Page 20 of The Man with a Treasure

Isabella was up against the back wall, screaming hysterically, “Stay away from me!”

Since it was so dark inside, I figured all the flashlights were spooking her further. I took one from a Suit and pointed it up from under my chin. “Isabella, it is I, Angelo.” She kept screaming, running along the back wall, as if desperate to find an exit. “It is I. Can you hear me?” I stepped a little closer. “Isabella, it is Angelo.” Her light blue nightgown was hiked up in her grip like Mrs. Rossi’s was.

When I realized she was in such a panic she could barely see or hear, I got louder and shouted the only words I could think of that might reach her. “Angel of the Night!”

With her back to me, she jolted to a stop, her shoulders heaving due to her exhausted state.

“Yes. It is Angelo.”

Disheveled, she dared to peek over her shoulder through her long black hair.

I kept the light shining on my face. “Can you see me?”

Slowly, she faced me. Her face was red, blotchy, and wet with tears. “Angel.”

A bit of relief blew through me. “Yes.”

“They were chasing me.”

“I was told, but… they are to help keep you safe.”

Madly, she suddenly screamed, “They were chasing me!”

I lifted my free hand. “Alright. They will stop. I will talk to them.”

“Make them go away!”

“Alright. Try to calm yourself.” I looked over my shoulder. “Maybe if you step outside?”

The men backed away and into the darkness of the night.

Strands of Isabella’s hair floated in front of her face as she exhaled heavily.

“Now, can you tell me why you ran?”

As if not mentally stable, her eyes widened, and she began to pace. “I must find her. I gave her a knife. A knife, Angel. I told her to stab one if he got too close.”

Not sure if she was talking present or past, I quickly asked, “Isabella, who did you give a knife to?”

Her hand let go of her nightgown so her arms could hold her chest, almost as if cradling a baby. “Vita Mia.”

My heart seized, hearing her refer to the baby as ‘my life’ because I instantly knew who she was speaking of.

Tears dripped from her trembling chin as she touched the imaginary baby’s face. “Scarlett.”

Oh no.

Pitifully, as if realizing she could no longer hold her child, her arms caved to her chest, and she groaned in a pain I hoped to never feel as her head slowly fell back so she could sob to the ceiling of the cave. “She may be dead.” Her body swayed as if trying to find some sort of comfort through her unimaginable agony. “Oh, Angel. I gave her a knife. I gave her a knife.” Her sway continued, leading her into a circle, her bare feet shuffling the dirt and stones. “I gave her a knife. I gave her a knife…”

I could barely breathe as I imagined a little girl, one who looked just like beautiful Isabella, alone in the dark somewhere, attempting to defend herself from seven men… with one weapon: a knife.

And her mother felt to be the blame. This woman was absolutely tortured over it. Tears drenched her skin and nightgown as she aimlessly kept making circles.

Isabella didn’t fight me as I scooped up her terribly thin form. In fact, she curled into my chest, just as she had my father the very first day I ever saw her. I could feel more tears now drip to my own skin as she cried, “I gave her a knife…”

Suits followed the Angel of the Night as he carried Isabella Giordano back home.

“Why is this knife a bad thing?” asked my father, who was now in Australia.