occasionally to another person whose entrance always let the smell of hot kitchens pervade the room: grease, smoke, raw and charred meat.

“How long’s it been?” asked a voice, the smells once again pervading my senses.

“Three hours,” replied the familiar one.

There was silence for a moment.

“Let her down.”

The door slammed shut again.

Hopeful adrenalin rushed through my veins as my mind decoded this sentence, willing it to be no mirage of sound. Seconds later and I wished it hadn’t been heard. Back the right way up, I found the blood rushing away from my head, leaving me drained, every inch of my skin crawling, my head spinning and pounding.

The door was opened and someone yelled.

“Marco, she’s throwing up!” cried the voice that seemed to be my constant companion.

“She would,” was yelled back over the clatter of metal skillets.

The door closed and footsteps neared my pounding ears. A hand eased my head away from the ground, cradling my neck, pushing my hair out of my face so that I could retch in peace. My skin crawled at the contact.

“Here,” the voice grunted once I’d finished, dragging me to the left. Cool stone pressed against my back, and I leaned thankfully against it, attempting to leech some of its healing cold into my skin.

This time sleep claimed me.

* * *

It had been a Monday. A cool, autumn Monday, with apples just arrived from out of the city. Apples which had smelt so clean, fresh, perfect. Apples which soon tumbled and lay crushed upon the floor… There had been a clash as the back door slammed open… I had turned, surprised, the four men in suits barely registered before the first spoke.

“Where’s Jeano?” he had asked, his tone low, unapologetic, emotionless.

“I- I’ll get him,” I stuttered, removing Father’s toast from the rack over the fire.

Upstairs, he had known. Smiled softly, guilt-ridden, accepting his fate. I’d questioned him, edges of panic creeping into my thoughts as he turned my questions aside. And then when we reached downstairs… The violence which racked the room in seconds was too much for me. I fainted. Stupid, idiotic, naïve girl. Wasted precious minutes of my Father’s health.

* * *

“Wake up,” whispered the familiar voice, shaking my shoulder, “Wake up, stupid girl.”

I groaned, the feeling of lethargic pain rolling back into my limbs.

“So, where is she?” called a voice; loud, unbearable, threatening.

“Store room,” someone replied.

The smell and clash of kitchen noise filled my head again. The warm touch of a hand on my shoulder was snatched away as the door swung open.

“Good god Marco, your younger brother’s got a knack for catching beauties, hasn’t he?”

“Probably reverse karma,” Marco sneered.

Next to me, the owner of the familiar voice scuffled against the wall. I struggled to sit upright, then the warm hand was under my arm, pulling me upright. It stayed there, tight, cutting into my arm. Another hand, cold, rough, traced my left cheek, only brushing the blindfold which kept me sightless.

“And how is Jeano?” the large voice questioned, undoubtedly attached to the cold hand.

“He’s recovered enough to ask to trade,” Marco replied.

“What are you planning, Luca?” asked the loud voice.

“Nothing at the moment, Don Pedro,” a soft voice from behind me replied.

Something, which had brewed in my heart over the past hours/days/ whatever time period I’d spent here, began to overflow. A curiosity for the one who had let me down, who had cradled my head whilst I retched, who had led me to the cool haven of the concrete wall… a curiosity which merged with a feeling of gratitude and something else. Something akin to adoration. Something bestial inside me had begun to adore the hand which was cutting into my arm, which surely belonged to this familiar voice, soft, smooth… angelic.

“Well, don’t take Jeano up on anything,” the large voice commanded, “Keep her. She’s worth far more than anything he could pay you. Tell him, if he wants his daughter back, he’ll have to pay back the loan and her price.”

“Yes Don Pedro,” acquiesced the angelic voice.

“Marco, why don’t you leave this matter to your brother,” suggested Don Pedro, “After all, it was his money Jeano borrowed.”

“I was intending to,” Marco replied, the bitter tone in which he said it saying otherwise.

“Good luck, Luca,” Don Pedro said.

Footsteps left us, and the store room door slammed shut, reverberating in the corners of my skull.

“I’m sorry,” Luca, my angelic voice said.

For a moment I wondered who he was talking to, but then his grip eased on my arm, and he turned me around, presumably to face him. Deft fingers loosened the bonds around my wrists. Not undone, but no longer cutting into the skin.

“Water?” I croaked.

Luca grunted. There was a rustling and then a clicking as the plastic from a bottle cap broke apart. Plastic touched my lips, a hand cupping the back of my head and tilting water into my mouth.

“What’s your name, Bella, hmm?” he asked.

My throat forbid me to answer, demanding water.

“No name?” he replied to himself, “Jeano never mentioned you… Prudente, si?... Well, you can just be Bella, then. Bellisima…”

Light fingers brushed away the hair from my throat, caressing my skin with a thumb.

“Go back to sleep,” Luca commanded, “I’ll be back soon.”

* * *

“No!” I screamed, running down the street, “No!!”

I ran into the group of men who held my Father, struggling to push past them.

“No, please!” I cried, “He’s my father!”

“Bella, go home.”

“But you can’t – I can’t – please!”

“Bella, go home,” the statement was repeated, and the cool metal of a gun pressed under my blouse and into my ribs.

“N- no-no,” I sobbed, falling to my knees in panic, “Can you not take me instead? We’ll pay you, I swear, whatever it is.”

I looked up to plead, only to see one nod. Within seconds my father, bloodied and bruised, was left in the street and I was being dragged away instead, a blindfold tightening itself around my eyes, obstructing my last view of my father.

* * *

From that day I had no name. I was not myself anymore. I was another’s.

My stay in the storeroom lasted little longer than a day or two - Luca had me moved into a loft above the kitchens, hot from the rising fumes. Still blindfold, I existed only to hear his voice… Although I had never heard of Stockholm syndrome then, I was well and truly suffering from it. Two things remained in my blind existence; dreams and his voice. Often entangled.

* * *

“What is your name then, Bella? Hmm?” Luca asked, far away, “Bella… bellisima… bonita… belle… I have a mind to call you Isabelle…”

I felt fabric under my fingertips. Smooth. Soft.

A light breeze caressed my face.

The sound of a violin stirred in the distance.

I opened my eyes and didn’t see black. The owner of the voice, tall, thin, with curly, black hair and dark skin, stood silhouetted by the window, leaning out to survey the street. One finger traced the rough contours of the windowsill, the other brushed hair back from his face.

“I’m sorry about… well, I’m sorry,” he continued, clearly unaware I was awake, “Just because your father didn’t pay me back, doesn’t mean you should-”

He turned around from the windowsill, the light falling onto his face…

A strange cry fell from his throat as he saw my eyes alight upon the rich red burn which invaded the right side of his face. A sob built up in my throat to see how much it worried him. Mistaking me for horrified, he turned away again.

Ashamed for him, I turned away too.

“Bella, you should have warned me,” he whispered, his voice low, gruff.

* * *

Luca wasn’t exactly kind, or patient… his temper often ran short, and several times I heard him shouting, or was shouted at. I learnt to avoid any subject relating to fire, injury or appearance – it was not his fault that he often grew tense when conversation blew this way. He could hardly be called a gentleman, for after all, he was Mafioso. But he was never unfair. His sense of justice seemed to root so deep that is often clouded any emotion he might have felt on a subject.

As Mafia he held the Law in contempt, but the codes of brotherhood, honour, blood-ties… these he sought to preserve with a furious determination. It was the latter, the blood-tie which he held most high. His father, though more aggravating, less honourable and far meaner than he, was to be obeyed in every aspect should it be demanded.

But if there was one thing, out of every dishonour which Luca sought to eradicate, it was the Blood-traitor which he could not bear. And it was the one dishonour he was forced to...

* * *

I was attempting to sleep that night… Brash voices reached the trapdoor to the loft, which swung open with a slam soon after. One set of steps climbed the ladder. Blind in the dark, I couldn’t see a face. But a face wouldn’t have helped.

“And Luca out… what a providential circumstance…” commented a familiar voice, almost to himself.

Silence reigned for a moment.

“Already tied up, Bonita? Takes a little bit of the fun away…”

A touch on my thigh sent a shock of static up my leg, and I twitched instinctively out of the way. The trapdoor swung closed with a condemning smash. Sick apprehension settled into my stomach, and my skin began to burn. Unseen, a hand closed over my mouth.

“Scream, and I’ll have you hung from the rafters,” he threatened, breath cold against my ear.

It was Marco – Luca’s brother.

Unbidden, a cry rose in my throat, stifled by the palm across my mouth.

A hand trailed up my waist, leaving writhing, sick fire in its wake. It settled where it shouldn’t. Enough, I thought to myself. Maybe I was tied up, maybe I was surrounded by Mafia, maybe I was blindfolded. But I wasn’t going down without a fight and he hadn’t said anything about that.

I bit hard into his hand, rolling off the bed as he swore. I stood up, struggling to loose the bonds which still tied me to the bedstead. But he was already pushing me against the wall in anger, my head cracking against the plaster. My senses swam, but my awareness of his hands, roving steadily, his hot breath and mouth against my throat was only weirdly heightened. In delirium from the blow to my head and my lack of water, I began to see colour, hot red and creeping green, searing blue where he was pulling at my clothes.

Time melted.

Then a roar filled my ears.

Not the roar of unconsciousness, or the roar of water, but a full-throated roar of anger. The door slammed open and shut, rebounded with a shudder that ran through the floor. Hands were suddenly vacant from my skin and as I collapsed to the floor something crunched. There was a howl, and then the trapdoor was dragged open. Another crunch as something large hit the floor.

“Get out,” I heard Luca threaten, his voice low, cold, dangerous, “And if I ever see your face again, you’ll be dead, do you understand me? Nobody goes behind my back like that. Especially not my own brother!”

There was an uneven scuffle, and then the sound of a street market outside. After a poignant moment of silence the clatter of the kitchen resumed. I began to sob without restraint.

“Stronzo,” I heard Luca mutter.

A hand touched my arm gently and I recoiled.

“Quel bastardo,” he muttered again, “Ssh, sh, sh…”

Carefully, he eased me away from the wall, drawing me close to his chest; comfortingly solid, warm. Tentative fingers pushed my hair out of my face, then brushed the back of my bruised head. Stars exploded. He swore again. My head throbbed. He lifted me off the floor. I passed out.

* * *

When I regained consciousness, my situation had changed once more. From home to storeroom, to loft, and now to ‘home’ once more. Yet, however pleased I was to find my father well and happy, bereft of Luca’s voice I found myself purposeless. It had become my constant companion day-in day-out, and now, without his words, I was as the moon without an earth. The night sky without stars.

It’s considered very foolish to deliberately seek out the Mafia.

I ended up walking down the backstreets of the darker district with a distinctly nervous feeling settling into my limbs past dusk. Ahead of me, a door swung open from the back of a casino. Light fell on a group of five or so men as they stepped out, none of whom I recognised. I gulped but kept moving forward, keeping my head down.

“Hey, senorita!” one of them called, loud, unbearable, threatening… Don Pedro.

I’d never seen their faces, so naturally I didn’t recognise them.

Marco’s voice rang out as well, “Do I know you?”

Everything happened rather too fast for it to register.

Footsteps ran suddenly, an arm caught mine, a kitchen door swung open, a voice shouted, something slammed into my side, and then… Luca and his brother were fighting in the middle of the alley, surrounded by the three men and Don Pedro who watched impassively.

“Luca!” I cried, terrified, as Marco pulled a switchblade on his brother.

Don Pedro raised an eyebrow and then smiled, amused.

In panic, and still reeling from the blow to my side, I fainted against the wall.

* * *

I regained consciousness, still lying against the alley cobbles. Little more than a metre away someone else lay, breathing heavily. Luca… I scrambled over to him, checking frantically for the knife wound I felt sure was killing him.

“Luca, Luca stay with me!” I sobbed, pulling at his jacket in panic, “Don’t leave me!”

I pressed a hand to his forehead, pushing his hair out of his eyes, which were closed. I checked his breathing… and couldn’t find it.

“Stronza!” I cried, “Luca, don’t do this to me, Ti amo por dios!”

I pressed my lips to his, the terror of losing him overtaking the need to run away.

A low, rumbling laugh suddenly filled my ears.

I opened my eyes, and saw his beautiful brown eyes laughing at me.

“Ti amo anche,” he whispered against my paralysed lips.

“Y-you’re not dying?” I asked tentatively.

“Not that I’d noticed,” he replied.

* * *

Marco died from his own knife later that evening. Luca and I were married the next year. It seems a month of my being his prisoner had led him to Stockholm syndrome just as surely as it had me.