Imperfect Forgery: (A Dark Romantic Suspense) Read online

I hear my name, the tone graver now, but I don't quit. This is more important than whatever is bugging him. "Man, she played me; she made me open my heart to her and—"

  "Shut the fuck up!" Greg’s face turns red. Everybody stares in our direction, but he does not seem to register anything – his stare is locked onto me. "I don't give a shit about your heart! All I want is to hear the bones of your nose crack as I break it!"

  Catherine steps out of her office to observe what is going on.

  Wish I knew! What the hell has gotten into that man?

  He silences me before I get to ask. "Don't you dare mention your petty dilemmas," he continues in a lower tone. "I spent hours in the hospital, watching doctors struggle to save a life. After seeing her blood-shot eyes, her bruised and cut body, after listening to her gurgled breathing... Damn it!" Greg clutches my shirt in his fists and pulls me closer. "I want to smash your pretty face till it resembles hers, you selfish little prick! You are not getting anywhere near this case again! You are not getting anywhere near Lavinia again if she makes it!" He pushes me away, and I nearly stumble over somebody's chair.

  I don't try to retain my balance – I plummet to the floor, Gregory's last words ricocheting in my mind. 'If she makes it'... I have no idea what I feel this moment, besides for the sickening and choking fear crawling up to my throat, its icy claws gripping my neck tight and squeezing the life out of me.

  Time stops.

  The whole fucking world around me vanishes as I sink deeper into the floor. Then a switch flips – I am raging fury, destroying the precinct until somebody tackles me to the ground and keeps me pinned.

  "David, calm down!" Gregory uses his entire body weight to prevent me from lashing out again, only no punches follow. I deserve those. Fuck, I deserve far worse. I should be thrown half-dead somewhere in the Saharan desert, left for the vultures to feast on my expiring body.

  Even then, it would be far from enough.

  A savage yell leaves my mouth and bounces off the walls slamming back into me. Gregory holds me tight, my wet face pressed to his chest. I am crying in front of the room full of cops, and I could not give less shit about it.

  It is my fault! I threw her out. "Fuck!!!!"

  "I'm sorry, man." Greg still doesn't release me. "I'm sorry I lashed out on you like that... I should have found a better way to tell you... I was just so pissed... The way she looked—" His voice breaks.

  I free myself from Greg's grip. "Tell me!"

  "I don't know where to begin, man..." He slowly rises to his feet.

  "Where is she?" I cannot shake off the image of her running out in my T-shirt. Did I send her straight into the hands of some psycho?

  "The ER of the Chicago—"

  "What?!" More clammy fingers wrap around my neck. "She is in Chicago?"

  "Yes. Somebody brought her to the ER early in the morning. The guy didn't say his name; he just told the nurses to contact you. He gave them your full name and credentials. When your phone was unreachable, he told them to contact me, but the man vanished before I or the other cops showed up."

  A wrecking ball slams into my gut with suspicion too horrid to put into words. "How did the man who brought her in look?"

  "Young, dark hair, tall..."

  "Mauro..." I growl. "Greg, I want to see her."

  "I don't think it's a good idea, David. She... It's not the image you want stuck in your head..."

  "It is precisely the image I want stuck! I need to learn what that psycho did to her, so I don't hesitate to kill him when I get my hands on the mother fucker!"

  "Who? The Mauro guy?"

  "No," I say with certainty. "Her father."

  Greg's mouth drops open. He says nothing. He doesn't need to say anything for me to understand what goes through his mind. The similar look took over Gregory's face when Lucas announced he would go after his father's killers personally. He did not approve, but he was not going to stop Lucas from whatever the guy was up to.

  "Let's go then." Gregory extends his arm to help me stand up.

  I grab his wrist and jump to my feet. "There's somewhere we should go before."

  ∞∞∞

  "Piece of cake," Greg says with zero satisfaction in his voice after he picks the lock to Lava and Mauro’s place.

  A short search of the plain apartment confirms Mauro is on the run, and I am almost certain it is not the police he is running away from. His clothes are missing, and so are his personal items from the sterile white bathroom. The only proof anyone lived here is Lava's belongings. Without even thinking, I pick up the shampoo bottle and inhale the exotic perfume deep into my lungs. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was drowning in the intoxicating scent of her beautiful curls. Her laughter was my favorite melody, and the warmth of her body was all I could focus on. Now, all I can think of is the woman I betrayed, fighting for her life in the hospital bed. I am terrified to witness what my blind rage led to.

  Greg's voice comes from somewhere in the apartment. "David, you have to see this!"

  I take one more breath, put down the bottle, and walk toward the narrow round staircase and climb it to where I suspect his voice came from.

  The moment I step a foot inside the darkened room upstairs, my blood turns to ice. "Holy crap!"

  Those are the only words I can come up with while staring at the canvas in the middle of the room. Gregory stands next to it, holding a white cloth that was presumably covering the same painting Silverstone reported stolen.

  "Is that—?"

  "No," Greg replies before I even finish my question. "I can still smell the paint. It is fresh, but besides that, I would not be able to tell the difference. Would you? I mean, you are more of an art expert."

  "To be honest, I didn't pay much attention to the piece stolen from Silverstone, but I'd be damned if this is anything less than perfect." I lean closer to the canvas. Greg was right; it still smells of paint. The painting needs to be aged first to stand a chance of being mistaken for the original, but every single stroke of the brush is impeccable. "Another flawless forgery... Bloody hell!"

  I stare at Greg, unable to pronounce my shocking revelation.

  He does it for me. "Lavinia is the artist. Now I understand why she didn't say a word. She is directly involved."

  "Her behavior makes so much more sense now," I say, snapping a photo with my phone. "I bet Beltrani is behind the heist and Evelyn's murder... Shit, I can't even begin to imagine what he did to achieve this level of obedient silence from Lava."

  "Yeah, that image of her in the interrogation room is not something I will soon forget. But this doesn't make sense. Why would he try to kill his, excuse my choice of words, golden goose?"

  Greg's question evokes a shiver between my shoulders.

  ‘I need to go back…’

  ‘And after the weekend?’

  I never realized the sacrifice she was making.

  "Because of me." I stare at the floor, unwilling to let my friend witness my eyes moistening. "Because she ran away with me... This is my fault... I assured Lava she could stay with me..."

  "You had no idea." Greg puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. "There were plenty of reasons to question her motives. After what we just discovered, you were correct to hesitate."

  "No!" I cut him short. "She did not betray me – I betrayed her. I had no right to throw her out into the night. I had no right to call her a—"

  I called her a slut...

  'And nobody ever saves one.'

  I swore that I would, but failed miserably at the first trial.

  "Yes, you fucked up." Greg sighs. "Now you can either soak in self-pity or do something to amend for your sins and punish those who hurt her."

  "You're right." I take the cloth from Greg and cover the canvas before exiting the apartment. "But first, I need to beg for forgiveness and prepare myself never to be absolved."

  On the way to the hospital, I am unable to shoo away nagging thoughts of what I could have done differently. I should have
listened. Made her stay. What makes me better than the bastard Beltrani?

  I don't recall how we get to her room. A police guard greets us outside the door, his face grey, and eyes red. My heart sinks with the notion that the sight of her affected a complete stranger.

  "Ready?" Gregory asks, and I nod, swallowing a lump threatening to choke me. "Try to stay calm, bro. Lavinia was unconscious when I left her this morning. She might still be."

  "Don't call her that!" I glare at my confused friend, so I explain further, "She doesn't like to be called Lavinia."

  Greg nods and opens the door for me to walk in first. A doctor stands by her bedside. Gregory exchanges some words with her, but I cannot catch them. All I notice is the blood-chilling form of the woman I failed to protect.

  'I trust you,' she told me, and I crushed her faith in me to dust.

  "What have I done?" I whisper, trying to ignore the surge of wrath flowing through my veins at the sight of her pale, bruised face, and the tubes sticking out of her mouth, sucking the bloody liquid out.

  The son of a bitch struck her in the face splitting her lower lip, but otherwise left it untouched. What was going on through his sick mind? Did he want me to recognize her body?

  The rest of her silky skin, though… Fuck… A white hospital gown and a blanket cover most of it, but every inch of her exposed body is bruised blue and red, dried droplets of blood coating the numerous jagged cuts. Her wrists are abraded and dark.

  I reach for the blanket, my hands visibly trembling.

  "Don't." The doctor stops me. I finally turn to look at the woman. She is probably my age. Her blond hair is braided to one side, reminding me of Lava's hairdo the first time I saw her. Her moist eyes and grim expression tell me enough about what I would see.

  Nevertheless, I do need to know. "Then tell me."

  She hands me the report instead. As I skim through the detailed description of each and every one of her countless bruises, abrasions, and lacerations, horrific images flood my brain. The hell she had to go through all alone!

  'Internal bruising and bleeding consistent with repeated sexual assault...' My vision turns dark after reading this, but it only gets worse from there.

  'Her mouth and throat sustained multiple injuries,' the report says further. As I read about the nature of those injuries, all I can think of is Lava's voice the second time she called me. 'It was not a good time,' she told me back then. Every detail pieces together. Her panicked state when she was trying to reach Mauro, her absence the coming week, the hoarseness I assumed to be due to catching a cold, her sadness... The all-paralyzing fear of the man...

  My fingers tighten around the cold metal bar at the foot of Lava's bed. "I am going to rip his heart out!"

  The doctor watches me, undisturbed by my outburst. "I am not saying this to you as a doctor; but as a woman, I hope whoever did this dies an exceptionally prolonged and painful death."

  "He will, believe me," I assure her, focusing on the remainder of the statement. What I learn next turns my blood to the temperature of molten lava, burning deep holes in my heart. "Damaged vocal cords and trachea. Fluids in her lungs," I read aloud. "Does this mean he tried to drown her?"

  The doctor exhales slowly. "Not exactly. I'm afraid she was being tortured… With water."

  "What the fuck?!" Greg loses his cool.

  Her fear of water...

  "No, I am not going to rip his heart out," I say, looking at Lava. "I am going to cut his balls with a blunt scissor, stuff them into his throat, and let this fucker choke on his package."

  I drop to my knees beside the bed and slide my hand under hers. "My beautiful... I don't deserve the right to ask you to forgive me. If I had only listened to you, you wouldn't be here now."

  "There is something else you should know." The doctor's eyes glisten with tears. "Her injuries are not all freshly inflicted."

  "You mean she has been through this before?" Greg cannot hide his shock. Unfortunately, this comes as no surprise to me.

  The doctor nods. "More than once, I'd assume. Oh, and you should know," she adds, "there are no medical records of her at all."

  "She told me she grew up somewhere deep in the countryside. Would this explain the lack of records?" I rise to my feet.

  "I'm afraid not. As I said, she had sustained previous injuries; some of them were quite serious, like broken bones. It is obvious by looking at the perfect state of her teeth that she had visited dental professionals regularly. Yet there are no documents, no medical history of anybody by the name Lavinia Beltrani. Had your colleague not identify her, she would be a Jane Doe."

  My eyes travel from her to Greg, and then back to the doctor, and I sense we reach the exact conclusion.

  "Doctor Platter," Greg addresses her, and only now I read the tag with a name "Eleanor Platter" on her scrubs. "Is it too late to adjust her identity? I believe I made a mistake earlier. My partner is convinced the young woman in your care is not Lavinia Beltrani, and after taking another look at her, I agree with him."

  Doctor Platter smiles for the first time since we walked in. "I understand. The situation was stressful, and the patient was covered in blood when you identified her. It is quite plausible you mistook this woman for somebody else."

  "Thank you," I say, returning the examination report to her. "Her life might still be in danger. It is best if she remains a Jane Doe for as long as possible."

  A knock interrupts our conversation, and the door opens immediately after. A large bald man and a thin black-haired woman, both in their mid-forties, walk in. I immediately recognize the SVU detectives Foster and Reynolds I had met outside the station before.

  Close call. Another minute and Lava's identity could have been exposed. She was not supposed to survive this torture, that much I can tell. If that bastard finds her, with all his connections, he will regain control over her again in no time.

  I failed her once, and I am not going to repeat the same mistake. If Beltrani dares to set foot inside this hospital, he will have to go through me first!

  After the initial greetings, the doctor invites the detectives to wait in her office while she prints a copy of Jane Doe's full examination report.

  The SVU detectives eye us, probably trying to grasp the reasons for a homicide detective and a private consultant to be in the rape victim's hospital room. Before they ask any question, Greg politely offers to walk with them and tell them about the strange request from the man who brought the victim to the hospital.

  "Greg," I call him over before he closes the door. "I am not leaving her side until she regains consciousness to tell her story. But there's a problem. The moment the DNA results from her rape kit..." I cannot finish my sentence in a steady voice.

  "Oh man… You didn't use protection?"

  I shake my head. "No. We got careless at first, but later I saw no reason to. She had a birth control implant. It's not like I could have predicted any of this."

  "And your DNA is in the system after the shooting. You know you'll need to come forward. The longer you wait..."

  "I know, but I can't imagine leaving her to fight for her life alone. Not when she's here because of me."

  "Okay, I'll try to buy you time. After all, she is now a Jane Doe, so your connection to her is still off the records. But you better talk to them," he points toward the door, "before the results come back with your name flashing red."

  I nod, and we shake hands. When Greg closes the door behind him, I pull a chair closer to Lava's bed, take her hand in mine, and begin retelling her all the stories she enjoyed listening to.

  Chapter 12

  Lavinia

  Death must genuinely hate me... I cannot move. Every limb of my body feels alien and numb, and my eyelids weigh a ton, but the blackness surrounding me is a cruel trick of fate.

  I am not deaf – the rhythmic beeping is impossible to ignore. It is mocking my wish to die with every sound it makes.

  I am still alive, and judging by the noises, I am at the h
ospital.

  Why?

  How?

  No matter how serious my injuries were after his punishment sessions, Silvio never took me to hospital. He sure as hell was not planning to do so this time.

  Mauro...

  The recollections of the night shroud behind the veil of haze and blur, but the image of Mauro crying and reaching for me must be real. He saved my life, only I did not want to live anymore.

  I still don't.

  The notion of Mauro defying his father means nothing to me now. He deprived me of death. Again, I didn't get to choose.

  Why can I never die?

  Why am I cursed to remain in this never-ending torture loop? There is no hope for someone like me. I am broken beyond repair. David was cruel, but he was right. I am a slut.

  I wish I could fade away into oblivion, or transform into a moth, and perish in the flames. Instead, fire burns me, tortures me, but it never kills me. Maybe I am made of lava.

  A low melodic tune interrupts my lament.

  Why is there Tom Waits singing to me in David's voice? Am I hallucinating from the morphine?

  It sounds so heartbreakingly beautiful. I sink into his voice, wishing this hallucination could last forever.

  My morphine-induced lullaby to soothe a broken heart...

  The voice of my imaginary David breaks, and I grunt in frustration of losing the dream.

  "Lava!"

  What? My lead-heavy eyelids refuse to obey, but it is not the weight keeping my eyes shut. The truth is, I am afraid to lose this illusion.

  "Can you hear me?"

  The moment I wake up from this dream, the harsh reality will shatter my heart once again, but I cannot fool myself for much longer.

  "Open your eyes, beautiful." The softest caress on my cheek abolishes any trace of lead, and I blink my eyes open, desperate to believe the fantasy.

  "David..." Some strange sound comes out, something resembling a hiss. My mouth feels like I've been walking through a desert. I want to lick my lips, but my tongue feels equally numb. I can barely feel the scratchy surface of my lower lip. "So thirsty."

  "Don't speak, love." David touches my face again and presses something to my lips. I want to grab his wrist and suck the wet cotton dry, but my arms remain immovable. The water I am desperate for is so close and yet so far, just like the man above me – so close and yet so unreachable.