The first two of the three men enter loudly, shouting and wrestling against their restraints. One is short, not much taller than me, but fills out his button-up shirt with muscle, not fat. The second man is taller, about Talbot’s height, but slim, and he looks to be swimming in his oversized uniform. Both are covered in dirt. It’s on their faces, clothing, and hair, and I smell sweat even though the morning has been crisp. The third man enters slowly, his whole countenance a stark contrast to the first two prisoners.
He’s a touch above average height but not towering. He’s slender but not gaunt, and he looks fit—as though he could run a few laps around a track without losing his breath. He has thick dark hair without a single silver strand giving any clues to his age. His eyes are dark, earnest, and friendly. And though he seems tidier than the other two men, he’s just as muddy.
Agitation buzzes between the first two prisoners. But the third seems composed, collected, cooperative, resigned to the restraints around his wrists, focused on the conflict in front of him.
“è tutta colpa tua,” the short man spits under his breath at the tall one. This is all your fault. The words come through in my mind as clear as if I’d heard them in English.
Italian. The only language spoken in my home for most of my life, at least until my mother went into the hospital.
“Quante volte te lo devo dire? Chiudi la bocca,” the taller one grumbles back. How many times do I have to tell you? Shut your mouth! The strong language puts me on edge.
“Quante volte ti ho detto di smettere di toccare le mie cose?” the shorter man responds. How many times have I told you to stop touching my things?
The tension is building, both men clenching their fists like they long to punctuate their words with action. Talbot and the soldiers seem oblivious as they chat with Judy and stare at the door like they’re waiting for someone else. I scooch even closer to the edge of my seat, wondering if I should alert them that the men look like they’re about to fight.
“Adesso basta.” That’s enough, now. The quiet man still standing in the entrance mumbles in a calm but authoritarian way. Perhaps he’s their commander?
“So che hai preso la foto. Restituiscila.” I know you took the picture. Give it back. The shorter man continues without acknowledging the third man.
“Non ce l’ho! Hai una testa dura.” I don’t have it! You’re stubborn.
Testa dura—literally meaning having a hard head. My father calls my sister that when he catches her wearing her gardening trousers to school or reading her books late into the night.
The calm man interjects again.
“Non ricominciare, Romano. Ti imploro. Te l’ho detto, troverai la tua foto.” Don’t start this again, Romano. I implore you. I told you; we’ll find your picture.
The short man, Romano, takes a deep breath. He wipes his sweaty brow with his bound hands and finally gives in.
“Mi dispiace. Mi dispiace. Mi fido di te.” I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I trust you. He sounds repentant at first but then adds with a touch of hotness, “Lui, non tanto. Ma tu, Trombello? Con la mia vita.” Him, not so much. But you, Trombello? With my life.
As Romano makes a partial bow to the calm one, Trombello, the tall man fires back, “Nessuno vuole vedere la tua ragazza grassa, comunque.” Nobody wants to see your fat girlfriend, anyway.
“Bononcini! Basta!” Trombello chastises when Romano leaps forward, his hand in a fist. In that half a second, Trombello jumps into action, grabbing hefty Romano by the front of his collared shirt, holding him back while also straight-arming Bononcini, who looks ready for the fight.
“Madonna mia!” I squeal, and jump to my feet, seeing the flow of the fight heading in my direction. At the sound of my shout, Trombello, with his hands already full—quite literally—whips his head over his shoulder. We lock eyes for a brief, almost imperceptible moment, and I can see the confusion in them.
I cover my mouth, surprised at my linguistic slip, but my moment of impropriety has its effect. In Trombello’s hesitation, Romano’s fist finds Trombello’s jaw, and a crack that sounds like a dried-out branch breaking slices through the air, louder than the thunder. I recoil and close my eyes, expecting blood.
I hear a rush of loud, aggressive voices speaking in English and the frenzied shuffling of feet from the hall. In that bedlam, the door to the office squeaks open, and the bitter, damp wind touches my cheek.
“What the hell is going on here? Get these men under control and out of here. You’ve got to be shitting me. Whose idea was this?”
My eyes open at the sound of the authoritarian voice. The scene has changed drastically. Guards hold back Romano and Bononcini. Trombello lies facedown on the tiled floor, his mouth bloodied and Talbot’s muddy boot on his back. A thick, middle-aged officer stands by the open front door, not seeming to notice the deluge of rain and cold air rushing in.
This must be Lieutenant Colonel Gammell. The boys I’ve danced with say he’s strict, fastidious, and quick-tempered. I can see why. If he were a Looney Tunes cartoon character, he’d have steam coming from his ears.
His outraged masculine voice makes my chest tighten and my shoulders stiffen. My father’s temper has the same effect on me. I try to be small and silent like I am when my father has an outburst. All the men in the room begin speaking at the same time, starting up the conflict again.
Hunched over, I glance around for an escape route, but all I can see are the outraged faces of angry men, and all I can hear are raised voices in two different languages, combining into a cacophony of confusion and commotion. There’s no escape.
I close my eyes again and try to disappear, hide inside my mind while they fight in front of me. There’s nothing I can do. Because, in this world of war, one nineteen-year-old girl is meaningless.
And just like inside my father’s house and inside Edinburgh, Indiana—I’m stuck.
CHAPTER 3
Elise
Present Day
I-65 Indiana
The brownish-green grass of early spring flashes past my window at a blurry speed of sixty-five miles an hour. The sky is a bright, late-March blue, and it’s warm enough to wear one layer on top of my long-sleeved T-shirt but still chilly enough that I’m not about to roll down my windows and take in the country air.
My flight was delayed by a few hours. Mac had sent me a first-class ticket, and I sat next to a silent businessman who thankfully spared us both from small talk or, God forbid, actual conversation.
When I checked my phone after we touched down, I’d expected the deluge of texts, social media notifications, calendar reminders, and one or two messages from Hunter. I had a few from my assistant and from Conrad, Mac’s assistant, sending over my car rental and hotel reservations. But the one name that didn’t show up was . . . my fiancé’s. I checked at least three more times, wondering if his message had somehow been delayed by my lack of Wi-Fi. But eventually I accept that he hasn’t texted me.
He’s busy, I remind myself. I get it.
But Hunter was the one to greenlight this whole thing. I told my mom no at least ten times before Hunter got involved. Getting married in a small town in Indiana to appease my mom and appear in a Mac Dorman documentary is going to be torture. It’s great PR for my mom and Mac, and this whole engagement has been a huge boost for Hunter’s image—but all this press and attention are a living hell for me.