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Talia moved closer, dropping the plate on his placemat before they both returned to the kitchen, leaving us in silence.
I stared at the empty seat but didn’t question who would accompany us. Instead, I sipped the lukewarm soup Viktor had offered. He’d said he wasn’t a fan of it, and it couldn’t be coincidence Lucca refused his bowl too. Then why tomato and basil soup?
“Why don’t you like the soup?” I asked boldly as if I knew he didn’t.
“Just not a fan of its taste,” he replied and picked a vinaigrette dressing and drizzled it lightly over the greens.
“Hmm. Funny, neither is Viktor.”
I sensed his eyes, but ignored them and took another sip of delicious broth.
“You should tell her the truth, Lucca,” a croaking voice said, and I twirled to its echo.
Salvatore Mancini.
I rose from my seat in his presence with wide eyes, watching the memories of my past unwind. To a time I’d called him godfather, when he was my brothers’ instead of mine. A time when our families were at war and not forced into treaties by marriage.
I had been shy and scared. When my mother was around, I would hide near her skirt or in every corner to remain invisible from my father’s eyes. And while I was young and confused, I’d always felt safe near the man with the red stone ring.
“This bush isn’t the ideal place to hide, kiddo.”
I peered up into gentle brown eyes. It was the only feature I found kind. The rest of him was scary, dressed in the same suits my father did. But his gaze was always curious, soft when I was around. Always treating me with care and speaking in a low tone. I had just turned four, and my father constantly reminded me I wasn’t a child anymore. That I wasn’t meant to be treated like one. Why did he? Why did he speak to me like you would a baby?
“I’m four,” I squeaked, and glanced around to see if any of the gunmen had heard me. If I’d given away my secret hideout.
“Are you now?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
Sal sat down on the steps near the entrance, a bit out of reach, but still close enough to hear me. I wish he would leave me. This was a brand-new hideout. One that allowed me to see who came and went, and easy to slip away when my father's car tires rolled down the long drive. The crate I’d learned to remove from the stone wall was an easy escape. I could slither between the small opening and close it before my father could beat me back into the house of screams.
“Then you already know these thorns are painful.”
I did, but I was careful. I moved quietly and creeped small enough for them not to touch me. It didn't take me long to learn my lesson.
“My father isn’t here,” I replied instead.
“I’m aware.” He smiled. “Can you keep a secret?”
I nodded.
“I’m here for your mother, although your father believes I’m here for business.”
My eyes flooded with fright. My father wasn’t someone to lie to. He was extremely mean and liked to cause pain whenever I did.
“Why?”
He didn’t answer right away, and I could see his eyes clouded with concern.
“Your mother knows the whereabouts of someone I deeply care about, and I’m afraid of what could happen soon.”
He didn’t make sense. My mamma didn’t talk to anyone. Hardly even spoke to me. She spent most of her time crying inside her room as I played with her hair.
“Could you maybe help me talk to her?”
I thought about it, and while I wanted to help, I didn’t see my mother leaving her room.
“It’s very serious.”
