SLEEPING WITH THE DEVIL

THE CONFESSION

*CHAPTER 8: THE CONFESSION*

We arrived at Villa Blackwood at 11:03 PM.

The gate opened automatically. The Bugatti's headlights swept over the black fortress, the rain-wet stone, the tall walls. It looked like a prison. But tonight, for the first time since I arrived three days ago to kill its owner, it looked like home.

Killian parked right in front of the main door, not in the garage. He got out and came around to my side and opened my door. He picked me up again — bridal style — because my feet were still bleeding from the broken glass at Villa Bianco, and my heels were broken.

"I can walk," I whispered, but my arms went around his neck anyway.

"You can walk tomorrow. Tonight I carry you," he said. "You have blood on your feet, blood on your dress, and you smell like my cologne and gunpowder. You are a mess, Little Spy."

"A beautiful mess?"

"The most beautiful mess I have ever seen."

Signora Russo was waiting at the door, in her nightgown, her hair in a net, holding a rosary. She looked at us — Killian in a ruined tuxedo, white shirt stained with blood and mascara, me in a bloody red Valentino dress and his tuxedo jacket, barefoot, bleeding feet, hair wild — and she made the sign of the cross.

"Madre di Dio! Mr. Blackwood! What happened? Is she hurt?" she said in Italian.

"She is fine. Bring first aid kit to my bedroom. And towels. Hot water. And then go to sleep. And don't tell my father we are back," Killian said in Italian, carrying me past her, up the stairs.

He kicked open the master bedroom double doors and locked them. Two clicks.

He put me down gently on the edge of the huge black bed. The bed where I was supposed to sleep with the devil for 30 days. Tonight was Day 2.

"Stay," he ordered, like I was a puppy.

He went to the bathroom and came back with a white basin of hot water and towels. He knelt in front of me on the floor, again, like last night when he wiped mud off my legs, but tonight his face was more serious.

"Feet," he said.

I lifted my right foot. The sole was cut in three places from champagne glass at the garden. Small cuts, but bleeding.

He dipped a towel in hot water and cleaned it, gently, carefully, not like a mafia boss who shoots people in rose gardens, but like a nurse. Like a brother.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, not looking up, focused on my foot.

"Yes."

"Good. So you remember not to run in a rose garden in high heels next time."

"There will be a next time?"

"With you, there is always a next time."

He cleaned both feet, put small bandages on the cuts, then wrapped them in soft gauze. His hands were big, warm, rough from guns, but gentle.

When he finished, he stood up and went to the walk-in closet. He came back with one of his black t-shirts and black sweatpants again — the same as my first night.

"Take off that dress. It's ruined. And bloody. And you need to shower."

"Turn around," I said.

He turned around, facing the fireplace, hands in pockets.

I stood up, wobbling a bit on my bandaged feet, and let his tuxedo jacket fall to the floor. Then I reached behind and tried to unzip the red Valentino dress. The zipper was stuck. Blood had dried on it.

"Killian... zipper is stuck..."

He turned around. "You said turn around."

"It's stuck! Help!"

He walked to me and turned me around gently, so my bare back was facing him. The dress was backless down to my waist, held only by two thin straps and a hidden zipper on the side.

His fingers were warm on my cold back as he tried to pull the zipper. It was really stuck.

"Hold your hair up," he said, voice low.

I held my hair up. His knuckles brushed my bare back, my spine. I shivered, not from cold.

He pulled harder. The zipper finally moved down, slowly, revealing more of my back. Down to my waist. The dress loosened and fell, but I caught it in front, holding it to my chest.

"Done," he said, but he didn't step back. He was still very close behind me.

"Thank you..." I whispered, holding the dress.

"You're welcome," he whispered back, his breath on my neck.

For three seconds, we stood like that. Me half-naked in a bloody red dress holding it to my chest, him in a ruined tuxedo behind me, his hands still near my back, not touching, but close. The fireplace crackling. The lake outside black and silent.

Then he stepped back fast, like he remembered who he was.

"Shower. Ten minutes. I will wait here," he said, going back to the sofa, sitting down, looking away.

I ran to the bathroom with his t-shirt and pants and locked the door.

In the bathroom mirror, I looked terrible. Mascara running, lipstick gone, hair wild, blood spots on my shoulder, diamond necklace still on, feet bandaged like a mummy.

But in my hand, I was still holding the voice recorder. Red light still blinking. I had not let it go even in the shower at Villa Bianco garden.

I put it on the sink, carefully, and turned on the hot rain shower. Hot water hit my cold skin and I finally started to warm up. I washed the blood off — Luca's blood, my foot blood — washed the lake wind off, washed the pier off, washed the image of my brother kicking alive on video.

But I couldn't wash the video from my head.

When I came out ten minutes later, wearing his huge black t-shirt that reached my knees and no pants because my feet were bandaged and pants would hurt, Killian was not on the sofa anymore.

He was standing by the window, on the phone, speaking low, angry Italian. He had taken off his ruined tuxedo jacket and bow tie, now just in white shirt, sleeves rolled up, showing his forearm tattoo — a black rosary with a dagger.

"Si, si, portalo qui. Adesso. Se scappa, ti uccido io stesso," he said into the phone. Bring him here. Now. If he runs, I will kill you myself.

He hung up and turned. He saw me in his t-shirt, hair wet, feet bandaged, no pants, necklace still on, and he stopped talking.

"You are not wearing pants," he said.

"My feet hurt. Pants hurt."

"And you are still wearing my mother's necklace."

"I... I forgot to take it off. Sorry. I'll -"

"Don't take it off," he said quickly. "Keep it on. It looks... good on you. Better than on my mother."

That was a strange compliment, but I kept it on.

He walked to me and handed me a glass of warm milk. Warm milk. Not whiskey. Not wine.

"Drink. For shock. Signora Russo says warm milk is good for shock."

"Do mafia bosses drink warm milk?"

"This mafia boss does when his... when his partner is in shock."

I took the milk and drank. It was warm and sweet with honey.

At exactly 11:47 PM — the same time Marco was killed two years ago — the bedroom door buzzer rang.

BZZZ. BZZZ.

Killian pressed the intercom on the wall. "Si?"

"Mr. Blackwood, it's Marco. From security. We have Enzo Rossi. Luca Moretti brought him. He is downstairs in the kitchen. Bleeding from nose. Luca says he fell. Luca left. Said his hand was cut from glass. Should we..."

"Bring Enzo to my office. Not the kitchen. My office. And call Avvocato Bianchi. Now. Tell him to bring confession papers and a camera. And bring Luca's bloody handkerchief as evidence that Luca was here," Killian ordered in Italian.

"Si, Boss."

He turned off intercom and looked at me.

"Enzo is here. Our witness. One hour, just like I said. Luca kept his deal because he is scared."

"Can I come? To the office? I want to hear him say it again."

Killian looked at my bare legs, my wet hair, his t-shirt that barely covered my thighs, my bandaged feet.

"No. You stay here. You are... you are not decent."

"I am decent! This t-shirt is longer than the maid uniform you made me wear!"

"That maid uniform was decent. This... this is not decent. Because I can see your... and you are wearing my mother's necklace with no pants, and you look like my girlfriend after... after..."

"After what?" I asked, curious.

"After I... Never mind. Stay here. Lock the door. I will be back in 30 minutes with a signed confession. And then tomorrow, we will take that confession and that pier video and we will put my father in prison where he belongs."

He grabbed his gun from the drawer and put it in his pants, and walked to the door.

Before opening, he stopped and turned back.

"Elara," he said.

"Yes?"

"Tonight you were very brave. On the pier. In the garden. Most women would have fainted. You didn't. You screamed for your brother. That was... that was brave. Marco would be proud."

My eyes filled with tears again.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He opened the door and left, locking it from outside with a key. For my protection, not to trap me.

I sat on his huge black bed, in his huge t-shirt, with my bandaged feet, drinking warm milk, wearing his mother's diamond necklace, holding the voice recorder that had my brother's killer's confession.

Outside the window, Lake Como was black and calm. Somewhere out there, near the old pier, my brother was resting with stones on his feet.

But tonight, for the first time in two years, I felt like he was not alone anymore.

Because his sister finally found him. And his boss, the Devil, had fired a gun for him.

And in 30 minutes, we would have a signed confession that would put his killers in jail.

I lay down on Killian's bed, smelling his cologne on the pillow, and waited for my devil to come back with justice.

And I didn't even realize I was smiling until I fell asleep, still wearing his mother's necklace, still holding the recorder, in his bed, safe.

Day 2 of sleeping with the devil, done.

28 days left.