Out of the Dark by April Emerson Page A

wail. “My Roman! And now Fabrizio! Both my loves have been taken from me!” She cries and begins to pull at her hair, crazed with grief.
    I rush to her to try to calm her hysterics. “I feel terrible for you, Bianca, but maybe you’ll see him again. Maybe he’ll come back for you.”
    She looks at my face, studying me almost as though she has never seen me before. “Come back? Come back ? He was murdered! He is dead , Carina! How can he come back?”
    Bianca drops to her knees before me, and I struggle to process what she has just said while I ignore the tickling inside my mind. “That’s not true. That can’t be true.”
    All the traveling Stefan does as a vintner. Why? Why must Rocco always go with him? Why does his business weigh so heavily on him?
    “He’s dead, and your fiancé killed him! That bastard killed my loves!” She’s splayed out on the floor at my feet, covering her own mouth in an effort to stop the traitorous things she is saying.
    She has gone insane. No one is dead. Stefan could never do something like that.
    I try to reason with her, to calm her. “I know you’re upset, but think about what you’re saying. Stefan was in bed with me last night. He would never— could never do that.”
    She rolls into a seated position, leaning against the cupboards. She sobs and nods with a crazed grin on her face. “Oh, you’re right. Of course you’re right. He would never with his own hands! He just gives his permission . He uses his henchman to do his dirty work, and that is who I will wake up to for the rest of my life. I will have to look at Rocco’s bloody hands forever. My loves! They are gone.” She covers her face and sobs.
    How can she say these things? Grief stricken or not . . . Stefan could never be the man she thinks he is.
    “Stefan has been nothing but good to you, you’ve admitted that yourself, Bianca. I feel bad about what’s happened, but you need to get yourself together. You’re not thinking straight.”
    She looks into my eyes as if she’s searching for something. Whatever it is, she doesn’t seem to find it. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Her cries become soft. She wipes her eyes, and it seems a shred of clarity crosses her face.
    “I want you to get this cleaned up, Bianca. I need to make dinner.”

Chapter Eight

    A thought burns in my brain like a little droplet of acid. There’s a gnawing twinge, deep in the back of my mind, in a place I don’t visit often. I attempt to counteract this awful thought with sense, but it refuses to go away. Each time I look at my fiancé, I hear Bianca’s cutting words.
    Is there really so much I don’t know? Could he—no. It’s not possible. Bianca’s accusations can’t be true. I don’t believe her.
    Each time I see her, her perception of my fiancé is reflected back at me, and it makes me feel ill. Nothing remains of the friend I once had.
    She doesn’t speak to me unless necessary. There’s a chill between us where there once was warmth, and I miss our camaraderie. I miss her poignant wisdom and her rare, but striking smile. She’s like a ghost now. There is no laughter in the house. Whether Fabrizio is dead or alive, Bianca is clearly in mourning.
    Each morning I bring her flowers, fresh from the garden, and place them beside her bed. She often sleeps until the middle of the day. When she does leave her bed, she does nothing but mope about and often claims to be sick. Stefan has let her be, but I’ve heard Rocco arguing with her behind closed doors. He seems to expect her to go back to normal, for their marriage to go back to normal, whatever that means. Rocco’s typical, abrasive ways have deteriorated, and I see a man softened by the desire to possess something that will never be his—Bianca’s heart.
    Things have been tough with Fabrizio’s absence. Although Stefan promised to make finding a new chef his priority, he’s been distracted with other things. Work dominates his time, and new