Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Katya
Santo cheats like crazy. When he suggested a game of Scrabble as a way of passing the time, I jumped at the chance.
After four days of lockdown, the walls of the villa are starting to close in on me. I probably wouldn't mind as much if they weren't such a damned ugly color.
The past few days have been eerily calm, like the entire household is waiting for something horrible to happen.
Gabriele and I haven't seen much of each other but when we have it's been achingly civil. Except when he comes to my room, of course. Then being polite is the last thing on our minds.
I scowl as Santo puts down a tile that he apparently produced from thin air.
"You cannot have puta," I tell him, pointing at the board with justified indignation.
"It's a word," he argues.
"Yes, but you didn't let me have blyad."
"Because it's Russian," he reasons.
I put my hands on my hips. "Puta is Spanish."
"It's also Italian."
My glare has no effect on him. He smiles blandly at me, a man entirely comfortable with his chicanery.
“We agreed to use English."
He opens his mouth, set to continue the argument about something that scarcely matters in the grand scheme of things, when someone knocks at the door.
He gets up from his seat and goes to answer it. There's a brief conversation in Italian. Not knowing what they're saying pisses me off. I need to learn the language.
Santo turns to me. "There's a delivery."
"From Prada?" I've ordered several pairs of shoes. I'd much rather shop for them in person but I can't sit around in last season's footwear until this lockdown is over.
"From Signore Volante's brother."
Oh, that's much more interesting than kitten heels.
"What is it?"
"Wine from his vineyard."
"He owns a vineyard." I get to my feet. "Where is this delivery?"
"The kitchen. Maria is deciding what to do with it."
I head for the kitchen with Santo trailing behind. Having him as my constant shadow doesn't bug me the way being guarded by my father's men did. He knows when to step back and give me space.
My father's men saw me as an object to be safely moved from one room to the next and not as a person. Santo is a breath of fresh air in comparison. I can tease him without fear of him lashing out.
Even before we enter the kitchen, I know Maria is making a ragù. I recognize the rich aroma that comes from her secret blend of ingredients. She's standing at the counter examining the contents of a large wooden crate.
Lukas is sitting on a stool across from her, turning a bottle around in his hand.
I cross the room and look at the logo on the box. It's a wolf's head in black ink that stands out against the cream wood of the crate.
"Casa di Lupo?" I select a bottle of wine with an unpronounceable name.
There's a card sitting next to the crate, in front of Lukas who's obviously screened it. I pick it up and read.
"Happy birthday, brother," I translate, before turning the card toward Lukas. "What else does it say?"
"I hope the vintage travels well," he fills in for me.
"That's nice." It's signed L and L. One of the initials clearly belongs to Lorenzo Volante. "Who's the other L?"
"Lucia, Lorenzo's wife."
"How lovely." I study the bottle carefully. "Has anyone told Gabriele this is here?"
Lukas shakes his head. "Best not to. He's not in the best frame of mind today."
I don't ask what that means. I know things are tense around here as Orlov is still out there somewhere, waiting for his moment to act.
"Won't this cheer him up?"
"I doubt it."
"But it's a birthday present from his…" I try to recall which brother is which. "Older brother?"
"Younger," Lukas corrects me. "Damiano's the oldest, then Gabriele, then Lorenzo."
Katya
Santo cheats like crazy. When he suggested a game of Scrabble as a way of passing the time, I jumped at the chance. After four days of lockdown, the walls of the villa are starting to close in on me. I probably wouldn't mind as much if they weren't such a damned ugly color.
The past few days have been eerily calm, like the entire household is waiting for something horrible to happen. Gabriele and I haven't seen much of each other but when we have it's been achingly civil. Except when he comes to my room, of course. Then being polite is the last thing on our minds.
I scowl as Santo puts down a tile that he apparently produced from thin air.
"You cannot have puta," I tell him, pointing at the board with justified indignation.
"It's a word," he argues.
"Yes, but you didn't let me have blyad."
"Because it's Russian," he reasons.
I put my hands on my hips. "Puta is Spanish."
"It's also Italian."
My glare has no effect on him. He smiles blandly at me, a man entirely comfortable with his chicanery.
“We agreed to use English."
He opens his mouth, set to continue the argument about something that scarcely matters in the grand scheme of things, when someone knocks at the door.
He gets up from his seat and goes to answer it.
There's a brief conversation in Italian.
Not knowing what they're saying pisses me off. I need to learn the language.
Santo turns to me. "There's a delivery."
"From Prada?" I've ordered several pairs of shoes. I'd much rather shop for them in person but I can't sit around in last season's footwear until this lockdown is over.
"From Signore Volante's brother."
Oh, that's much more interesting than kitten heels.
"What is it?"
"Wine from his vineyard."
"He owns a vineyard." I get to my feet. "Where is this delivery?"
"The kitchen. Maria is deciding what to do with it."
I head for the kitchen with Santo trailing behind.
Having him as my constant shadow doesn't bug me the way being guarded by my father's men did.
He knows when to step back and give me space.
My father's men saw me as an object to be safely moved from one room to the next and not as a person.
Santo is a breath of fresh air in comparison.
I can tease him without fear of him lashing out.
Even before we enter the kitchen, I know Maria is making a ragù.
I recognize the rich aroma that comes from her secret blend of ingredients.
She's standing at the counter examining the contents of a large wooden crate.
Lukas is sitting on a stool across from her, turning a bottle around in his hand.
I cross the room and look at the logo on the box. It's a wolf's head in black ink that stands out against the cream wood of the crate.
"Casa di Lupo?" I select a bottle of wine with an unpronounceable name.
There's a card sitting next to the crate, in front of Lukas who's obviously screened it. I pick it up and read.
"Happy birthday, brother," I translate, before turning the card toward Lukas. "What else does it say?"
"I hope the vintage travels well," he fills in for me.
"That's nice." It's signed L and L. One of the initials clearly belongs to Lorenzo Volante. "Who's the other L?"
"Lucia, Lorenzo's wife."
"How lovely." I study the bottle carefully. "Has anyone told Gabriele this is here?"
Lukas shakes his head. "Best not to. He's not in the best frame of mind today."
I don't ask what that means. I know things are tense around here as Orlov is still out there somewhere, waiting for his moment to act.
"Won't this cheer him up?"
"I doubt it."
"But it's a birthday present from his…" I try to recall which brother is which. "Older brother?"
"Younger," Lukas corrects me. "Damiano's the oldest, then Gabriele, then Lorenzo."
So my husband is a middle child. I turn that over in my mind. Middle children are often the peacekeepers, aren't they? A bridge between more volatile younger siblings and overly stern older ones. Having never seen him with his brothers, I'm not sure the theory holds.
"Will they come for his birthday?" I ask. "His brothers and their wives?"
Lukas shakes his head.
"Pity." I glance at the label again. Why does a wolf's head seem apt for a Volante? "He doesn't talk about them. Have they fallen out?"
"Leave it, Katya." His voice is firm but not unkind. "Believe me, nothing good will come from picking at that scab."
What a lovely turn of phrase he has. I put down the bottle and turn to Santo.
"I'm going to go to my room for a while before dinner. Why don't you put our game away. Don't forget all the pieces you have hidden up your sleeve or wherever you've got them."
"Madre di Dio!" Santo rolls his eyes heavenward. "I did not cheat, Signora Volante. You are like a dog with a bone."
Yes, tenacious. That's me. I won't rest until I've discovered all my husband's secrets, including what's going on with his brothers.
When I get to my bedroom, I retrieve the cellphone I finally received yesterday and open my internet app to search for Casa di Lupo.
Several articles come up but I click on the link to their website.
It's an impressive organization producing internationally recognized wines.
There's a restaurant attached that's won several awards.
It's run by Lucia Volante. There's a picture of her, a stunning brunette in chef's whites.
I search through the website, gaining a sense that this is a high-end place that somehow retains a family feel.
The sole image I find of Lorenzo is of him holding a glass up to the light to inspect its contents.
Something about the serious look on his face reminds me of my husband.
There's no mistaking that they're brothers, but Lorenzo's hair is tousled and he has facial hair that suggests laziness about shaving rather than a deliberate attempt to grow a beard.
I set my phone down and go to change for dinner.
When I enter the dining room, the table is set, as always, for one. I shove down the pang of regret that causes me and take my seat. Maria brings in a bowl with rigatoni and the ragù she obviously spent hours making. I pick up my fork as she pours me a glass of red wine, then set it down again.