Italian Coffee House [BWWM]

- C h a p t e r 41 -

Ciao Amores, 

I really hope you enjoy after the long wait.

Without further ado, Here's the Forty-first Installation of Italian Coffee House. 

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XO,
Ang

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Niccolò's Chocolate House

Chapter 41

*Dari*

I jerked awake, tears pricking my eyes at the sudden surge of the memories, that were residual of my nightmare-ish experience prior to my loss of consciousness. My head, being held under water. The agonizing grip, as someone forced me under, by my locs. The intense urge to hold my breathe. The thought alone, of running out of air, gave me a fright. At my last conscious breath, I prayed that someone to come to my aid in time.

Was I alive? If so, I couldn't think of a way to reveal the answer to such a loaded question. I glanced around the vast space to make better of my surroundings, becoming profoundly aware of the plush surface beneath me and the oxygen mask over my nose and mouth.

I pulled the mask over my head, setting it aside on the nightstand. A sweet aroma circulated the air about, in stark contrast to the stench of concrete and perspiration of my former cell. Not only that, a cooler climate prevailed. Silence resounded the room, giving nothing away of my location. A different kind of silence. 

Cantera stone walls encased the area, boxing me in. Typical Italian style wooden shutters interrupted the walls in brief intervals. Elegant sage colored draperies cascaded from the ceiling, adding character to the room. If this wasn't some illusion, and I was no longer counted among the living, why would the afterlife echo an Italian influence? Better yet, why would there be use for an oxygen mask at all?

Hopelessly bent on getting some answers, I climbed out of bed, descending unto the wooly rug. It extended across the room, to a stubby stairway, before the door. My first instinct was to go to the window. However, I scarcely made it there when a creaking noise caught my attention. 

A dark skinned woman stood in the doorway, like a deer caught in headlights. Her deep brown eyes assessing me, as were mine, gauging  whether or not I would pose treat.

"I mean you no harm," She offered, holding her hands up in surrender.

"Who are you?" I inquired. She remained painfully rigid, offering no response. "Who. Are. You?"

"I'm here to help," She stepped forward tentatively, at which point I swiftly grabbed the closest thing to me. A glass of water. Emptying the contents unto the floor, breaking the glass against the nightstand, holding a shard out against her. For someone at the edge of a blade, she seemed awfully calm.

"Your words mean little, if I know nothing of your character." I countered. "You haven't answered my question. Now, who are you?"

"My name is Ortensia," The lady supplied. "Now—if as you say my words mean little—how can you trust that any information I offer about myself is true?"

She did have a point. How did I know she was being forthright? She could've easily woven a lie so skilfully that I would believe it. Was that an accent I detected? The only people I'd heard it on, were my sister-in-law, Krysta and my husband ... Niccolò. Of course, also, my portentous mother-in-law. Maybe Or-ten-sia, as she put it, was of a similar background. Of Italy? What was it with these Italians? Weren't there enough of them in my life?