Vittoria
The following morning, I’m escorted downstairs by two men. They’re just leading me to the front door when the kitchen door opens and a woman, the one from yesterday, comes strolling out, humming quietly. She stops when she sees me and gasps as if taken aback. I don’t know her. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen her before.
“Move,” the guard orders in a low enough voice that she wouldn’t hear him.
“Are you Hannah’s friend?” the woman asks, taking a tentative step toward me but stopping when she looks up at the men on either side of me. Is she afraid of them?
“I’m Vittoria,” I say with as warm a smile as I can muster. There’s something wrong with her, clearly.
“You’re the girl who likes dandelions.” Dandelions again. She smiles, but it’s a strange, wavering smile like she’s unsure. “I know where they grow.”
“I used to think they were daffodils,” I tell her, remembering my mother and how she’d humor me, putting every bouquet of dandelions I picked in a pretty vase for me.
“They’re both yellow. Did you eat breakfast yet?”
The guard’s hand tightens on my arm, and I glance up at him. He’s clearly been instructed not to upset this woman. “I haven’t, and I’m quite hungry,” I tell her. I’m not, but I am curious.
“Come and have breakfast with me then. Francesca will be here soon too. She overslept.”
“I’d love that,” I say.
The guard clears his throat and doesn’t let go of me when I take a step toward the woman, but just as I do, another door opens, and Bastian steps into the corridor. He stops short when he takes in the scene and is quick to come to his mother’s side.
She turns a bright smile to him. “You slept in too,” she says to him, then hugs him. “Are you hungry? We can all have breakfast together. Won’t that be nice? And when Hannah wakes up—”
“Hannah’s not here, Mom, remember?” he says abruptly, eyes like stone on me. He tips his head to the front door, and the soldier tugs me toward it. Bastian turns his mother back toward the kitchen, smiling at her before glancing back at me with daggers in his eyes as I’m led out the front door and to the waiting SUV.
My guess is their mother has some sort of dementia. She doesn’t seem to be much older than sixty. It’s too young for the disease. She thinks Hannah is still alive. And she recalls the dandelions. I guess she was also in the kitchen that day. I don’t remember her, though.
But my attention is diverted when, much like the day they brought me to this house, I’m driven to a large gated mansion overlooking the sea in the Chiaia neighborhood of Naples. Many of these old palaces have been converted into apartment buildings, but this one is a home. I take in the beautiful stone of the exterior walls beyond the lush green garden. It’s familiar, and I realize I’ve seen it before in a luxury homes magazine. My brother had commented on it as I’d flipped through the pages. He’d known the owner’s name and had made some comment about it being a mafia boss. I hadn’t paid much attention, telling him he was wrong, and we’d carried on our separate ways. I guess he was right all along.
The SUV pulls to a stop, and I slip out when the soldier opens the back door. No sense in letting them manhandle me, yet one takes my arm anyway. I guess there’s no getting around it with these men.
I think about what Amadeo said last night about having their protection as I glance up to the giants on either side of me, at the gate that’s already closed behind me and the men standing sentry there. They’re not brandishing machine guns, but I’m sure they’re packing something.
“Move,” the oaf to my right says when I stumble. I shift my attention to the front of the house as the doors are opened by a woman in uniform, and we enter. I barely have a chance to look around as I’m led to the marble stairs, which are simple compared to the sweeping staircase at the Ravello villa but impressive all the same. I want to look around, take in the history of the place because although it’s been modernized and has contemporary touches, they’ve managed to maintain the historical elements.
The entry is long and spacious, and the ceilings must be twenty feet high. And from every window, I see the sun glinting off the water of the Riviera of Chiaia.
“Move,” oaf number two says when I pause to look out of the large arched window at the farthest room.
“I’m moving,” I tell him and make a point of climbing the stairs as slowly as possible.
Along the upstairs hall are six doors, and I’m led to one at the far end, where oaf number one unlocks the door and gestures for me to enter.
I do and turn to him. “Where’s Amadeo?” I ask as he pulls the door closed. “Hey!” I try to stop him from closing it, but I’m pretty sure he’d slam my fingers in it, so I pull back just before it shuts, and I hear myself being locked in. Again.
Fine.
I turn to survey the room. It’s a large, beautifully furnished room in an Italian style with both antique and modern furnishings, the touches working beautifully together. The four-poster mahogany bed in the center has an intricately carved headboard and posts. It looks about a hundred years old. The bedding, curtains, and carpet are all dark and very masculine. For a moment, I wonder if it’s Amadeo’s or Bastian’s bedroom, but I see no personal touches. The bookcase is empty, as is the walk-in closet. I sit on the edge of the bed to test the mattress. It’s comfortable, as are the pillows, opposite my hilltop prison. If this is a guest room, I wonder about the other rooms in this house.
The best part of the room, though, is my suitcase sitting open on a luggage stand across the room.
I leap to my feet and go to it, ignoring the French doors that lead to a balcony and a view of the gardens and the sea beyond. I’m still wearing the dress I wore to the funeral, and although I’d packed light, thinking I’d only be staying a few days, I’m grateful to have my things.
Rifling through the suitcase, I’m aware someone has been through it. My bras and panties are lying on top, and I push the idea of Amadeo or one of his oafs handling my personal things out of my mind. I wasn’t hiding weapons in here. I’d come to my father’s funeral. And from what I can see, nothing is missing, so I take my bag of toiletries and head to the bathroom.
The bathroom is marble, as expected, and just as the bedroom is, it’s beautiful. Like the Ravello villa, fixtures are modern but in keeping historical elements. I lock the door and set my things on the shelf above the pedestal sink, washing my hands. My reflection shows a mass of bedhead hair that’s been through it. The waves are hard enough to manage with conditioner and a comb but using just my fingers doesn’t work. It’s too thick and too rebellious. It’s exactly like my mom’s hair, though. I look more and more like her. Emma, too, although less so than me.