Control—it always comes down to that with men like Carlo. I remember sitting at the dinner table with Dad eyeing my closely, watching to see what fork I would use, narrowing his eyes to make sure I was sticking to appropriately ladylike topics of conversation. They are not the same—Carlo, as far as I can tell, is not nearly the same league of monstrosity as my dear old Pops—but still, the not-so-subtle edge of control bothers me.
When I promised myself that I had changed, I meant it. So I’ll bide my time. I’ll wait for my chance. And I’ll try, no matter what, not to let these confusing feelings for Carlo grow.
He’s a beast, nothing more. And once I get out of here, I’ll never think of him again.
Sole Nero is a different place in the day. A ghost town.
I stand looking down out the windo
