“Cosi, are you in some kind of danger if you go to England?” he ventured, suddenly somber.
“No,” I countered immediately, infusing my voice with a smile. “Only in danger of bringing up a past I would rather keep buried. Do not worry, bello, I’ll be fine.”
I hung up after exchanging more information about the particulars and let my head drop between my shoulders in defeat.
I was an egotistical maniac for going back into the den of my monsters.
More than that, I was a masochistic, fatalistic lamb willingly walking to my slaughter because a small, dark sordid part of me hoped one of those monsters would find me.
“You look fancy,” Giselle said, appearing in the mirror behind me as she leaned against the doorframe and took in my black lingerie and dramatic make-up. “Big plans tonight?”
I slid vermillion red lipstick over the thick curve of my bottom lip and then carefully painted it into the exaggerated bow of my top one. “Nothing too exciting. I’m going out with a friend.”
My sister hesitated, then moved deeper into the room to sit on the edge of my bathtub. “Would that friend happen to be the Mason Matlock?”
I sighed heavily, turning to face her worried expression. “What have you heard about Mason?”
“Just the rumors that he wants to marry you. I didn’t even know you were dating anyone, Cosi,” she said, hurt softening her voice like a bruise.
“I’m not dating Mason. When I first came to the city, he was a good friend to me, and occasionally, when he needs a date to a function, I go with him. As his friend.”
She blinked her huge pale grey eyes at me eloquently, obviously not believing me.
“I know you have your secrets,” she said before pausing for a pregnant moment. “We all do. I’m just saying, if you like this Mason or if he helped you out through our…leaner years, I won’t judge you for having a sugar daddy or whatever.”
Laughter erupted past my lips like champagne, frothing through my fingers as I tried to hold it in. How I wished my secret was as simple as trading my time and some sexual favours for patronage like some muse from the 1800s.
What would my sweet, innocent sister say if she knew I had sold myself through the broker of my father and the mafia we all hated so dearly into sexual slavery?
“Dio santo, Gigi, you have a brilliant imagination,” I told her when I recovered enough to speak.
She shrugged bashfully, pink highlighting her lightly freckled, tanned cheeks. “I’m just trying to be open minded to show you that I don’t care if that’s what you do or even what you like. I think I proved today when I told everyone I wanted to do a show based on human sexuality that I’m not a puritan like Elena, but I just wanted to be sure.”
No, my boho sister wasn’t like my prudish Elena, but she’d also had one lover in her life, and he was a sweet Canadian boy who wouldn’t know bondage and sexual mastery if it kicked him in the balls.
I walked over to take her sweet face in my hands and smooth my thumbs across her high cheekbones. Her gentle, sensual beauty hit me in chest with pride. She had so much to offer the world, her boundless heart and optimism, her artistry and talent. I felt the echo of my sacrifices in my chest as I looked at her as I was reminded once more of her endless potential, and I knew I’d done right by her.
That didn’t mean I was ever going to tell her what I’d done to help her find possibilities in this life.
I pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Ti amo, bambina.”
“I’m not so innocent as a baby anymore, Cosima,” she protested, pushing me back so that she could look into my eyes. “You don’t need to coddle me. What did you mean earlier when you said you’ve been sad, used, dumb, and very nearly dead?”
It was my fault for being so dramatic. Giselle had announced she was doing a sexual study for her next art gallery showing, and my family had exhibited mixed reactions. To show her I was on her side, I’d immediately volunteered to be her first model, and when we had returned home from lunch, I shed my clothes and revealed a few of the secrets punched into my flesh.
I was lucky she hadn’t been able to discern the brand on my buttock, the twin lions roaring beside a shield of gold depicting pearls, thorns, and poppies.
Normal people didn’t voluntarily mar their skin with a red-hot branding iron, and even my considerable imagination was not enough to come up with an excuse for that.
Explaining the evolution of my relationship with my body was simple compared to that quandary.