TAKEN

CHAPTER 12

Sebastian

Forget the past.

That’s the thing about being a Willow or a Scafoni. You can’t ever forget the past. It doesn’t let you. And neither does the present.

I know about her aunt, the woman she’s named after. The other Willow with black hair and a silver streak through it. The Willow Girl who almost beat her Scafoni master. Who almost broke him. Who almost broke the family apart.

But that wasn’t the end of the story.

Helena should know better her history.

And the thing about ending this, there’s no such thing. Not for her. Not for me. And not for future generations of Willow daughters or Scafoni sons.

I look over at her standing beside me as I dock the boat. It’s been three days since the night I caught her in my room, and I can’t seem to stop looking at her.

We’ve just reached Venice proper, and her eyes are as wide as saucers as she takes it all in. It’s summertime, which means one part of the floating city will be overrun with tourists.

It’s amazing to me that people will travel hundreds of miles over hours and days and never leave one tiny part of Venice with all its vendors selling worthless trinkets, the noise and smell of a thousand people taking pictures of the filthy pigeons in the square, of the gondola with the singing gondolier. f*****g tourist traps. What they’re seeing isn’t Venice—at least, not my Venice.

“I thought there would be more people,” Helena says when we disembark.

“There are. On the other side. This is the Cannaregio district. It’s the better side, without the throngs of tourists. I’m not much of a people person.”

She stops, turns to me. “That’s a shocker.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. Come here.” She’s already walking off, distracted.

It’s been one week since she’s been on the island with us, and I should have brought her here sooner. Should have done it on the day she arrived.

“I want to see the church,” she calls over her shoulder.

“We can see it after.”

“It’s just a few minutes. I want to light a candle.” And she goes off ahead of me, following the two nuns toward the small wooden door at the side of the old church.

“Do you ever listen?” I ask, taking her by the arm when I catch up with her. I walk her around the corner and to the steps of the entrance. “Here.”

“Oh.”

She looks up at it. It is a beautiful church. Most of Italy’s churches are, and Venice’s especially, although I’m partial, since this is home. Religion is an important part of Italian culture—at least for most people.

“Thanks,” she says.

I nod, and we walk in, my hand at her lower back, her heels clicking on the stone steps. The clothes I ordered for her had come, and today she’s wearing a gray skirt and a white, short-sleeved blouse with dark pumps. When I told her what we were doing, she’d chosen the most somber outfit she could find.

The soft scent of incense hovers outside the church. We approach the doors and I pull one open only to have that incense rush my senses. We walk inside, and she stops. Me too.

There’s a stillness here, something rare and unique to churches. Even if there’s a mass in session and a hundred faithful in the pews and an organ blaring out a Gothic hymn, underneath it is stillness. It’s here now, something I not only hear but feel deep in my bones, right to my marrow.

I know the exact day I stopped believing in God. It wasn’t when my mother died but the day I learned that the church turned its back on her. She who spent more time on her knees in prayer than anyone should.

I was a toddler when she died. Too young to experience that much loss, that much sadness. At least that’s what people thought. But I saw everything and heard everything and remembered it all.

It wasn’t until years later that I realized why everyone was so angry at her. I didn’t understand why my father suddenly turned his back on the church. I was seven when I finally did, and that was when I turned my back too. Finally understanding my father’s curse against our priest for not burying her. For refusing to even hold mass for her soul.

But Catholics are strange when it comes to suicide.

“I’ll wait outside,” I say, my voice hoarse.

Helena is surprised, but I turn and go, and I don’t explain myself.

I don’t want to be in there. I want to scrub the stink of incense from my clothes, my hair.

My mother used to say it’s the smell Jesus loves, that’s why it’s always burning. This made perfect sense to me when I was little. Now, it turns my stomach, excavating memories better left buried.

Fifteen minutes later, I watch her push open the heavy door and step outside. She smiles when she spots me, which I don’t expect. But maybe she doesn’t either because she schools her features into a frown a few moments later.

I take her arm. “You’re prettier when you smile.”

“I’m not really going for pretty.”

I shrug a shoulder.

“I’ve always wanted to visit Venice, but not like this. Not for this,” she says.

“It won’t take long. My attorney’s offices are just a few blocks away, and then, if you’re good, I’ll take you to lunch afterward.”

“Wow, really?” she asks, hopping in front of me, mimicking an excited child. “Will you buy me a Popsicle too if I’m a good little girl? Huh? Will you?” She gives a shake of her head and falls back in line beside me. “Prick,” she mutters under her breath.

I take her arm, tug her close. “No, no Popsicle for you. I was planning on giving you something else to suck on, but if you’re not careful, you’ll get it up your ass instead.”

She glances up at me from the corner of her eye, and I can almost see the names she’s calling me on the inside. Which is fine, as long as I don’t have to hear them.

“That time on the post didn’t do much for your attitude, did it?” I ask as we turn a corner and are, thankfully, out of the sun. It’s warmer here than on the island. Must be all the bricks. Just sucks up the heat.

“My attitude is just fine. I haven’t called you an inbred since you so kindly educated me on the specifics, have I?”

“You’re a quick study when you’re getting your p***y eaten out.”

“Jesus. Why are you so crude?”

I glance at her. “Some women find dirty talk hot.”

“I don’t know. I think it depends how good the dirty talker is.”

“Touché.” I stop. “Hand me the switchblade you took from my room. That’s a notch for you.”

From the look on her face, she didn’t think I’d notice.

That, or she thinks I’m stupid.

“You stole it from me first. I just took back what was mine to begin with.”

“Just take care with it. I don’t want you hurting yourself, Willow Girl.” “You prefer to do all the hurting, is that it?”

“Careful there.” I wrap my hand around the back of her slender neck and give a little squeeze. “Part of the deal is I return you in one piece.”

It’s her who stops now just as we get to the entrance of the building. “Physically, at least, right? Doesn’t matter about the scars inside. Just all fingers and toes accounted for.”

I feel one eye narrow. “Something like that.”

She always takes it just a hair too far, but I get the feeling part of that is her fighting herself because as far as s*x goes, she comes at least twice a day since the night I caught her in my room. And she’s always game, no matter how much she tries to tell herself and me she’s not.

“Let’s go up. Get this done.”

We walk into the ancient building that houses our attorneys. The building itself is part of Scafoni family holdings. It’s been beautifully restored. Upon entering, I think about how much I pay our attorneys to keep our secrets.

Helena is awed. I can see it on her face. She’s taking everything in, from the pattern of the marble on the floor to the paintings and tapestries hanging on the walls. I understand. It looks more like a palace than an office.

The receptionist stands to greet us, coming around the desk, almost bowing to me. I guess she knows who pays for her designer suit and shoes.

When I introduce her to Helena in English, she apologizes for speaking Italian and continues in English, telling us that Mr. Gallo will be with us shortly and asking if we’d like something to drink.

“Cappuccino please,” Helena says.

“An espresso for me.” She nods and walks through the door that leads to the small kitchen to work on our coffees.

“This building is amazing.” Helena turns a circle, eyes up, down, every which direction.

“Thank you. We had it reconstructed to look like it did in its early days, and it was a much bigger job than I realized. There was quite some water damage—it renders the first floor almost completely unusable—but the rest of the building is in perfect condition.”

“You own the building?”

I put my finger to her chin to close her mouth.

She clears her throat. “I just don’t even understand how much money that is.”

“It’s important to preserve the architecture of the city. This isn’t only my family’s inheritance. And by that, I mean culturally. The Scafoni family has an obligation to the people of Venice. I take that very seriously.”

“Do you own more buildings here? Is that where Scafoni money comes from?”

“A few and some.” I lead her around.

“Some?”

“Some of our wealth is through real estate. Some…outside of real estate.”

She looks at me suspiciously. “Legal?” I give her a wide grin.

“Are you like a local mafia family or something?” I think she means it as a joke.

“This way,” I say, not answering.

She seems to understand I won’t be explaining further.

“This building dates back to the fourteenth century, and it was home to the Michiel family for a time.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Venetian nobility.”

“Oh. Are you Venetian nobility too? That’s a stupid question.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“I don’t know anything about this. We don’t have this in America.”

He smiles. “No, we’re not nobility. We’re just smart businessmen.”

She studies me, and I wonder what she’s thinking, what she wants to say. She’s clever enough to know that you have to be better than smart to have collected our sort of wealth and power, and that doesn’t always come without darker dealings.

“Why don’t you have an accent when you speak English?” she asks.

“Because I was educated in boarding school in Massachusetts. I only spent summers in Italy.”

“Your brothers too?”

“Yes.”

Before she can ask another question, we’re interrupted. “Sebastian, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

I turn to find Joseph Gallo coming down the stairs. He’s dressed impeccably, as usual. I’ve been working with him since I took over the family after my father died and have known him for most of my life.

I shake his hand, patting his shoulder. “Twice in one week.”

Joseph Gallo handles the Willow transactions. He’s the one I came to see to discuss payments a few days ago.

“A fortunate week,” he says elegantly.

He turns to Helena and takes her in, then holds out his hand. “Miss Willow, I presume.” He doesn’t quite shake her hand but holds one of hers inside both of his and turns to me. “Each generation is more beautiful than the last.”

I catch Helena’s glance. Joseph Gallo handled the details with Libby Willow too.

“Let’s go upstairs. Everything is ready. Should only take a few minutes.”

Her mood soured, Helena walks up the stairs only because of the pressure of my hand at her back. She isn’t even looking around anymore but is instead lost in her own thoughts as we enter Joseph’s office.

“Sit down, please,” he says, gesturing to two large, comfortable chairs before his antique desk.

The receptionist approaches with a tray of coffee for each of us and places a small plate of cookies on the table between our chairs.

Helena leaves hers untouched. I notice how her hands curl around the arms of the chair as she watches Joseph, who casually sips his espresso as he opens the large leather-bound tome before him.

Joseph sets his cup down and looks up at us, smiling as if any of this is normal.

“I don’t know how much Sebastian has explained to you, but I’ll just go through the legalities before you sign.”