Katya
Santo cheats like crazy. When he suggested a game of Scrabble as a way of passing the time, I jumped at the chance.
After four days of lockdown, the walls of the villa are starting to close in on me. I probably wouldn't mind as much if they weren't such a damned ugly color.
The past few days have been eerily calm, like the entire household is waiting for something horrible to happen.
Gabriele and I haven't seen much of each other but when we have it's been achingly civil. Except when he comes to my room, of course. Then being polite is the last thing on our minds.
I scowl as Santo puts down a tile that he apparently produced from thin air.
"You cannot have puta," I tell him, pointing at the board with justified indignation.
"It's a word," he argues.
"Yes, but you didn't let me have blyad."
"Because it's Russian," he reasons.
I put my hands on my hips. "Puta is Spanish."
"It's also Italian."
My glare has no effect on him. He smiles blandly at me, a man entirely comfortable with his chicanery.
“We agreed to use English."
He opens his mouth, set to continue the argument about something that scarcely matters in the grand scheme of things, when someone knocks at the door.
He gets up from his seat and goes to answer it. There's a brief conversation in Italian. Not knowing what they're saying pisses me off. I need to learn the language.
Santo turns to me. "There's a delivery."
"From Prada?" I've ordered several pairs of shoes. I'd much rather shop for them in person but I can't sit around in last season's footwear until this lockdown is over.
"From Signore Volante's brother."
Oh, that's much more interesting than kitten heels.
"What is it?"
"Wine from his vineyard."
"He owns a vineyard." I get to my feet. "Where is this delivery?"
"The kitchen. Maria is deciding what to do with it."
I head for the kitchen with Santo trailing behind. Having him as my constant shadow doesn't bug me the way being guarded by my father's men did. He knows when to step back and give me space.
My father's men saw me as an object to be safely moved from one room to the next and not as a person. Santo is a breath of fresh air in comparison. I can tease him without fear of him lashing out.
Even before we enter the kitchen, I know Maria is making a ragù. I recognize the rich aroma that comes from her secret blend of ingredients. She's standing at the counter examining the contents of a large wooden crate.
Lukas is sitting on a stool across from her, turning a bottle around in his hand.
I cross the room and look at the logo on the box. It's a wolf's head in black ink that stands out against the cream wood of the crate.
"Casa di Lupo?" I select a bottle of wine with an unpronounceable name.
