36. No, it was Salvatore.

Elena.

After leaving the Ferrari’s estate, even though I literally had nowhere to go, but with the money that was with me, I decided to look for the cheapest hotel I could find but it was futile so after walking around all though the day, seeing that the night was falling so fast, I had to settle for a first motel that I sighted.

The motel was an old building that had somehow managed to elbow its way between a converted warehouse and a block of apartments. The hotel had just five bedrooms, stacked on top of one another like a house of cards, each one with a view of the canal. The flower market was a short walk away and even at night the air smelled sweet.

Dressed in a long black dress with a facemask and scarf wrapped around my head, while carrying a little bag of clothes and some food, I walked into the building.

The motel lobby had the same odour as an old folks home. The floor carpet was a decade too old and with an old fashioned pattern of large flowers interrupted by worn and thread-bare patches. The large windows should allow a lot of light through, yet the heavy drapes and city dirt on the panes leaves it dull to the point of depression.

This was not in anyway a "chocolate on the pillow" motel. The receptionist even smelled of stale perfume and the tables had ashtrays instead of flowers. It was dingy, dark and cheap.

The motel was one of those seedy places men with beer guts went to bang other men's wives with promises they couldn't afford to keep. Or where the hookers brought their clients to and paid for rooms by the hour. Weeds grew through the cracks in the concrete path and the litter from cheap take-out meals were strewn across it. There were external wooden stairs that lead to a second floor, a second row of doors, that looked like the building inspector was either bribed to pass it or drunk on the job. There were at least two screaming matches going on in separate rooms, and the cars in the lot wouldn't have been out of place in a wrecker's yard.

I was given the key to one of the rooms after I had paid for the night and the rceptionist even asked if I would be staying alone or if I wanted a male companion, that which had earned a glare and scowl form me to him.

Tuning the noise and stares from the wierd people I met on the way to my room out, I got into my room, making sure to lock the door properly.

As soon as I was in safely, what I noticed was an old, dusty room. Poor wooden furniture painted dominantly in dark, brown colours. Huge and ancient, yet ugly curtains partly hiding the big, scratched window. There was complete silence in the room, that kind of silence which inspires deep mournfulness, there was a high bed with the legs made of iron and a lot of clean-hopefully, off-white bed covers on it.

The room had a musty odour, evocative of grandparents’ houses – the type that is supposed to make you feel safe and cosy but this one does not in anyway do that. It was lit dimly by a tall lamp in the corner with a green lamp shade decorated with light, undulating patterns, all but lost under a thick coat of dust.

A wooden rocking chair sat in the corner, furnished with an old, dilapidated cushion. A small, coal fireplace graced one wall and beneath was a white, marble mantelpiece. On top of the mantelpiece danced porcelain figurines and ornaments.

There was a sofa against one wall – a bland, beige coloured lump, which looked as if it would be itchy if you sat on it. A pink doll’s house was pushed up against a wall and enveloped in dust. It looked sad and lonely, as if it knew it would never be played with again. Next to it sat a hobby horse with chewed-looking ears, missing its rocker.

What the hell is this? A kid’s room or an actual hotel room?

An uneasy feeling ran through my veins as I dropped my little bag and laid down upon the soft duvet, various thoughts took over my feet. The deadly silence pierced my ears. Suddenly I found myself at the front of the windows.

Rays of light beamed thought the multicoloured leaf shaped windows, creating patterns in the deadly air. The moon was as bright as a flaming touch. The stars shone brightly in the velvet sky, which created a shadow upon the marshes. The bitter cold embraced my pale face and caused my ghostly breath to float within the air.

Suddenly, I heard a knock on my door as a foreboding feeling instantly filled the air. “Who is there?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“Room service? Ma’am.”

The ancient oak floor-boards creaked as I walked towards the old door, as I slowly turned the rusty-bronze latch, a dreadful feeling took over me. So I decided against opening the darn door but just as I walked away from the door, it got bursted nevertheless and a man came rushing in, shocking that it was even the same receptionist man that I had left in the lobby.

“What... Wh... What are you doing?” I questioned, my heart in my mouth while I also calculated the distance of the entrance to me because it was obvious from the knife in the man’s hands that he was so not here to see to my comfortability but to cauuse me harm.

“Give me your bag and your money!” He yelled as he continued to swing the knife at me while also walking towards me. Not letting my guard down, I grabbed my bag and hurled it at him, thus causing him to loose balance momentarily.

Afterwards, I took to my heels and ran out of the door while adjusting my scarf and nosemask properly, wouldn’t want to get caught by the worst people while running away from one worst person.

I walked around afterwards, with no money to feed nor cloth to cover up properly in the cold night and I ended up spending the night on the bench of park. The hustle and bustle continued the following day.

A lost child wailed for his mother, a man frantically searched for his missing dog, shopkeepers screamed out offers on the top of their voices to attract customers and customers desperately tried to bargain for the best possible prices. This was at a market whose name I obviously do not know of course, a place that seemed like it was always drowning in the sea of people.

Not a single empty place could be spotted between the stalls. Some held a hand against their forehead to shield themselves from the sun, others made fans out of newspapers or magazines.The noon sun mercilessly shone down upon the market. Beads of sweat glistened on everyone's forehead and many faces turned red due to the sweltering heat. The salty odour of sweat mingled with the nose tingling aroma of spices and the sweet smell of flowers coming from the florist's shop. All of these smells mixed together and gave the market a rather unique scent.

I resorted to stylish begging from passerbys in the market and soon I started to get shoved left and right, back and front like I had not been noticed. Soon again, to my dismay, night fell and with nothing still in my stomach and I wandered away while dragging my feet to look for where to pass the night this time around. Soon enough, I spotted people looking woenout and unkept like me and packed under a bridge so I rushed there to find a spot too and hopefully sleep the hunger and cold away but as soon as I took my seat at a space that had stacks of newspapers and cardboards, the unwelcoming looks of anger that got thrown my way scared me but I refused to give in.

But then, some men started to walk towards me lead by a man that seemed to be some sort of leader for them. His face was wrinkled and he had a piteous, yet scary expression. A tattered and torn, old brown cloak was on his shoulders and he wore an old pair of boots that had been patched and cobbled several times.

They reached me and I strained my neck to stare up at them from my lower angle while they somewhat encircled me but before I could even understand what was about to happen to me, a voiced boomed in the tight bridge hallway, “STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM HER OR I WILL MAKE SURE YOUR FILTHY NECKS ARE OFF YOUR NECKS IN A TWINKLE OF AN EYE!”

When I looked to see who it was I was more than shocked to find out that it was the one man I had ran away from. No, it was not Salvatore.

It was Deangelo.

And I would be lying if I said that I was not more than elated to see him.