𝑁𝑂𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑊𝐸 𝐷𝐸𝑆𝐼𝑅𝐸𝐷
the other changretta

In the morning, Dilara woke with a shadow on her curtains. It was a great, hulking black thing, distantly shaped like a person. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the figure of a man against the back of her eyelids, her mind giving it shape and colour, mingling between the blue eyes and pale skin of Tommy and the haunting look of Amir.

At night, the shadow merged with the blackness of night, but she could hear them. Their voices were murmurs, clenching with the howl of wind and spitting of rain, but the accents were distinct and revealing, the indents clear and telling, so much so that soon her own thoughts seemed to take on the song of their words.

Always watching.

There was a devil on her shoulder, watching her each move. Dilara could feel eyes on her even when there were none. Along the street, the windows were as good as any surveillance, the cars that tumbled by holding onlookers that would only see her. The police could make her feel safe no longer, with half of them on Tommy's payroll, and the men that escorted her across the capital began to feel less like guardians and more like prison guards, looming on her heel, the cuffs imagined but real.

It was a wonder that Tommy thought that it could work. She was little better than a prisoner, a songbird kept captive long enough that she was beginning to lose her voice and the very colour of her wings. How long ago those days seemed to be. Those days when mainland Europe was her playground and Amir her guide. On days when the solitude grew so stifling, she almost craved those times with Amir. But in the end, the truth came back to her. She'd traded one cage for another.

Ada had recognised her turmoil and tried to help, paying her visits and becoming her to the quaint townhouse she owned in London, hidden under the guise that she was prodding her for 'intel'. Dila's words would be fed back to Thomas, that much was obvious still, yet Ada's visits were welcomed.

They were all strangled by fear of the black hand. Sometimes, when she thought too hard about how she would find Changretta and draw him out, she could feel the dark stamp close around her throat. It seemed an impossible task- one that would put her in more danger than Amir ever had. These weren't singular players anymore. This was the Sicilian mob, out looking for vengeance. To be caught in their nets meant no mercy. The image took the breath from Dila's lungs.

"How are you finding London?"

Ada's voice snapped Dila from her thoughts easily enough. The question was hollow, the type of small talk that Aunt Mathilde had taught her to loathe.

"Smaller than last I saw of it."

Her eyes found Ada then, watching carefully for the quirk of the other girl's lip that would eventually come. There was understanding behind Ada's gaze, but then came the shake of her head and Dila looked away. Her hands bunched irritably in her skirts, blemishing the pale. She no longer wore black. Instead, her body was bathed in a pale red, the colour a shade away from pink.

"I hear your nights are rather fun," Ada said when Dilara said nothing more.

"Anything to pass the time. Solitude grows tedious," she said. "Especially when your days used to be spent travelling across the continent."

The conversation was as stunted as it usually was. Lorita stayed far from the topic, held at such a distance that there was no chance for Ada to ask about the other women. Something about the young, Italian girl felt homely- as if she'd been plucked fresh from the village and placed purposefully into Dila's palm.

She left Ada's townhouse with a sense of foreboding. When she looked back, Ada was in the window, arms crossed against her chess and eyebrows furrowed. It would be the last she saw of the woman for a while, and she took it as a blessing and a curse.

***

It was almost a relief, feeling the cool, night air against her skin. As Dilara took to the streets of London, the shadows of Tommy's people disappeared, but the black hand around her neck still remained, her breathing shallow. Her playground was dangerous now. She was on her own on enemy ground. 

Not my enemy, a voice spoke in the back of her head, treacherous and quiet, but it had no consequence. Whether the Changrettas were her enemy or not, her task was the same. Dila longed for home.

"Miss Dilara, a pleasure to meet you again. Lorita says you're to take the town with us."

It was Antonio, who spotted her first, a grin already on his face, his delight directed to the girl who hung on his arm. They were toppling from side to side, Lorita's nose dug into his neck, the prettiest of laughs on her lips. They already smelled of alcohol and cigarettes, and Dila wondered if the purplish red on Lorita's lips was wine or lipstick.

"If that's no bother," she said, eyes fluttering as Lorita finally noticed her.

"Of course not. Come, we're starting at the Rose and Crown," Antonio said, his friends leering behind him, but Lorita was already leading her away, a story on her breath.

The establishment in mention was a pub along from the main row of bars Lorita had promised to take her to. Those buildings were glittering and gold, milling with people along the doorways, dressed in flashy clothes and hair short and sleek. The building they headed to first was old and worn, with unplanted flower baskets along the windows, and glass that looked as if it hadn't been washed in centuries. It looked out of place, amongst Lorita and Antonio, and the crowd they'd gathered.

In the corner of the room, there was a fire lit, roaring with great orange flames beneath an ornate hearth, leaving the air with a stifling and humid heat that left her thinking of hot nights at her Aunt's villa. The bar stretched far and wide, and Lorita headed straight for it, curls bouncing across her shoulders as she reached behind the bench to grab two glasses. Crowding around the furthest tables, the rest of the group found their place easily. It all felt too organised. Dilara had never felt so unfitting.

There was no barkeep to hand out drinks. Instead, Lorita reached her arms forward again and pulled out two unmarked bottles from the top-most shelf, and another three clear ones from the middle. In the two glasses, she mixed a few splashes of what Dilara could only assume were spirits and escorted the drinks to the tables.

Only the last snippets of conversation could be heard as the girls made their way back to the group again.

"He wants them to know he's coming-"

Antonio's eyes settled on Lorita, and all conversations disappeared swiftly. His gaze was hungry, like a lion, but held far more love than Amir's thirst ever had. His hands reached out, grabbing Lorita's waist as she twirled toward him, both hands, now emptied of the drinks, landing on his wide shoulders.

"You make me wild, Miss Changretta."

Eyes were all on them, in between the muttering silence, but none looked more than the man at Antonio's side. He was short, his smile narrow and pointed, teeth small and all on show. He wore a fedora, but it was removed from his head, and placed against his lap, revealing dark, gelled hair. 

"Changretta?" Dilara placed herself on the side of her friend, a gentle smile gracing her lips. "How has it taken this long to find out your last name?"

It seemed too good to be true. A gift from God, it was. Both a Sabini and a Changretta within her new circle. She wondered how much Lorita knew, how much she was involved, how close she was with the Luca Changretta that she was forced to find. With the slip of new information, Dilara began to think of Luca. She too wondered if he had a lick of dark brown hair atop his head, if his eyes were a dark, umber brown as hers were. She wondered if he talked with an Italian tilt, or the awkward slant of an American accent.

"It's inconsequential. Changretta won't be my name for long. Soon I'll be Mrs Sabini," Lorita boasted, her lips finding a way to smack a kiss against his neck. A wild hoot came from the table behind him, loud a leering, leaving Antonio hissing out a swear in Italian.
 
"Sounds like music to my ears," he said, attention all on his fiance quick enough.

"Sickingly sweet, isn't it?" Dilara turned toward the words that were directed toward her, finding the man who'd savoured his stairs only moments earlier. He nodded his head in greeting. "Matteo."

"Dilara."

Every instinct told her to look away, to lean back and call for Lorita, drawing her from a lover's embrace. But once again, she saw Italy in his face, in his suit, and in the drink he held in his hand. This would be over as quickly as she commanded it to be. Luca Changretta was the key, and this man might have well been the brick it hid under.

It wasn't until an hour later, when Matteo had left her and they were finally moving onto the bars, that Lorita found her again. Her eyes were alight with excitement, a cigarette hanging from both her lips and her fingers in offering. Dilara took it with a sigh.

"Matteo is a good man," Lorita said, lighting both cigarettes at once. For a moment she seemed to think on her words. "He's about to come into a great deal of money too, which can only help."

Matteo had been questionable in his flirtation tactics. All he seemed to want to talk about was himself. But any chance at another romance had been soured by Amir.

"I'm sure he's wonderful, he's just not..."

"Right?" Lorita suggested, and Dilara could do nothing but nod. "I know you you feel."

"You do?" Her brows furrowed, gaze straying to the man who sat behind her, talking animatedly with his friends. "You seem happy with Antonio."

"Oh, I don't mean him," she said earnestly, seeming to sober up too well. "I went to Paris to find a husband, you know."

Dila's eyebrows rose at that statement. When they'd met in France, she had seemed as if meeting a man was the last thing that was on her mind, with her wild hair and even wilder dancing. Travelling had seemed like something above conventionality to Dilara. Then came Amir, she thought. Amir made her a hypocrite.

"Don't look at me like that," Lorita said quickly, slipping her arm into Dila's. "You know how it is. You had Amir, you can't tell me you never thought about marrying him."

In truth, she hadn't. Marriage seemed a strange concept, one held in chains and locks, perverse in comparison to the freedom they'd experienced in their travels. It didn't help that Amir had never mentioned it, and when he did... Dilara stayed quiet.

"The men in America are different. Mamma wanted me to marry a nice Italian boy, but all the men I knew seemed too familiar. It was Luca who convinced her to let me go with him to Paris," she said, voice calming. "I think he knew all along what I wanted. He found Antonio. But I couldn't wait any longer. Father wanted me married and Luca wasn't getting any younger. He still isn't married."

Luca, Dila thought, of course he is her brother. For a moment, Lorita too was quiet. Then she seemed to brighten again, remembering where she sat and who was with her.

"What I mean to say, is that you will find someone, even if it's where you least expect it. I'll make sure you do," she said, leaning further into her side. The touch made Dilara feel warm. "Perhaps I should put Luca up for the task. He always seems to do everything right."

Matteo's glare cut through Lorita from across the line and left Dilara wondering if he'd heard the entire conversation or just the forlorn dig at her brother. But the night beckoned them forward, ushering them through the doors of the lively bar, graced with the noise of jazz and heavy laughter. Dilara felt giddy, a Changretta on her arm and a Sabini in her midst. Home felt just out of reach, but oh so closer. Lorita seemed to sense her elation, and sent them tumbling through the crowd, feet dancing and twirling to the dark music of the night.

*

Sorry for the delay! I stupidly managed to delete the original version of this chapter and had to rewrite it.
Let me know your thoughts in the comments!