Metanoia

“What’s wrong?” my brother sat up worriedly on the bed. He was startled by my abruptness and confusion, “What’s the rush?”

I slowly exhaled through my mouth and lowered my trembling hands. My panic was a bad sign and an even worse example to those around me; I needed to pull myself together so that the others could feel safe and trust me, I needed to take control of the situation. There was a discreet knock at the door, which I ignored.

“Unexpected guests,” I replied briefly and coldly, changing my face as Lynette entered the room. To avoid any unnecessary dialogue with her, I told my brother to “get your things” and then went into the kitchen to get a drink of water.

The girl followed me as I took my phone from my pocket and checked the message I had received.

“Jensen’s not going anywhere,” Lynette said in a desperate tone (whether from adrenaline or fear) that made me stop in place, my back to her, close my eyes and exhale noisily. A little more and my nerves would be like the strings of a violin, with others playing more aggressively than Vivaldi, “you can’t make it go away”.

I angrily threw the phone on the table, causing it to bang with a violent sound, and turned to the girl, “You,” I hissed, “and Jensen,” out of the corner of my eye I saw Dante and Jensen enter the kitchen, cautiously watching what was happening, “you will do as I say,” I waved her away, looking up to meet my brother’s tired gaze as he slowly walked into the room.

“It’s dangerous,” Lynette continued, speaking quickly, “if the pressure drops, he’ll have to amputate his arm,” she gestured modestly, nervously nibbling at her lips, “why can’t we go back to our house? The place she lived with Jensen was the Wollstonecraft family mansion where we’d grown up.

“Enough,” I shouted, looking into her frightened green eyes and trembling shoulders, “where are the guards that protected you in the castle, Lynette? Where are they? Every last one of them is dead!”

“Alana,” Jensen jerked sharply in an impulse to protect his wife, but also quickly grabbed his arm. His tone urged me to show her more respect, but my mind was on nothing but the approaching Liam Weber.

Leaning close to the girl’s ear, I hissed in a measured and unyielding manner, concentrating all the power and authority in my voice, threatening as if my every word was a bolt of lightning: “People obey my orders, do not argue with them.”

Dante, unfamiliar with the dialogue, turned his head towards my brother and frowned suspiciously, “Your hand,” the man said briefly, stepping closer.

I looked at Jensen, the previously white bandage on his shoulder slowly turning red. His wound had opened. Lynette sprang to her feet and took the man into the bedroom, where the first-aid kit was, while I turned back irritated, my hands over my head. “Think, Alana,” I said, my mind spinning relentlessly; as I pressed my cold fingers to my forehead, I could feel my temples throbbing hard from trying unsuccessfully to come up with a solution to all the problems – if I’d hoped for a quick recovery earlier, allowing Jensen to reschedule his flight to Naples, I wasn’t so sure now that the situation was different. I had to get back to Amalfi as a matter of urgency, for the place was now threatened by Weber’s appearance and my absence, especially as Antonio could no longer manage my territory. Leaving the country had already put Jensen’s restaurant and bar in jeopardy, but having my brother in London without my protection would make him easy prey, with Liam’s whereabouts unknown. Biting my lip, I grabbed my phone from the table and sprinted from my seat, darting past Dante.

Still feeling a terrible heartbeat, I ran up the stairs to the second floor, passed several rooms and went into my bedroom. Several things were lying in various corners. Throwing the phone onto the soft bed, I took the suitcase Thomas had brought from the castle from under the table. I quickly threw my things into it and looked at the clock, which read six in the evening. My anger knew no bounds and the emotion overwhelmed my insides, causing my hands to shake violently and things to fall out of the case. I cursed loudly, kicked my clothes off the bed, rested my palms on the soft covers and breathed hard. My heartbeat pounded in my ears and I had to slowly stretch my neck so that the bout of uncontrolled aggression would pass. Before my eyes it slowly began to darken, the air began to run out, I wanted to ruin everything around me, to destroy. It seemed to me that at any moment the ground might give way beneath my feet. My head was dizzy, but I tried to control my aggressive impulses. Suddenly a warm hand fell on my lower back, and in a fit of self-defence I quickly grabbed it, but the man was ahead of me.

“Calm down,” Dante said, squeezing my wrists tightly to stop me pulling away.

It was the first time a man had ever been so close to me. Despite the constant cold that surrounded him, his fingers were rough but warm. The strength of his hands could have easily broken my thin, bony wrists, but Dante had no such intention – he wanted to stop my emotional actions, perhaps even to protect me from myself. For the first time, his eyes were so close – they seemed so dark now, reminiscent of bitter chocolate – that they stared stubbornly into mine, trying to convey unknown information to me.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” I said roughly, trying to pull my hands out of his grasp, but failing. I hated the commanding tone; it made me do impulsive things, which was a good way to manipulate me. The man tugged sharply at my arms, pulling me closer, but my angry glare, furrowed brow and flared nostrils continued to wage an invisible battle against his icy mystery.

“Anger makes you stupid,” he said stubbornly but distantly, “stupidity gets you killed.

For a moment, everything around us stopped. We walked on in silence, breathing heavily, glaring at each other with our mysterious eyes. I could hardly understand Dante, the reasons for his actions and such impulses to silence my emotions, to stop me from fighting, but the force with which he gripped my wrists, the look with which he stared into my soul, frightened me, I did not like such intimacy – perhaps because I saw in his eyes the reflection of my own war I was waging in my head and heart.

“Don’t forget who you’re talking to,” I whispered, closing my eyes and trying to control my breathing. I clenched my palms, still held by the man, into fists, returning to the familiar state where I was responsible for the safety of a hundred people and De Rosso was suspected of being an accomplice.

“You’re welcome,” he loosened his grip, allowing me to free my wrists and get a lung full of air.

“You can go,” I looked at the chaos in the room, realising that I was the cause of it. My heart was still racing and I tried not to look in the direction of the man who continued to study my body with cold interest.

“This is the second time you’ve argued with Lynette,” the man began, and I exhaled tiredly.

“I don’t need your guidance,” I replied sharply.

“I’m not going to give you psychological help,” he continued the dialogue in the same cold way, only this time I didn’t look up at him, “you’re worried about Jensen’s safety.”

“Yes, but if you, like Lynette, think the flight could be dangerous for him, then you have a rather strange idea of caring.”

“Strange?” a sincere, muffled laugh burst from his chest, “That’s not the problem. You and Lynette,” Dante pointed out, “have radically different ideas about caring, which is why you fight.”

I rubbed my face wearily, pressing hard against my eyeballs. My blood was boiling in my head – the last thing I wanted right now was to have a relationship with my brother’s wife, in whom I had no interest; Jensen hadn’t deigned to introduce us before the wedding, to inform me in any way; he had no right to demand that I have a positive relationship with her; he must be glad that our father was dead, or he would never have allowed a woman from outside the ‘family’ to marry him.

“I give you my word that Jensen will be fine,” Dante said slowly, crossing his arms over his chest, “I will take care of his health and the bar.

Clenching my lower lip with my teeth, I added, “Thomas will stay with you.”

I needed a permanent deputy, especially in a crisis like this, but my brother’s safety was my priority at the moment; in Italy I would be busy with business, while Thomas would be my eyes here, alerting me to any changes in Jensen’s health or the state of the restaurant and bar. In Amalfi, I’ll take care of things myself.

“Thank you,” I nodded, “for everything,” I circled my finger in the air, hinting at his attempts to reassure me.

The man looked at me, nodded and left the room. I was alone. I sat there for a few more minutes, got out of bed, picked up my clothes from the floor and continued packing my suitcase. My intentions towards Dante were not based on trust; I was forced to pretend to initiate him into the details of my work – since the man himself was unwilling to admit what Jensen had revealed about the family business, I reasoned that my brother was sharing all the information with his new friend, which meant his actions were putting us at risk. Liam’s associates could be anywhere, and even if my suspicions didn’t pan out, I couldn’t be sure that there weren’t traitors in my own circle. It would be better if, for the time being, I could keep Weber’s return to London a secret not only from De Rosso but also from my own brother.

The warm evening air of Naples gently enveloped the exposed areas of my body, spreading the pleasant scent of flowers on what I, stepping out of the small plane onto the street, only closed my eyes, raising my face to the cloudy sky. The clatter of my heels disappeared amidst the noise of the vehicles around me – people flying in, flying out, flying out – while I stood silently a few metres from the stairs, distinctly aware of a moment of emptiness in my head, when not a single thought entered and nothing bothered me. Exhaling softly, I smiled softly, lifting the corners of my lips slightly – Naples was not my homeland, it was the place where my father was blood-born and I found a chance at a new life, he found himself exiled, while I chose to leave on my own. I didn’t say goodbye to my brother, in general I left Dante’s house silently, having previously indicated a plan of action to Thomas; I didn’t want to meet anyone from that house, knowing that Lynette would do the opposite, that I would get angry and have a fight later, that Jensen would be like running between two fires from his sister to his wife. The steward carefully placed my suitcase and bag near the stairs, which made me open my eyes as I noticed the black SUV approaching the plane. Antonio made sure his guards picked me up and brought me to the hotel.

The Neapolitan scenery caressed my tired eyes as I stared out the streets through the tinted windows. I’d managed to sleep on the plane, but I felt worse after my encounter with the mercenary in Jensen’s bar – as if my head had been buried deep in the sand for hours – London had taken its toll on my already frayed nerves. Slowly blinking, as if wiping fatigue from my short eyelashes, I noticed the fanciful buildings approaching, one of which was Antonio’s hotel. The driver turned the wheel toward the driveway at the main entrance, stopping. So I noticed a familiar man of medium height whose charcoal-black hair of medium length stood out against the solid white walls; he wore an informal (typical Pelegatti) suit with a light top and a gray bottom, the top buttons of his shirt undone with a few hairs sticking out.

“My beautiful Alana,” he said loudly in italian, opening his arms for a hug when I just stepped on the stone tiles with my heels. I could hardly restrain a smile, but came closer to the man, hugging him tightly by the neck, his chin resting on my shoulder, “I missed you so much,” he whispered in my ear, stroking my shoulder blades.

“Stop this affection,” I answered frowningly, taking a step back.

“Britain kills all the senses in you,” Antonio said offendedly, but waving to his people to take my things to the room, he stretched out his hand forward, offering to walk.

“Trust me, London has nothing to do with it,” I gasped, “the enemies will kill me faster than British conservatism.”

“Italian blood wins in you,” he chuckled.

“I’m only a quarter Italian.”

Antonio Peligatti was, in my eyes, the epitome of Italy – a relaxed, stylish and sophisticated man who preferred to do business when his heart called and who completely denied my cold mind. He had broad shoulders, the result of constant wrestling, although he lacked muscle, which did not prevent his popularity with women from growing (most often using his favourite tactic of flirting with his water-blue eyes and what I thought was a funny twitch of his moustache). Antonio’s lifestyle matched his appearance – he didn’t care too much about what was going on around him, which made him overly concerned with his personality, but nothing was a priority for Pelegatti like his mother. He would rather kill himself than leave her.

“I didn’t think so when we first met”, Antonio opens the door to his office. Nothing has changed in the room: dark wallpaper, dark parquet, paintings of modern art. I ran my fingertips along a wooden table on which stood a computer and several cigars on a stand.

“You didn’t reveal the details of the case while I was busy,” I said, sitting down in a soft leather chair, Antonio sitting at his desk, one leg crossed over the other. A glass of whisky was quickly in his hands.

“There is nothing special to reveal,” he lifted the glass, hinting at the alcohol, and twirled it a little. Antonio knew I was not allowed to drink, “You have been away for several days,” he said calmly, taking a small sip of the drink, “everything is in order with your territory, there have been no raids, the deliveries have been made on time, the money is in the accounts.”

I breathed out imperceptibly, hiding my relief. The fact that Antonio was doing his job made me very happy. But the man continued to tap the arm of his chair with a measured finger. He was lying.

“What about Naples?” I asked, looking straight into his eyes, and the man swallowed. He smiled, pursed his lips and put down his glass.

“And my territory is no concern of yours, my love.”

I glanced warily at Antonio’s face, noticing that he was looking down at the floor when he said that last sentence – the man often did that when he didn’t want the others to know. I chuckled, getting up from the chair and resting my palms on the wooden table.

“Yes,” I replied, “is that why you’re lying to me?”

The smile faded from his face and his gaze immediately turned serious. At first Antonio looked away from my face and stared intently at the painting on the right, then, clenching his jaw, he stood up and came closer to me. He put his hands in his pockets and licked his lips before answering me:

“Liam showed up,” Pelegatti said quietly, afraid of my reaction. I exhaled heavily and rolled my eyes.

“I know he’s back,” I said harshly, resting my hips on the wooden table so that the man was standing directly in front of me, the tight fabric of his jacket touching the bare skin of my shoulders, “he organised the attack on the castle where my brother and his wife were,” I spat out the words like poison, “I think he set the restaurant on fire.”

“How is Jensen?” Antonio tilted his head towards my face, his forehead furrowed in anger.

“Alive and possibly hating me,” I crossed my arms over my chest and shrugged tiredly, “he took a bullet that I had to remove myself,” Pelegatti placed his left hand on the table behind me and leaned closer, “Lynette fought me, told me not to take Jensen to Amalfi, pressure, amputation, blah blah,” I said irritably, “eventually the wound opened and I had to leave Thomas with them.

Antonio sighed heavily, clearly overwhelmed by the information I had just given him.

“It could have been worse,” he said uncertainly. The man moved closer to the table, leaning his face against mine as I continued to watch his actions without emotion.

“Are you an idiot?” I asked quietly, raising my weary gaze to his blue eyes, which he instantly rolled back.

“Do you have to be so insensitive? I only want to support you,” he began to get indignant in Italian, Antonio throwing his hands up reluctantly, “when are you going to agree to marry me, Alana? I’ve been asking for your hand for so many years and you keep refusing.

Leaning my cold palm against his cheek, I stroked his moustache carelessly, “When will your mummy let you marry me,” I pursed my lips in feigned sympathy before pulling my hips away from my desk and heading for the exit of the office, “I need to rest.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” the man began to play up the drama, holding up his index finger and leaning against his chest. I stopped paying attention to him.

Antonio’s attempts to get me into bed hadn’t stopped since we’d met, but I was glad he understood that it would never happen – he liked his relaxation, and besides, he’d never marry anyone his mother didn’t approve of. I was too complicated for him.

I put my hands in my pockets and walked slowly out of the office to the lift that took me to the top floor. The room was open, the key on the table next to the coffee machine. The setting sun reflected in the glass and a warm breeze came in through the open balcony door. I sat down on one of the green sofas to the right of the entrance and covered my face with my hand, rubbing my eyes and smearing my make-up. I was damn tired.

There was a mirror in front of me in which I looked at my reflection and saw a woman with a painful skin colour, bright bruises under her eyes, dry lips, I was like Salvador Dali’s “Permanent Memory”, spreading like Camembert in the sun, which inspired the artist. Smiling sadly, I unconsciously remembered myself a few years ago. I looked exactly the same then.

“No! Don’t touch me,” I shouted as loudly as I could, hoping that the nurses would stop wringing my hands until my back hurt. Again I refused to take the pills the psychiatrist had prescribed. They made me worse. My face was flushed with tears, and my eyes were red from burst capillaries. Blood began to flow from my nose, dripping onto my clothes, “Please! Enough!” I choked on my own sobs, swallowing blood, “Stop!” four orderlies grabbed my limbs and began to tie them to the bed.

Once again there was nothing I could do. It was exactly two months and three days since I had been admitted to a London psychiatric hospital. They did not cure me. They tortured me.

“Open your mouth,” one of the nurses asked me quietly, bringing several pills to my lips. I furrowed my brow in despair and shook my head. I sobbed as one of the men squeezed my neck hard, restricting my access to oxygen. I had to open my mouth and the pills went into my mouth, “now go to sleep,” the girl said in the same soft voice, stroking my hair.

They tried a new treatment on me, new pills that only made things worse. The antipsychotics caused me the worst side effects, they made my skin look bad, my head ached all the time, I wanted to sleep, some pills made me want to have sex. The psychiatrist saved me from aggression and drove me into a terrible apathy, and psychotherapy seemed like an empty phrase. The orderlies and the nurse left, but they didn’t untie me, my limbs hurt. I closed my eyes and dreamed of liberation, of a better life, of a family, and I was glad that I wasn’t going to be subjected to electroconvulsive therapy or similar torture. And then I would wake up and everything would repeat itself over and over again. The constancy of boundless pain and devastation exposed my mind to constant reflection on what was going on around me, which became much harder to do. My speech was not as beautiful as before, I often confused words, used the wrong meaning, missed letters; my voice became hoarse from the violent, almost daily screaming that accompanied taking the pills. It was a very strange feeling, a violation of my boundaries: before people did not try to penetrate my body by force, now the staff had every right to do so, they were doing the psychiatrist’s bidding. The helplessness and defencelessness created an inner discomfort and distrust in everyone around me, a disgust not only with myself but with the world – with my brother who had locked me in the asylum, with the nurses who forced pills down my throat, with myself.

The doctor didn’t help me. In truth he was a complete idiot, using his personal technique as a one-size-fits-all approach to his patients, completely forgetting that in suppressing aggression he had to add medication to avoid apathy. The psychiatric hospital was indeed hell; I couldn’t imagine any place on earth that would destroy so much of what is alive in a human being, using him instead as a guinea pig to test treatments. I never prayed, though I tried to remember Inessa taking me to church – I didn’t remember much of my life, I had my memory wiped, which I’m still trying to recover. After I was discharged, I never went back to therapy or took medication, I never went to a specialist or expressed my feelings, I still couldn’t admit that living with this illness was too hard for me, even though I don’t know what I was like before. I knew I could succumb to my emotions, I knew what it could lead to – people around me would suffer, people I cared about could be hurt, the consequences could be irreversible. I could end up back in a mental institution and never get out. But I became a completely different person when I was released, just because I was able to pick myself up in pieces, without God, without faith, without family – I was alone. I had re-created myself and there was no way I was going back to that hell.

Family mansion

Through my closed eyes I felt the cold sea breeze ripple, unfold and flirt with the sheer tulle separating my bedroom from the open door. Large raindrops fell, hitting the floor and furniture on the balcony, spreading moisture throughout the room I’d lived in for the past year. Antonio’s father had started the hotel business (the hotel where Pelegatti had put me up when I arrived in Naples was his father’s legacy) and years later I decided to build my own in Amalfi. It seemed a promising idea because the coast was very popular with tourists who wanted to wake up with a view of the sea, walk up the stairs carved into the rock, visit the roof gardens – the town itself is quite small, so my job was to do my best to ensure that visitors not only stayed as long as possible, but returned again and again. In my hotel, I have combined classical architecture, which allows people to enjoy the picturesque views while having a cup of coffee at breakfast or dinner, expensive furniture made of high quality materials and decorated with harmonious details, with the Italian spirit, which means passion for life, love of beauty, art and food; every millimetre of this building was the embodiment of the uniqueness of language and music, cinema and fashion, design and cooking. My father once created his oasis in London to make exiled people feel at home. I wanted people to see Amalfi as I see it – quiet, free, vibrant, alive.

I opened my eyes slowly, sinking into the familiar greyness of the past few days. My hotel room was large, or rather, it was a combination of several rooms – a bedroom, a bathroom, and an office. My body was pinned to the bed with a plaid, as I had been too tired last night to spread the blanket and remove the decorative pillows; leaving the door to the balcony fully open, I fell asleep to the sounds of rain and crashing waves, I think I even heard seagulls. I closed my eyes again, listening to the steady beat of the drops, so unremarkable but significant – the overcast weather had not left Amalfi since my arrival. I threw off my thick blanket and got out of the soft bed, heading barefoot to the balcony, where the cold wind instantly blew my hair; my silk pyjamas were immediately wet, making large stains, but I continued to breathe deeply of the sea air, watching the city from high above, as I could see it. The streets were empty. Tourists preferred not to leave the confines of the hotel in this weather, and the locals stayed in their homes, only the rough raindrops cutting through the stones.

Six hours ago, just as I was about to fall asleep, Thomas had sent me a message saying that Jensen and Lynette had left for Naples. I couldn’t stop worrying about my brother’s safety; the week I’d spent away from him had kept me guessing about Weber’s next move, and even though my deputy was keeping me updated not only on the situation at Dante’s house but also on business, I felt uncomfortable, out of place, not in complete control of what was going on. Liam hadn’t turned up: not a single trace, not a single clue – apart from the dead mercenary’s words, I had nothing; he’d disappeared as suddenly as he’d appeared, which sometimes made me doubt that the man had ever been involved in a shooting or arson. But Thomas had managed to locate Vincent Boyd, the man who had organised the attack on the castle; he was in Thailand, and all that remained was to get the exact address, after which I would be able to catch the man and get Weber through him.