1
GIOVANNI
A few months earlier
“Is someone there?” India’s small voice breaks the silence.
I don’t answer. It’s not like I’m here for conversation.
Outside of this room, security guards are patrolling her apartment, and the entire condo is on lockdown.
My twin has enough to deal with, so me watching over the little girl he adores gives him one less thing to worry about. At least that’s how I’ve mentally justified being the only person allowed in her room.
It’s more or less pitch black in here, even though my wristwatch tells me it’s after midday.
When I first carried India into her bedroom and laid her on the pure white queen size bed, I’d pulled the heavy gold drapes and kept the lights off. Shutting out the world for as long as it would take her to come to terms with the brutal reality.
Since then, I’ve stayed in this dusky pink velvet armchair, content in the darkness around us.
Cotton sheets rustle and the ivory mushroom lamp on her nightstand clicks on. Soft light floods across her comforter, making her bed inviting. India sits upright, wearing her dead brother's t-shirt and rubs big blue eyes with her fingertips.
“Giovanni… you’re still here.” She states, rather than a question.
Her silky blonde hair is messy on one side from hours spent crying into her pillow and her blemish free complexion lacks sunlight.
“Was it a nightmare?” She croaks wishfully, tired and dehydrated. “A bad dream?”
I rise from my seated position at the foot of her bed and walk to the dresser, pouring a glass full of tepid water.
“No, it’s very real.” I tell her. “Reno isn't coming back.”
When I hold the glass out for her, she looks up at me and blinks quietly. Those piercing eyes of hers linger on mine. She’s dauntless in my presence. No sense of fear or even awe for the power I hold. Oddly, I notice a likeness to me within the depths of her stare.
“Where’s Dré?” Her gaze drifts to the shut door at the far end of her room. “And Letterman? Are they okay?”
“They’re fine.” When she accepts the drink, I move back to the armchair.
The same spot I’ve inhabited for seventy-two hours. Except for when I’d showered in her adjoining bathroom while she slept and redressed in the same black utility pants and shirt, my scruff growing thicker.
Silence shrouds the unlit corners and, after a few minutes, she reaches across and turns off the light again.
“How do you do it?” Her soft American accent sparks an unusual rush inside of me.
“Do what?” I reply, doing my best to push down the weird feeling in my chest.
“Survive loneliness.”
“I’m not lonely. The devil lives inside of me. He keeps me company,” I say, my shoulders bouncing lightly.
I hear her sigh and then nothing more than the steady rhythm of my own breathing.
“Maybe I should find a devil of my own.” Her husky words sound sharper, closer.
A slice of daylight streams in through the drapes when they’re suddenly thrown open. India stands in front of the expansive window, a hand pressed to the glass and her face directed toward Miami’s cityscape.
Blazing sunshine halos her elegant silhouette, brightens her long golden hair, and bursts through the slim gap between her slender bare legs.
Somehow the daylight kissing her flesh heightens my senses––my hunter's impulses. The awareness of it sets alight a flame in my groin, the sensation of it too good to explain. A cruel niggle of warmth nudges my heart from out of its cold grave.
