Chapter 4
FOUR
IGOR
THE PAST
That same night
I’ve never known anyone as obsessed with food as the Morettis.
And there are so many of them, it’s hard to keep track.
There’s a dark-haired young girl with bright green eyes.
Another with green eyes, a little older and her hair is painted blond.
Two smaller girls, maybe around five years old.
Twins. And a fiery-haired one, who laughs the loudest and always smiles.
I only remember the name of the boy. With his sandy blond hair and kind blue eyes.
The bluest blue I’ve ever seen. Not like the sea I could see in the distance for the first time in my life.
His are clearer, more like the sky. Limitless and so bright.
The sun doesn’t shine that much back home so maybe I was shocked to see so much of it in someone’s eyes.
Julian is the name of the nice one. The one who had dinner with me, and his mum, and the old lady who kept feeding me the best food I’ve ever eaten in my life.
I say his name in the dark of my room. It stirs something strange inside me that I have no name for.
A warmth and comfort I didn’t think existed.
Even Misha doesn’t make me feel fuzzy inside, like that.
When I close my eyes in the space illuminated by the moon outside, my brother’s face is all I can see behind my eyelids.
A tear escapes and I wipe it quickly, my heart leaping in my chest in case someone sees it. They probably have cameras in here.
Another first and strange thing. They gave me my own room. When I asked Julian where his room was—or tried considering we don’t even speak the same language—he shook his head. I gathered he doesn’t live here.
It confuses me. But not as much as being here now.
In a soft bed. On my own. The door isn’t even locked.
I checked. It locks from the inside though.
It must be a test. Once I step out of the room, they’ll jump me.
Beat me into the walls like my dad does.
Then lock me up without food. That’s the only reason they fed me so much.
My mouth waters and my belly grumbles recalling the taste of the delicious pasta I had tonight, with a thick tomato sauce and a sharp cheese on top.
My last meal must have been two days before I landed here. And it was a meaty goo from a can, cold because we lost electricity that day.
Maybe they’re waiting to see if I lock myself in, that little tidbit of distrust their signal.
I don’t do that either. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cower, no matter how scared I truly am.
No one can know. Dad has drilled it into my head.
Any sign of weakness or fear is a death warrant.
If I ignore that my hands are icy and sweaty at the same time and that my heart beats so fast it makes me dizzy, no one else will know.
When my eyes start to prickle from how tired I am, I get into the en-suite bathroom and take a cold shower. I won’t let them kill me in my sleep.
I change into a set of fresh clothes I find in the modern closet.
They’re a bit too large, but it will have to do.
Being clean and smelling laundry detergent on the clothes makes me feel a little better.
And a little bold. I sit on the bed, watching the door, but before long, curiosity wins.
The clock on the nightstand indicates midnight.
I open the door and stick my head out in the darkened corridor. The house is silent, except for the faint sounds of rumbling. Like a coffee machine or something. My brow furrows. Who drinks coffee at midnight?
I take a tentative step outside of the room.
And wait. Nothing happens. I relax and walk the length of the hallway to the stairs, listening for any steps in the dark.
Our dad is not particularly stealthy, always walking around the house with his boots on, stomping with powerful purpose.
But he hates it when we make a sound so Misha and I have learnt to move like shadows.
I descend the beautiful glass staircase that adds a touch of modernity to what looks like a very old house.
I didn’t take in my surroundings when I arrived.
Just the exits and windows. There were too many people to keep track of to really study the layout.
I explore, content for the cover of night.
I stick my head into every room. Doors are wide open.
The expansive living room is empty, as expected.
The other room across it also. It’s similar in design, smaller but with a comfortable-looking sofa in the middle, some books on the walls.
Who needs two living rooms? These people must be fucking rich.
At the back of the house, there’s a room with its door closed.
I try to open it but it’s locked. Must be where important things happen.
I vow to discover what’s inside at another time.
I must find a way out of here and back to Misha.
Maybe there are documents I can steal and blackmail the Moretti boss with.
A raspy voice grabs my attention, low light coming from underneath the door to the kitchen. I tip-toe towards it and wait.
“If you’re going to creep up on me, boy, you better get better at it,” the feminine voice says.
I have no idea what the words mean but this time, I think it’s speaking to me.
I push the door open and meet the grey gaze of the old woman who cooked for me earlier.
They call her Mammona. Strange name but what do I know.
She brings a white coffee cup with blue polka dots to her lips with tan, weathered hands and raises a brow. I huff at the clear challenge and come inside.
“Sit.”
She points to the chair in front of her with her chin and repeats the word.
The first English word in my vocabulary is a command.
Fitting. I was always meant to be a soldier and follow orders.
She smiles when I obey and stands again.
She looks old but her movements are fluid.
The coffee pot on the counter is half full and she pours a cup for me.
The polka dots on that one are orange. She then lifts a bottle of a strange yellow liquid and adds a healthy measure into the coffee.
Setting the cup in front of me, she eyes it and gives me a nod, then puts the bottle next to it.
“Limoncello,” she says. “Goes well with coffee for a night cap.”
I take a sip. It’s good.
Misha would love it, though I already know he’d use a different ratio.
Dad used to drink vodka a lot. At all hours of the day. The yellow liquid is much better. There’s a little lemon drawn on the bottle so I guess it’s a lemon liquor of some sort and it goes fucking well with the coffee. I finish it fast, and the old lady smiles again.
In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve been surrounded by more women than I have my whole life. My mum died when I was young and my dad never brought any girlfriend home.
All interactions have been positive. They fed me, gave me a warm drink in companionable silence. And wished me goodnight. I was expecting hate and pain. But it’s been… nice. Maybe that’s why the soldiers back home say the Morettis respect and revere women.
Doubt still resides somewhere inside me, but ease settles fast, too. And that’s the most dangerous feeling of them all.
When I step out of the Moretti Headquarters, I’m hit with a gust of wind so cold, I shiver.
I immediately want to slap myself for my body’s reactions.
Back home, our winters were harsh, temperatures well under zero degrees celsius for months.
Maybe the space that serves as a classroom for my sessions with my private tutor was just too warm.
Or maybe, I’m starting to get used to the mild winter on the Isle of Beauty.
I’ve been living on Kalliste for three months.
March is just around the corner. And I’m getting used to food on the table every day, warmer temperatures that allow me to never wear a coat—the wool sweater Mammona knitted me is enough—and companionship.
Mr Moretti doesn’t allow me to drive. Something about needing to be eighteen here and pass a theoretical and practical exam.
Nonsense. I drove around the streets of our town back home all the time as of fifteen.
But I’m in enemy territory and as long as I don’t speak the language and have no way to escape, I’ll play by the rules.
The driver brings me back to the Moretti mansion in silence.
Even if I could speak English, I have no interest in idle chatting.
Lana, Julian and Giulia don’t seem to care that I can’t understand everything they say though or that I can never answer, they always add me to the conversation.
I don’t really know why. It could be to make sure they keep an eye on me. Befriend me so I lower my guard.
Just as expected, when I step foot into the mansion, loud conversations assault me from every direction.
I recognise Mammona’s commanding tone from the kitchen.
The woman loves to lord over her team of three cooks and maids.
In the drawing room, Colomba Moretti and Bea Bartoli seem to have an animated talk about—I strain my ear—school teachers and incompetency of some kind.
Their husbands aren’t anywhere to be seen and I notice the door to the study is fully open.
They’re out, then. They wouldn’t miss Friday dinner for anything so they must be on their way.
I’ve learnt a few things about the Morettis and the Bartolis in the past three months.
The first is that there’s nothing of value in that office that I can steal.
The drawers of the desk open without a key and don’t contain any sensitive data.
Pietro Moretti always carries his laptop, and I’m no genius to access it anyway.
If I’m ever to escape the Morettis, it would have to come from Misha.
The second thing—and maybe the most important—is that Friday dinner at the Morettis is like a religious communion for the two families.
No one misses it. Debate is encouraged. Voices grow loud as wine thins in the vintage bottles.
By the end of the night, at least two heated arguments will have erupted and laughter and drunken hugs will calm everyone down before the house quiets again around midnight.
And I’m always invited.
I glance at my watch, a gift from Mr Moretti, and notice I won’t have time to shower and change before Mammona herds us all to the main table. I wash my hands in the powder room on the left of the entrance corridor and make my way to the living room.
The bluest eyes are already on me, stopping me in my tracks. They’re the most arresting colour I’ve ever seen. And they belong to the kindest boy I’ve ever met. It always sets me on edge though I keep my features as neutral as I can.
Julian sits on the sofa, his shoes abandoned in front of it, knees bent towards his chest, using them as a support for the book he’s reading.
I clear my throat and move into the room, then sit on the other side of him.
Julian snorts and shakes his head. It’s the same dance we perform every week.
Though, usually, Lana’s right next to him and I don’t feel so awkward.
I’ve only ever been close to my brother, and Julian…
He’s not my brother. He’s not my friend.
I can’t figure him out. I live with the Morettis so Lana trying to befriend me makes sense.
She’s the daughter of the man who owns me.
Julian lives with his parents on the other side of town. He’s Lana’s best friend. Does he feel threatened by my presence? I have no clue why he always talks to me.
“Lana’s in the shower,” he says. I grunt in response. “Here.”
He hands me a book I didn’t see he had laying on the other side of his hips.
I frown when I see it’s in Russian. I haven’t seen the language anywhere for three months. It sends a pang of longing inside me. I raise my gaze to his again, but Julian just shrugs.
“It’s one of my favourite books. The Little Prince.”
I don’t know what that means, and it must show on my face. He shakes the book in his own hand. The cover is almost identical, but his has a title in English. The expression on Julian’s face is bright, almost like hope.
“For me?” I ask.
“Yeah, Igor. It’s for you.”
I’ve never received a gift. I stare at the book in my hands, gliding my fingers on the smooth cover with a little blond boy, drawn by hand, standing on a planet. He almost looks like Julian.
I look up again. Julian flips the pages fast in front of his nose, inhaling deeply with a contented sigh, then he gives me a nod.
This is the weirdest interaction we’ve had yet, but I do the same thing. I’m hit with a smell of paper, and something old. The book is new, that much is certain, but the scent sends me to a quiet space in my mind. The gentle laugh that escapes my mouth is a sound I didn’t know I could make.
Julian grins. “We can read along. You in Russian and me in English.”
“Okay.”
Satisfied, Julian opens the pages again, disappearing into them within minutes. They’re frayed at the edges and have turned yellow. It looks like it’s been read many times over.
Overwhelmed with something I don’t have a name for, I open the first page and start reading.
I’m slow. I never finished school in Russia, so my private tutor is the first time I really had to do homework and learn.
My reading skills are not that great, but I love books.
Not that I’d tell anyone. My tutor gives me new books to read every month or so, and I keep them in my bedroom like precious gems.
The silence between Julian and I, only disturbed by the voices of others, is comfortable. Every so often, I raise my gaze to observe the boy on the other side of the couch. His eyes move at the speed of light across the pages, and he flips the corners way faster than I do.
Over the next few weeks, I read slowly but steadily, Julian somewhere close. I know he’s started and finished that same book, waiting for me to finish it as well. And when that happens, on a Friday in May, he comes in with another one. Another gift.
Three months later, I ask him to hand me the English book he’s reading. I’m even slower with that one. But I like the silence in my head when I read. And I like that I share something with someone who doesn’t ask anything else of me.
When Julian sees me pick up the phone Mr Moretti gave me over and over, he comes to sit next to me. I don’t complain or say a thing, but he knows. He’s very perceptive for his age. I’m about to pick up my dictionary again, when he asks, “Which word?”
“Spontaneous,” I enunciate with a tinge of embarrassment.
Julian ignores my discomfort and explains with simple words what ‘spontaneous’ means. I never use my dictionary app again.
And I learn faster with the boy with the easy smile.