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"Bravissima, Tatiana!" Martin exclaims, his excitement palpable even through the phone. "This is going to be an incredible experience for you, and I do not doubt that your performance will be unforgettable."
I end the call and dive into all that’s to be done. There is so much to do with such little time. With only two weeks until the performance, I immediately begin making plans for the trip. I run my fingers through the pages of my calendar as I organize my schedule, ensuring I have time for rehearsals, costume fittings, and last-minute preparations.
My mind races with thoughts of Saint Petersburg — the architecture, the history, and the possibility of meeting my mysterious uncle.
"Hey, Tati," Dad calls from the living room, snapping me back to the present. "Do you need help packing or anything?"
"Thanks, Dad, but I think I've got it," I respond, riffling through my closet for suitable outfits and performance attire. As I carefully fold each piece and place it in my suitcase, I imagine standing on the stage at the Mariinsky Theater, basking in the spotlight as I pour my heart and soul into every note.
"Remember to pack warm clothes," Mom advises, poking her head into my room. "The weather in Saint Petersburg can be quite unpredictable."
"Of course, Mom," I assure her, adding a few extra sweaters and a cozy scarf to my suitcase. Their concern is touching.
"Two weeks," I whisper to myself as I zip up my suitcase, the weight of the moment settling on my shoulders. "Two weeks until everything changes."
Chapter 9
Philippe
I can't shake her image from my mind—Tatiana. I want to see her again, feel her warmth pressed against me, but is it a wise decision? The thought lingers, a tide rising in my chest. The image of her parents waiting for her at the doorway, looking over her with simple affection, overwhelms my senses.
I’m not crazy. I’ve only just met Tatiana. I’m not running off into the sunset with her, propping a six-carat diamond on her finger. But hypothetically, if I were to live with Tatiana or someone else, what kind of home could I offer her?
A lump forms in my throat as I remember remnants of my childhood. My mother gave me a happy home. She’d insist on my father joining us for dinner at least once a week, feeding us meals prepared by her own hands. During those times, we’d send away all of Father’s honchos, she’d sing for us as I tried to accompany her on the piano.
On rare occasions, Mother and I would gang up and try to tell my father to shut down shop and buy a farm someplace in a rural small town and get some sheep, cattle, and a few dogs.
I wanted a donkey, too, and my dad had laughed and said we could trade the donkey in for a horse.
Of course, those were just dreams that came crashing down once Mother was killed. Things were never the same after that. I always wondered, in her heart, if my mother longed for a more straight-cut life. A husband with a nine-to-five job, a small home with a white picket fence? Wouldn’t Tatiana, or any other woman, want just the same?
"Philippe," one of my father's associates interrupts my thoughts, his voice tense and urgent. "Your father wants to speak with you about something important."
I sighed and shut the report I was trying to read before I got distracted. I follow the mafioso to my father’s office.
The moment I step into the room, I sense an unwelcome heaviness in the air. My father sits behind his desk, shoulders hunched over. He never hunches.
“Father, is everything alright?” concern lingers in my straightforward question.
“Philippe, my son, we need to talk.” He motions toward the chair opposite his own. The room is dull, filled with smoke from his cigar. In front of him stands an aged, limited edition of HighlandScotch, and he pours me a dribble in a crystal glass he had already laid out for me.
My father and I rarely share a drink. When we do, it’s to either celebrate or mourn. Tonight, I feel like I’m about to mourn something truly tragic.
He puts a cube of ice in my glass, how I like it, and slides it across the table. I hold my hand out, catching it in place just before it topples over.
I don’t sip it. Instead, I stare at his weathered face. The first thought I had was that he wasn’t aging as well as he should have been. His sagging eyes have an unnatural brightness to them, the water retention is causing ugly jowls, and his skin seems paper thin with an olive hue.
His hand trembles as he raises his scotch to his dry lips, and I realize how thin his wrists have gotten. Has he lost weight?
“Father, tell me,” I ask again. “What’s going on?”
“Drink, Son.”
I force myself to take a sip. Then, when he still doesn’t speak, I take another. As the silence continues, my heart rate amps up. Don Accardo waits until we both finish our drinks and then pours us another. He talks about the news and asks me what I think the world will look like two decades down the line while pouring us a third drink.
“Father, please,” I stand now, nervous and mildly annoyed. “Stop beating around the bush. You called me here, and I’ve been sitting expectantly for half an hour. Why did you call me?”
He looks at me, his gaze pointedly shifts back to the chair. Enough said, I sit back down again.
