Chapter Twelve
LUCIA
By the time Angela brings out the tiramisu, I’m too full to eat another bite.
I eat it anyway.
Gio finishes his slice before Angela has even returned the serving knife to the dish.
“That was indecent,” Marco says.
Gio points his fork at the piece in front of his brother.
“Are you going to eat yours?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound very committed.”
Marco pulls his plate closer.
“Touch it and lose a hand.”
The threat doesn’t frighten me this time.
Maybe because Gio only grins. Maybe because Marco takes a deliberate bite while watching his brother, as though defending his dessert is a matter of principle.
Or maybe because I’m beginning to understand that not every sharp word conceals a sharper consequence.
Angela looks at me.
“More coffee?”
I shake my head.
“No, thank you.”
“You’re sure?”
“She’s had enough,” Marco says.
I look across the table.
“How would you know?”
“You’ve been awake since six and had three cups at breakfast.”
Gio leans toward me.
“I told you. He notices everything.”
Marco ignores him.
Angela begins gathering the dessert plates.
I rise and reach for mine.
“I’ll help.”
“You’re a guest,” she says.
The word catches somewhere in my chest.
Guest.
Temporary by definition.
“I’d still like to help.”
I pick up Gio’s plate before Angela can stop me.
“You cooked. I can clear the table.”
Angela considers arguing, then hands me Marco’s empty coffee cup.
“Put these beside the sink.”
Gio pushes back his chair.
“I’ll help too.”
“No,” Angela and Marco say together.
Gio looks offended.
“I’m capable of carrying dishes.”
“You broke three glasses the last time,” Angela reminds him.
“The tray was unstable.”
“The tray was sitting on the counter.”
He turns to me.
“You see how I’m treated?”
“I do.”
“And?”
I collect the last plate.
“It seems justified.”
Marco lowers his head, but not before I catch the smile.
They’re grown men, but in moments like this—arguing over dessert and broken glasses—they must be the boys Angela still sees whenever she looks at them.
I follow her into the kitchen.
The room still smells of tomatoes, garlic, and coffee. Dinner has left its evidence on every surface: serving spoons beside the stove, wineglasses near the sink, crumbs scattered across the cutting board. A streak of sauce marks the white cloth folded beside the range.
It looks nothing like Viktor’s kitchen.
I was rarely allowed inside it. Meals appeared in the dining room without any sign of the people who prepared them. Dirty dishes disappeared the same way. The machinery of the house remained hidden so Viktor could pretend comfort simply materialized around him.
Here, Angela turns on music before filling the sink.
A woman begins singing softly in Italian through a speaker on the windowsill. Angela hums along as she runs warm water over the dishes.
“You don’t have to wash anything,” she tells me. “Just dry.”
“I can wash.”
“I know you can, but I’m asking you to dry.”
She hands me a towel.
I accept it.
Angela washes the serving bowl first. She handles it carefully, lowering it into the water instead of placing it with the other dishes.
“This belonged to their mother?”
Her hands pause.
“Yes.”
She runs a cloth around the painted rim.
“Is it old?”
“Old enough that Gio and Marco were both warned they’d be buried in the garden if they broke it.”
I smile.
“Did they believe her?”
“Marco did.”
“And Gio?”
“Gio wanted to know which part of the garden.”
I laugh softly.
Angela passes me the bowl.
Blue vines curl around its cream-colored surface. A tiny chip marks one edge, almost hidden beneath the glaze. Near the bottom, the hairline crack Marco mentioned disappears beneath one painted leaf before emerging on the other side.
“What was she like?”
Angela looks toward the dining room.
The brothers’ voices carry through the doorway. Gio says something about opening another bottle of wine. Marco tells him he’s had enough.
“She was warm,” Angela says. “Stubborn. Far too clever for her own good.”
“She sounds like Gio.”
“She could be.”
Angela smiles to herself as she rinses a plate.
“But she understood Marco too. She knew silence didn’t mean he had nothing to say.”
I dry the bowl slowly.
“What does it mean?”
“With Marco?”
She considers the question.
“Usually that he has too much to say and doesn’t trust himself to say any of it.”
I glance toward the dining room.
“Were they always this different?”
“From the moment they were born.”
Angela hands me another dish.
“Gio came into the world screaming. Marco looked around as though he wanted to speak with whoever was in charge.”
I laugh.
“That sounds right.”
“Don’t let Marco fool you, though. He feels things just as deeply as his brother.”
“He hides it better.”
“He thinks he does.”
Footsteps sound in the hall.
Marco appears in the kitchen doorway with two empty wineglasses in his hands. His tie has been loosened, and the candlelight from the dining room catches the green in his eyes.
“I was told these needed to be brought in.”
Angela looks at him.
“You were told to stop your brother from opening another bottle.”
“I did.”
“How?”
“I took the corkscrew.”
From the dining room, Gio calls, “We have more than one, you know.”
Marco closes his eyes.
Angela sighs.
“I’ll deal with him.”
She dries her hands and leaves the kitchen.
Marco watches her go.
“You may have made a tactical error,” I say.
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
He sets the glasses beside the sink.
His gaze falls on the serving bowl in my hands.
“You’re holding that like it might explode.”
“Angela told me about the garden.”
“She was serious.”
“Gio didn’t think so.”
“Gio has always had an inflated sense of his own survival skills.”
“Had?”
The corner of Marco’s mouth moves.
He takes the bowl from me with both hands. For a man who claims not to be afraid of it, he’s remarkably careful.
He opens a glass-fronted cabinet and sets it on the highest shelf.
“Why use it if everyone is so worried about breaking it?”
He closes the cabinet.
“Because that’s what it’s for.”
The answer catches me off guard.
At Viktor’s house, valuable things were locked away. The oldest dishes stayed behind glass. Certain rooms existed only to be admired from their doorways.
Beautiful things were protected by never being touched.
Here, the bowl is washed, chipped, repaired, and returned to the cabinet until someone needs it again.
Marco notices me staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You say that often.”
“So do you.”
His eyes narrow slightly, not with anger but with the interest of someone recognizing a challenge.
“Did you enjoy dinner?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Angela doesn’t usually make that much food in the middle of the week.”
“I gathered.”
“She likes you.”
“She barely knows me.”
“That has never stopped Angela from forming an opinion.”
“And you?”
The question leaves my mouth before I can reconsider it.
Marco becomes very still.
“What about me?”
“Have you formed an opinion?”
He considers me across the kitchen. His attention moves over my face as though the answer might be something he can verify before saying aloud.
“I think you’re more capable than you believe.”
It isn’t the answer I expected.
“What does that mean?”
“You escaped Viktor’s house without money, identification, or a plan. You found somewhere to sleep. You kept yourself out of his hands until I found you.”
“You found me the next day.”
“I had considerably more resources than you did.”
“That sounds like a polite way of saying I failed.”
“You’re standing in my kitchen after escaping a man who controlled every part of your life for six years.”
His voice remains even.
“I wouldn’t call that failure.”
Something tightens in my throat.
I look down at the towel in my hands.
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“That answer is becoming repetitive.”
“So is the gratitude.”
I glance up.
For a moment, neither of us looks away.
His eyes aren’t as cold as I first believed. Gray surrounds the green, changing with the light and making his expression difficult to read. They are nothing like Gio’s warm brown ones, but the focus behind them is the same.
Gio appears in the doorway holding a bottle of wine.
“I found another corkscrew.”
Marco’s eyes close.
“Of course you did.”
Gio looks between us.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“No,” Marco and I answer together.
Gio grins.
“Interesting.”
Marco takes the bottle from him.
“You’ve had enough.”
“I’ve had two glasses.”
“You were drinking before dinner.”
“That shouldn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“It was in a different room.”
Marco places the bottle on top of the refrigerator.
Gio looks at me.
“See what I live with?”
I fold the towel over the edge of the sink.
“Definitely justified.”
He points at me.
“You’re spending too much time with him.”
“I’ve barely spoken to him.”
“Exactly. That’s how it starts.”
Angela calls Gio’s name from the dining room.
His expression changes.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is,” Marco says. “She found the second corkscrew.”
Gio leaves without another word.
Marco glances toward the doorway.
“I should rescue him.”
“From Angela?”
“From himself.”
He steps into the hall.
“Good night, Lucia.”
“Good night.”
He disappears around the corner.
I finish drying the last plate and place it beside the sink.
The bowl remains visible through the cabinet glass.
Old and chipped, but still used.
For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about that.
#
Upstairs, I change into the pajamas Grace bought for me and climb into bed.
I turn off the lamp.
The house settles around me.
Pipes shift inside the walls. A branch brushes against one of the windows. Somewhere down the hallway, a door closes softly.
The sounds are unfamiliar, but they aren’t frightening. The low rush of air through the vents replaces the electronic hum of the locks at Viktor’s house.
I roll onto my side and close my eyes.
The serving bowl appears behind them.
Then the flowers on the dinner table. Gio trying to steal Marco’s tiramisu. Angela telling me that anyone who appreciates her cooking is welcome at her table.
Guest.
I open my eyes.
The room is dark.
For six years, I dreamed about having a door I could open.
Now I have one.