Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Serena
S heets of rain slice through the night sky, the heavy droplets furiously battering against the windows. The raw power of Mother Nature is on full display tonight, her fierce winds strong enough to wrench a shutter from its latch. It thumps loudly against the stucco walls of my parents’ home as the storm rages on.
Bang! Bang!
The shutter’s relentless pounding echoes through the room as it slams into the side of the house again and again. I consider rising to secure it, but I don’t want to release my father’s hand. I rake my gaze over his still form, unable to fathom how he deteriorated so quickly. His once vital, sturdy, and strong body had become so weak in just a few short months.
“Serena,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “Fix the shutter.”
“Yes, Papa.” Reluctantly, I release his hand, hurry across the terracotta floor to the window, and open the glass pane. Reaching past the ornamental security bars and out into the rainy night, I pull the shutter closed once again and secure the latch.
My father offers me a small smile once I return to my chair next to his bed. “Such a good girl, Serena. You always were. Did the shutter damage the stucco?”
“I didn’t see anything. I’m sure it’s fine, Papa. Please stop worrying. You need to rest.”
“I have to worry while I still can, princess. I’ll be resting forever soon enough, and I don’t want your mother to have to deal with damage to the house after I’m gone.”
I blink back tears and shake my head. “You’re talking nonsense. You’ll be back to your old self in no time. You’ll see.”
He doesn’t respond to what we both know is a lie. He simply gives me another weak smile and closes his eyes. I take his hand in mine once more, noting how cold it had gotten in the short time it took me to secure the shutter. His circulation is getting worse by the day, but at least the stomach pain and vomiting has stopped—thanks to the morphine and antinausea medication prescribed by the doctor.
I glance up when I hear my mother come into the room.
“How is he?” she asks.
“He seems more comfortable than yesterday. I just wish we could get him well enough to get on a plane. The doctors in the U.S. have access to so much more.”
“No more talk about America. Italy is my home, Serena,” my father says fervently. I turn back to him as he attempts to sit up.
“Carlo, lie down,” my mother scolds.
“No. There are things I have to say, Sylvia,” he insists.
Not wanting him to struggle, my mother hurries to his bedside where the two of us work to get him upright against the headboard. I frown when I hear his labored breathing, signaling how much the simple act of sitting up taxes his frail body.
I fold my arms across my chest and give him a pointed look. “ You’re so stubborn, Papa. I don’t know why you couldn’t say whatever it is you have to say while you were lying down.”
Ignoring me, he turns to my mother. “Sylvia, go fetch my leather book. The bigger one.”
“The map book? You can’t possibly want to start drawing in that old thing now!”
“Sylvia Martinelli, if you even so much as try to argue with me…” He can’t finish the veiled threat before he begins violently coughing. Speaking with any sort of conviction takes all the strength he has.
“Mulo!” my mother mutters in Italian. “Serena is right. You’re as stubborn as a mule.” Stalking over to the corner desk where my father keeps his many research journals, she rifles through the contents of the top drawer. Pulling out the largest of the brown leather-bound journals, she brushes invisible dust from the top of it and brings it to him.
Without a word, he places the book on his lap and gingerly flips through the pages until he finds the one he wants. With one red, swollen finger, he points to a map of the Roman Forum and begins tracing the lines as if trying to commit them to memory. It’s a peculiar thing for him to do—after all, he’s the one who had drawn it.
My throat tightens as I watch him move his hand along the worn paper until he comes to an X on the bottom right page.
“X marks the spot,” he says in barely a whisper.
My mother shoves a loose lock of salt and pepper hair back into her bun and huffs out an impatient breath. My frustration matches hers. If these truly are my father’s final hours, I don’t want to spend them talking about ghosts.
With the book still balancing on his lap, he reaches for my mother’s hand and brings her finger to the X on the page. All her frustration melts away, and a look of understanding passes between them—as if they’re sharing decades of emotions in a single moment .
“You worked so hard to find them,” she murmurs, eyes full of sadness and heartbreak.
It’s killing me to watch her suffer—to watch them both suffer. I blink back tears and return to the window. I peer out through the shutter’s slats and watch the rain batter the streets. As the wind whistles and whips, I can’t help but think the storm’s fury is a sign from the heavens. It’s as if the angels are expressing all the rage I feel in my heart.
“Serena, let me tell you about Cleopatra and Mark Antony,” my father says.
I turn away from the window and back to him. “I know their story, Papa.”
“Historians say their ending was so epic, even Shakespeare himself couldn’t have written it better,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Yes, you’ve told me the story a thousand times,” I remind him, wishing he would save his strength rather than go off on what is sure to be a long-winded tale. “Cleopatra attempted a fake suicide that resulted in Antony’s death. When she learned what happened, a heartbroken Cleopatra killed herself with poison. I used the story in my dissertation, Papa. You don’t need to tell me again.”
“Let me tell it to you anyway. Come sit.”
Suppressing a sigh, I return to my chair beside his bed. My mother sits on the opposite side with a wary expression.
“Carlo, maybe just tell the short version. You don’t want to overdo it.”
He pays her no mind and turns his attention to me.
“Cleopatra was a cunning and masterful leader,” he begins. “From the moment Mark Antony met her, he was smitten to the point of obsession. Cleopatra knew this and used it to her advantage. She needed Antony’s protection to expand her power, and he needed her riches to fund his armies in the East. She threw extravagant parties for the Romans and flaunted her wealth. She drank and flirted with Antony, who was determined to surpass her extravagance by throwing parties of his own.”
“But his parties were never as good as Cleopatra’s,” I continue with a small smile, having heard the story so often that I know it by heart. “Eventually, they fell in love, and Antony impregnated Cleopatra, only to leave her and return to Rome to marry another woman. While he was there, Cleopatra gave birth to twins.”
“That’s correct! Alexander Helios and Cleopatra Selene,” my father adds with eyes brighter than I’ve seen them in weeks. “They are the key to all of this, Serena.”
My brows push together in confusion. In all the times I’ve heard my father speak of Cleopatra and Mark Antony, he’s never once focused on their children.
“They are the key to all of what, Papa?”
My father gives me a knowing smile, then looks down at his book and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it to reveal a sizable rubbing of old Roman cursive that I’ve never seen before.
“Six months ago, I came across a stone tablet and took this rubbing of it,” my father explains. “It’s the proof that Mark Antony and Cleopatra’s ashes are in Rome, Serena—not in Egypt. But some have gone to great lengths to keep this information hidden. They will kill to protect the secret and ? —”
My father’s words cut off as he’s overcome with another coughing fit. My mother hurries to grab a tissue from the dresser and hands it to him. He holds it to his mouth as his body convulses and spasms. To my horror, when he pulls the tissue away, it’s stained red with blood.
“Papa, let me get you a drink. You’ve been talking too much. You need to—” He grips my hand with such force, I’m taken by surprise. I didn’t think he had that much strength left in him.
“Trust your intuition, Serena. X marks the spot—I’m sure of it. But it’s dangerous and you’ll have to be careful. Be smarter than me. Promise to see my work through to the end. You must find Cleopatra and Mark Antony.”
For the briefest moment, I consider my glassblowing workshop and my passion to create. The art calls to me, even now, as I stare into my father’s glassy, yellowing eyes. They’re so full of desperation. I have little choice but to give this dying man—my hero for as long as I can remember—my solemn vow.
My dreams no longer matter.
I will do anything for my father, even if it means giving up the thing I love the most.
“I promise, Papa. I will find them.”
I slowly emerged from the darkness of sleep, my face scrunched as if I’d been crying. The weight of grief pressed upon me like a lead blanket, while my mind swirled with remnants of the haunting dream. The flashback of my father’s final days was as clear as when it originally happened.
I inhaled a shaky breath and opened my eyes, feeling emotionally wrung out. My head throbbed mercilessly, a relentless ache pulsing behind my temples. I blinked, struggling to focus on my surroundings.
Disoriented from the dream that felt too close to reality, it took me a minute to remember where I was. The scent on the soft pillows—his scent—was all I needed to bring me back to the present day.
As if materializing from the shadows themselves, Anton’s silhouette became visible in the dark room. He leaned down, turning on the bedside lamp. I allowed my eyes to adjust to the light, and met his observant and assessing onyx gaze. He stared with an intensity that sent shivers cascading down my spine.
“How are you feeling?” His voice was low and gravelly, cutting through the silence like warm whiskey, its timbre sending a burning awareness through my veins .
Ignoring the uptick in my heart rate, I frowned and considered how I felt. Flashes from my dream came forth, and grief washed over me once again. I could almost smell the antiseptic from my mother’s meticulous cleaning in the air. The sound of my father’s voice still echoed in my mind. The rain whipping against the house, the chill of fear I’d felt in my bones… Reliving it was all too much to bear.
I struggled to find my voice, unsure how to articulate the storm of emotions raging within me. I didn’t want to talk about my dream or how it made me feel—at least not at that moment. Not when my head felt like it might explode.
“I...I don't know,” I managed to whisper, my words barely audible in the quiet of the room. I adjusted the blankets around me, noticing how he tracked my every move as I folded back the sheet and shifted to a sitting position. The small action made the piercing pain in my skull that much worse. I winced and brought a hand to the back of my head.
“Are you alright?”
“My head is pounding.”
“There’s ibuprofen on the nightstand. Let me get you some fresh water and?—”
“No, it’s okay,” I said. “It’s not that kind of headache. It’s the bobby pins in my hair. They’ve been there since Monday afternoon.”
When he sat down on the edge of the bed, I could feel the heat radiating from his body. Strangely, all I could think about was curling into him, needing a comforting embrace amidst the turmoil left behind by the dream. It was an effort to stop myself from doing exactly that, acutely aware of the vulnerable position I was in.
Anton lifted a hand toward my face. Instinctively, I pulled back. Despite my headache, I had the wherewithal to remember that my skin was sticky from fever sweats, and I hadn’t showered in a few days. I was, for lack of a better word, completely gross, and didn’t want to be touched by another human while in this state. Anton, by contrast, was handsome and perfect, smelling like soap and pine and sin.
“Why did you shy away?” he asked.
“I’m just…” I paused, embarrassed as I struggled to find words.
His hand reached out again, tentative but determined, as he brushed aside a limp lock of hair that had fallen across my forehead. The contact sent a jolt of awareness coursing through me, igniting a blazing fire in the depths of my soul.
And then, to my surprise, he began to remove the pins from my hair.