Frowning, I paid close attention to four faces in one of the pictures. Then I smiled, and cursed myself immediately, unable to undo the gesture or mitigate the tenderness I felt.
I would recognize those jade eyes anywhere. Camillo, in that picture, must have been about fourteen. He was a little boy with a bowl cut and a smiling face. He was standing next to another boy who looked older, but who shared his black hair and masculine features even for their tender age. There was also a man, a stout, jovial figure with a huge smile, dressed in a simple white shirt and jeans.
I wondered if that was Camillo's father; the similarities were striking, from the hair to the well-defined, angular jawline.
That's when my gaze drifted to the right edge of the picture, to the woman next to Camillo, and I was almost certain that those were his parents. Taller than anyone else in the picture, with features that would make any model jealous, was a red-haired woman. Her hair was straight and short, red as a flame, and an elegant fringe framed eyes identical to Camillo’s. They were vibrant jade, wolf eyes set in a woman. Her arms looked like snow wrapped around her son, and her elegant clothes set her apart from the others.
She was a beauty that would take anyone's breath away.
She used to be, I remembered and raised a hand, gently running my fingertips over the figure of that woman. Seeing Camillo there, between his parents and brother, smiling as I had never seen him before, forever with them and happy, was cruel. I knew this because it was how I felt whenever I looked at my childhood pictures, next to my dad. As good as it was to be ableto preserve a little piece of those we loved, there was nothing more horrible than seeing them again and not being able to touch them, talk to them and get a response.
I walked a little further down the hallway, looking at pictures of other people, some of animals that were undoubtedly beloved members of the family, and stopped again at the image of the red-haired lady. In this picture, it was just her and the burly man. They were hugging, and you could see the difference in their heights. She was very tall, and he barely reached her shoulder. But above that, there was something else.
Camillo's mother and father were smiling with their eyes in this picture. There was an unmistakable tenderness in them, and I was sure they must have loved each other deeply.
I smiled, touching the woman's face again. Mrs. Vicari had been absurdly beautiful, it was no wonder Camillo was so attractive. He took after her.
I felt a twinge in my chest again. He had lost them on the same day, in the same accident, and now all he had left were those pictures. Memories that were useless when everything else was lost.
“I hope the sun shone bright when you left, Mr. and Mrs. Vicari.” My voice was an almost inaudible whisper, but I knew that the dead were always listening and had keen ears. "My dad's name is Paul Parker, he was a soldier. I know that the mafia and the army are worlds apart, but I hope that on that side, wherever that may be, there are no differences that divide us. Drink to our health and rest until you meet again with those you love most."
I let my arms and shoulders drop with a sigh.Daisy Peonia Mary Parker, you have officially lost your mind.
Turning away from the pictures, I headed for the staircase in the middle of the hallway, flanked by two huge windows that illuminated everything. I planned on going back to my new room. Maybe take a shower and put on my pajamas, that is, the stolen T-shirt. That was the plan, until my foot landed on the first step and I turned back.
Connecting the hallway to the main room was a narrow vestibule which gave access to each of the adjacent wings of the house. I wondered if the doors were unlocked. Camillo didn't want me there, and I knew better than to disobey him, but...
A quick peek wouldn't hurt anyone, would it?
Without further ado, my hand found the cold metal of the golden handles on one of the doors, and the creaking of hinges filled the air.
Bingo.
A sense of trepidation followed me as I stepped into that area of the house.
In the darkness, my hands felt along the walls until they found a light switch. The moment the lights came on, I was surprised by a very modern space, despite containing some elements similar to the rest of the house. There, the walls were simple, without wood paneling or wallpaper. Most of them had been painted in a deep shade of dark blue and framed with white plaster moldings, all decorated with floral silhouettes. The floor was the same dark color as the rest of the mansion, but you couldtell from its condition that it was newer. Even through a thin layer of dust, it had a certain shine to it. And what pleased me most was that everything was open plan.
In front of me was a huge living room with a large, brown leather sectional that could easily seat six, surrounded by countless vases with artificial plants scattered harmoniously around. There were decorative pieces made of jute and rattan. More pictures. A kitchen and dining room connected to the space, furniture with straight, simple lines, and relatively modern appliances.
I spun around the space, running a finger across the TV's turned-off screen, drawing a line of dust and feeling a pang of pity.
A family used to live there. Their traces were everywhere, but there was no sign of them.
I lost myself in a hallway, unable to resist the temptation to see more, and opened every door I passed. There were bedrooms, bathrooms, offices... I reached the end and held my breath when I saw a line of light under one of the doors. The space was completely dark, except for the lights I had turned on here and there to avoid falling flat on my face.
Slowly, I opened the door quietly and peeked inside, not knowing what to expect.
No one. There was no one there.
I entered the room, squinting at the ceiling lamp, which was on for some unknown reason. That must have been the master suite, I realized. It was as big as Camillo's room, and most of thespace was taken up by a four-poster bed with curtains the same color as the walls. The place was as dusty as the rest of the house. There were no footprints on the floor either, which indicated that I was the first person to enter there in a long time.
I turned on my heels and prepared to resume my exploration, but instead let out a squeal when I found a huge picture hanging directly opposite the bed, above a dresser. Its subjects seemed to watch over the room.
Camillo's parents.
The picture had been taken at some party, and the background was a brightly lit ballroom. Mrs. Vicari's hair was slicked back, and she was wearing a set of beautiful jewelry, the stones of which I recognized immediately.
Peridots. My birthstone.
