Chapter 3
THREE
JULIAN
THE PAST
“Julian, don’t do it,” my best friend Lana says when she sees me swiping the bottle of red wine from the table of our families’ Friday dinner.
It’s tradition. Every Friday, we Bartolis join the Morettis at their mansion on the Hills of Sant Armellu for family dinner. Lana’s mammona always cooks the best food, and we all end up either in fits of giggles or loud shouting over card games.
There’s only one third left inside the bottle, and all the adults have gathered in her father’s office anyway.
No one’s going to miss it. My father drones on and on about our vineyard, but so far he’s only allowed me to sample two of our best bottles, once.
For taste. So I had to spit it out after rolling the tiniest amount in my mouth.
What a waste. Apparently I was supposed to look for notes of berries and chocolate and other fruits.
I didn’t find any of that. It tasted good, and now I want a full glass.
I’ll share with my bestie if she stops being such a pain in my ass, always so serious.
I speed walk towards the door and grab her hand before pulling her outside.
The night welcomes our little rebellion.
Well, mostly mine considering she’s glaring at me when I glance over my shoulder.
I burst out laughing. She thinks she can intimidate me.
Me. I know her better than her own sisters.
And I know she’s just waiting for me to make the first step of mischief and she’ll follow.
For the future leader of the Kalliste mafia, she’s strangely unwilling to lead in that department. Thank God, she has me.
We stop under the fig trees at the end of the garden.
“Hurry! It’s so freaking cold, I don’t want to be sick because of you.”
I roll my eyes and take a swig, slowly so I don’t cough it up and waste it. The dark liquid is luxurious in my mouth, coating my tongue then my throat with warmth. I hand it over to Lana who snatches it like she’s mad, and I chuckle.
“If we get caught, I’m going to be so mad.”
“Of course, we won’t. And what if we do? Will you sell me out?” I taunt and she slaps me over the head with the tips of her fingers so fast I don’t see it coming.
She’s serious when she answers. “Don’t be silly. I’d never talk. Remember when we practiced shooting?”
“Yeah. I stole my dad’s gun.”
“And what did I do?”
“You went and stole your dad’s gun so you could practice with me,” I say, grinning wide.
“And so that you wouldn’t take the fall all on your own when we inevitably got caught.”
That’s when I knew she’d make the perfect leader.
Always sharing or taking the blame. That and the fact that she cleaned her mum’s rugs on hands and knees after her father killed someone in his office and didn’t tarp it properly.
She didn’t want either of them to be upset. She was ten or eleven, I think.
Me? I’ve yet to see a dead body. I know what goes on behind closed doors.
My father isn’t a secretive man, and I’m his heir, even though I have an older half-brother somewhere.
Apparently, he doesn’t speak to my dad. That makes me sad because I really want to meet him, but I don’t think that’d be nice for my mum.
Though, one thing about Bea Bartoli? She loves everyone and everyone loves her.
Lana takes a sip of the wine, rolling it in her mouth before swallowing and swearing. “Fuck, that’s good!”
“I told you.”
“Do you know how big your father’s wine business is?”
“Probably ten hectares.”
“That’s it? You should talk to him about expanding. I know your property is over fifty hectares and some lands around are for sale.”
“Are for sale or could be bought?”
She winks then grins. “Think about it. That shit is gold, Jules.”
She takes another sip to make her point before handing it over to me and I finish it, head back to get every drop.
She might be onto something. While Lana will lead our unsavoury business, I have no clue what I want to do when the time comes to take up the mantle.
I have no love for violence and danger. I like adventure, a rush of adrenaline, for sure.
But mostly, I like the land. I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a lab like my father is most of the time.
Maybe a wine business could be a good front.
Something for me to do while she conquers the world.
I have no doubt she could. Lana is strong, obstinate, and annoyingly selfless.
I’m just… me. I can’t help her where she’s going, but I could make wine, and clean some cash.
Seeing the stars in my eyes at her idea, she launches into a scheme on how and we sneak back into the mansion to talk for hours about what we’ll do when we take over the Moretti-Bartoli empire.
“How was the wine last night, my love?” my mum asks at the breakfast table the next day.
I groan. She chuckles before kissing my forehead and serving me the omelette she prepared. “Don’t be grouchy. You aren’t getting in trouble. It was just a few sips.”
She waltzes back to the stove, humming a melody I don’t recognise. Her son drinking wine at fifteen isn’t cause for concern. Nor was that time I stole my dad’s gun at thirteen. Nor the time I decided to jump off a cliff into the Mediterranean Sea at fourteen. My mum is the best mum.
I spoon the breakfast dish and shove it into my mouth.
My father walks in the kitchen, going straight to her. He embraces her from behind and drops kisses on her neck. She giggles, and I grimace.
“Ew. Keep it in the bedroom.”
My dad gives her one last kiss before pouring himself a cup of coffee and sitting down in front of me. His eyes are assessing and hold the shine of amusement I know so well.
“So?” he asks.
“So what?”
“How was the wine?”
“Oh my God, does everyone and their mother know about this?”
“Well, son, there was only one bottle left on the table when we retired to Pietro’s office. Of course it was you.”
“Could have been Lana. Or the twins. Or Angèle. Anyone.”
He smiles kindly at me before taking a sip of his morning brew. “The twins are five and Angèle is an adult. Don’t sell out your friends, son. You know what we do to snitches. Now, tell me. Did you like it?”
“Yeah,” I answer reluctantly. “The berries came to me at the very end. First, it was quite fresh. Almost like lemons.”
He hums approvingly, and my cheeks heat.
Then, he continues to ask questions about taste profiles, and I get more animated.
Mum looks on with a knowing smile. I bite my lip to try not to smile back.
But it’s hard when mornings are like this.
Quiet. Just the three of us. With my dad proud and my mum happy.
School is as boring as ever. It’s literally torture to have teenagers sit down for seven hours a day learning about shit that doesn’t matter. Okay, Napoleon had a small dick and a hero complex, we get it.
When the final bell rings, Lana and I rush to the driver parked out front, pushing each other to get in first.
“I win,” Lana exclaims with a grin.
I let her win. Also, she pushed me and I almost bit the wall when we got out of class.
“It’s really a childish game, Lana.”
“You didn’t think so five seconds ago when you bumped into me to get there first.”
The drive back to the Moretti Mansion is spent bickering because she’s really annoying even if she’s my best friend.
A black van is parked out front when we get there.
The air is charged with something vicious and unknown.
The only time that happens is when unsavoury people need to be dealt with and Pietro calls in the cavalry.
I’ve always found those big dudes all dressed in black to look wildly attractive and wildly ridiculous, like they eat a dozen eggs for breakfast or something.
Lana and I exchange a look but she shakes her head, just as unsure as I am. When we enter the foyer, five men all dressed in tactical gear depart, passing us with a quick nod of acknowledgment.
Lana’s mum, Colomba, sits on the sofa, looking weary and less put together than usual.
And that’s saying something considering she always looks like an ad for a high-end luxury brand, with her perfect dark hair in a high ponytail and tailored clothes.
My mum is more of an artist and her choice of fashion reflects that.
But today, her usual levity is nowhere to be found, either.
She frowns at something in the corner of the room.
Or rather someone.
A young man, maybe eighteen or so, stands there, his back to the wall, eyeing the windows and the room as though searching for an escape.
His lanky frame can’t hide the raw strength he exudes.
His hair is cropped short, very at odds with Kalliste’s fashion.
But what’s truly striking are the brightest golden eyes I’ve ever seen.
They shift to each individual in the room.
Then, they land on me. My heart rate goes on overdrive.
I freeze, mouth agape. Completely ensnared.
I’m pinned in place under the weight of the gold.
I don’t know why my mouth dries or why my breaths stutter.
“Who’s that?” Lana asks, and her dad answers.
“That is Igor Petrov,” Pietro tersely says. “He’ll be joining us for a while.”
“Russian?”
“Yes.”
I take a step toward Igor and he flinches, bending at the knee. He’s ready to pounce and beat me to a pulp.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m Julian.”
He doesn’t react.
“He doesn’t speak English,” Pietro offers.
Distrust is almost palpable in the room, the adults gaging him just like he’s gaging each of us. Observing us for weakness. Igor’s eyes keep shifting, assessing. His body hasn’t released the fighting stance and it makes me ache, somewhere deep.
“Why is he here?” I ask without looking back. It seems my eyes won’t obey me and have decided Igor is more important. More interesting. Just more.
The silence following my question is full of secrets. Colomba chimes in. “Tell them. They’re old enough.”
“They’re fifteen,” my mum counters.
“We’ll be sixteen soon,” Lana says. She asks her father the same question I did. And he can’t refuse her a thing.
“His father killed Anita.”
The words thread around my throat and tighten. Anita was one of our best soldiers and Mammona Moretti’s companion. A woman who laughed hard and smoked too much. She was joyous and had been in the family’s employ for years. We buried her just a few weeks ago after she got attacked on a drug run.
“Are you going to kill him?” I ask without letting my eyes wander from Igor.
He looks pained, and huffs with every word we say. If he doesn’t speak English, this must be hell for him. He obviously knows we’re talking about him, and can’t understand anything about his fate. I clench my teeth, anger rising on his behalf.
It’s his dad who should be here. That I know for sure.
He glances at exits and weighs options with desperation, not the knowledge of what he’s doing. There’s not a cunning gene in him. Wild eyes like his can speak, and right now, they’re screaming for a way to survive.
“Do you know us to kill kids, Julian?” My father asks.
My ears burn with embarrassment.
No. We don’t kill kids in the Kalliste mafia. We might not be fully above the law, but our morals are sometimes above the men in blue themselves.
“Is he a prisoner, then?”
“Igor is to be of service for the next ten years to repay his father’s debt.”
“Anita’s life was worth more than that,” Colomba spits.
“We can’t afford to wage war against the Bratva, my love,” Pietro answers carefully.
“What are you going to do with him?” Lana asks and I’m grateful that she just goes straight to the point.
The young man in front of us shouldn’t have to pay for someone else’s crimes. I’m not a fool to believe our lives are fair, being raised the way I have been, but making him suffer won’t bring us what we lost. Who we lost.
“Igor will get a tutor to teach him our language and anything he might need. Then, he’ll be trained like any other soldier. When his tenure ends, he’ll be given a choice.”
“And what will that be?”
“We’ll see when the time comes,” Pietro says cryptically.
“I can’t stand you all talking about a child like he isn’t here in front of us, scared out of his mind,” my mum declares.
She moves forward towards Igor and he snarls.
Protective instinct has me snarling back.
But my mum is unfazed and still holds out her hand with a kind invitation on her beautiful face.
I take her other hand, waiting. Hoping I can convey to the half-wild boy in front of us that he has nothing to fear from Bea Bartoli.
In the end, he doesn’t take her hand but lets her lead us to the kitchen. I sit at the table while she puts some ravioli leftover in the microwave. Igor follows, shoulders hunched. His ass isn’t even half on the chair when he sits. He’s ready to bolt again. There’s nowhere to run.
When my mum sets the food in front of him, Igor hesitates until I take a bite as well. He resists all of one minute before shovelling the food into his mouth, grumbling and groaning like this is the best thing he’s ever had. God, he’s in for a surprise if Pietro lets him attend Friday dinner.
I beam at him, and finish my own plate just as fast.
Tension melts away as his shoulders drop.
I decide his defences are down enough and try again with introductions.
“I’m Julian,” I say with a hand on my heart.
Then I point to Lana and say her name. Then my mum.
When Mammona enters the kitchen and makes him more food, exclaiming that a young man shouldn’t be so skinny and dull-eyed, Igor’s eyes widen but he remains rooted on the chair.
And once again, gobbles up all the food put in front of him, making him officially Mammonna’s favourite.
I can’t stop looking at him.
Maybe it’s the appetite. Or maybe it’s something about him I don’t fully understand yet.