Chapter 38
38
Most of the Belladonnas decide to jump-start their tans on the sandy beaches. Meanwhile, I accompany Iz on her tour of the grounds—mostly because I need the tour too.
It’s a bit awkward, since Viktor keeps bringing up stories of Chloe doing certain things at certain places.
“When we played tennis together, I felt like I was in the Olympics playing against Naomi Osaka!” Or “You girls spent the entire night making friendship bracelets by the beach.” Or “Do you remember when we roasted the pig by the bonfire?”
I nod along and ad-lib. If Viktor notices something off, he doesn’t comment on it. Perhaps he simply doesn’t notice small nuances. His wide, deliberate smile suggests there’s nothing going on behind that pristinely handsome forehead of his. Whenever he finishes a statement, he turns toward you with this expression of puppylike longing, as if waiting for some sign of approval. If I punched him in the face, he’d probably smile and say, with dogged affection, “Great aim!”
Nevertheless, the island is impressive.
Like, really impressive.
I’m pinching myself every time we venture into a new area, wondering how a family could own this block of the world.
We amble around the glorious sporting areas: a volleyball court, tennis grounds, a squash court that doubles as half a basketball court, and a horse stable. Then there’s the main hall, where the kitchen and staff live and work, a three-storied Greek Revival–style building bordered by palm trees. Near the center of the island there’s a farm homing free-range chickens, cows, sheep, and other animals. Viktor hands us some carrots and we feed the goats. One of them almost chomps off my pinkie. Next to the farm is a giant greenhouse where they grow their own produce. “Each section of the facility is climate-controlled so we can produce crops from all around the world, year-round,” Viktor says, a brightness in his voice, proudly pointing to the zucchini plants, lettuce crops, and citrus trees. “We draw water from the ocean and desalinate it at a plant near the coast. The canals you see running along each crop row not only double as the perfect environment for freshwater fish but the fish also fertilize the plants through their excrement—a technique we learned from Asia.” He looks at me as if I was the one who taught them that technique. “Nothing goes to waste on the island.”
He introduces us to some staff, who are picking luscious mangoes off verdant trees. They’re all tall and lithe and impossibly beautiful. The scene—the workers reaching high, plucking ripe fruit—looks straight out of a magazine. Some dystopian, Brave New World shit where laborers are happy to work.
We learn that the island is a big community of sorts. A swanky co-op where the staff live, eat, and work together. A few families, like Viktor’s, have worked with the Melniburgs for generations. And we’re talking generations . Like, hundreds of years. Pre–World War I shit. I’m not joking.
The main house is a rustic but tasteful French-chateau-style mansion with cresting roofs. Viktor shows us giant portraits of the Melniburg ancestors inside a grand entrance fit with symmetrical swirling staircases. The frames crawl up the twenty-foot-high walls, and the paintings’ watchful azure eyes seem to follow me. Some family portraits are so old, I’m surprised a British museum hasn’t taken them. I’m talking oil paintings straight from the eighteenth century and black-and-white photos of people who could be mistaken for the Romanovs. There are also a few modern photo portraits, including one of the current Melniburg empire. Front and center is Bella Marie. Her dad, a gruff-looking man with red cheeks and blue eyes, is to her right, and her mom, a thin, blond woman with a haunting black stare, is to her left.
“Who’s this guy?” Iz points to a small painting near the back corner, her voice echoing around the lofty hall.
The man is sitting on a plain wooden bench. He’s wearing a beige frock, has brown hair, and bears a staunch expression, his heavy cheeks weighing down his entire face. A white bandage is wrapped around his left eye, while his other eye stares right into your soul. And I mean right into it. It’s hard to look away. Every color in the spectrum somehow speckles his painted blue iris—the focal point of an otherwise gloomy and somber painting. The background is a gray brick wall with a square opening that reveals the smallest sliver of a night sky. He’s painted in isolation, lit only by an unseen golden candle near the bottom right-hand corner. A long shadow stretches darkly across the canvas. The shadow doesn’t belong to him, but to someone just beyond.
“That’s Nikolai Melniburg, the patriarch of the Melniburg family.” Viktor tilts his head with a smile like he’s smitten, almost… aroused. I shiver. “According to records, this would have been painted around 1767.”
I blow an impressed breath. I knew the Melniburgs were old money, but this is old money.
“Nikolai was the start of everything for our family.” Bella Marie’s dove-like voice pierces the warm air. She slides next to us in a loose white linen dress, a dainty pearl necklace adorning her collar. Her swan neck arches as she looks up at the painting, pale skin ghostly, almost transparent when it catches the sun.
“What did he do? Discover borscht?” Iz jokes.
Bella Marie laughs. “Oh no, nothing that amazing.” She drifts closer to the canvas, touching the intricate golden frame with her index finger. “His story is rather funny. Nikolai was a peasant who stumbled upon wealth due to pure luck, wishful thinking, and fealty to the right gods.”
Iz places a hand on her hip. “Did a genie in a lamp grant him three wishes or something?”
“Simpler than that. A nobleman of distant relation to the Romanovs had lost a pocket watch.” Bella Marie stares at her ancestor, their glittery blue eyes meeting. “It was a watch that belonged to his father and all the fathers before, an important heirloom with priceless sentimentality. The old nobleman had promised to give away his second-born daughter to any man who returned the watch to him.”
“Nikolai found the watch?”
Bella Marie nods. “At the time, second daughters didn’t inherit anything aside from a title and some noble blood.” She shifts her gaze to the painting depicting a family of four. They’re dressed in dapper clothes, ruffled dresses. “Their son, Alexander, took advantage of this bloodline and its connections to work his way into high society. And now, hundreds of years later…” She spreads her arms. “Here we are.”
“But what happened to Nikolai’s eye?” Iz asks.
“Luck doesn’t come for free.” Bella Marie glances at me, as if we’re sharing a secret I should know. A furtive glance that Chloe would understand. The real Chloe.
My skin prickles under her gaze. I turn my attention to Nikolai, trading a pair of blues for a single one.
“Wait.” Iz turns to Bella Marie. “You’re saying he gave up his eye for some luck?”
Bella Marie shrugs, smiling. “It’s nothing more than an old legend. In truth, he toiled the land owned by said nobleman and happened upon the watch. A serendipitous coincidence, perhaps.”
“Lucky guy,” Iz comments.
“Very,” replies Bella Marie, guiding us out of the hall. As we pass through the tall, swinging doors, it still feels like someone’s watching, as if every blue eye in the room behind me has shifted to stare at my back.