Page 10 of Isle of Pain

I’m happy for him. And for Giulia. She truly found her place within our family unit and completes my brother. They’re a force to be reckoned with, unstoppable when they don’t bicker, though I’ve come to understand it’s their own form of foreplay.

We land on Kalliste on December 26th, Lana Moretti and Lisandru Pierce Bartoli welcoming us on their territory. My cousin Pierce and Andrea have been working on repairing their broken relationship in the past few months.

I never had a relationship with him to begin with. I understand he’s family but to me, he’s as much a stranger as the rest of the Moretti family is. And I don’t trust strangers.

When Lana and her fiancé reach their hands for me to shake, I just give them a curt nod.

The ride to the Moretti mansion is beautiful. More than I expected.

Travelling is always a source of anxiety. Not knowing my surroundings, who to trust and how to speak the local language are barriers to experience the world fully but within the confines of the town car, I watch as we pass lush hills patched with snow on my right and the azure sea on my left.

The contrast of the landscape is breathtaking and even with the upcoming storm turning the sky an opaque anthracite colour, I can’t help but admire the scenery. It’s very different from my house in West Hill. I don’t know how I feel about that.

Located behind a high ornate metal door and overlooking the Mediterranean Sea with a garden of olive and fig trees that must cover the place with cooling shade in the summer, the mansion is as sumptuous as the panorama outside.

As we step inside, the silence of winter is replaced with loud chatter and I almost flinch. Years of hiding my emotions help me remain still.

Giulia takes my hand and gives it a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry. I should have told you that we Morettis are a very loud bunch.”

“I should have known just by knowing you,” I answer with a smirk. She’s the loudest person I know. I didn’t like it at first, but now that I know who she is at her core, a passionate defender of her family who loves hard, it makes my insides feel warm to know she’s here with us.

Before we make it more than a few steps into the living room, a storm of taffetas collide with Giulia and I tense. The pink-cheeked black-haired girl with a nose piercing squeezes my sister-in-law, but I don’t even see her anymore.

Because I see double, except her twin doesn’t have a piercing and looks like the prettiest fairy. Her night-blue dress embroidered with silver thread embraces her lush body perfectly, giving away all the secrets of her curvy form. The light reflects on her long dark hair, loose on her shoulders and I cant my head to the side, overcome with the need to glide my fingersthrough them. I fit both hands into the pockets of my oversized jeans to fend off the curious compulsion, then run my tongue over my lip piercing three times back and forth.

Even I know it’s not customary or welcomed for strangers to touch other strangers’ hair. It looks so soft and silky, though.

“This is my cousin Marie and that, talking Andrea’s ear off, is Lisa,” Giulia chuckles, introducing the two people who sandwiched her in a hug that would make any normal person uncomfortable.

Marie.

I repeat her name in my head, rolling the sound on my tongue. I like that it’s pronounced “ma-ree” and not “mae-ree”. It makes her less common. Just like her face. Even if the carbon copy exists next to her, I see all the differences.

The birthmark at the bottom right corner of her mouth, a micro scar right above the left eyebrow, the way her lids are slightly hooded over her eyes and how her bottom lip is plumper than on her sister’s face. The green in her eyes has a deeper shade toward the irises, particularly on the right eye, like her genetics couldn’t decide which Pantone to choose from.

I wonder if she knows.

Before I can observe and take more notes of what makes her unique, she speaks a shy “Nice to meet you,” then she scurries away into the busy living-room.

That night,the Christmas dinner is a feast of delicious homemade foods, prepared by the Moretti matriarch and hercrew, red wine from the Bartoli vineyards flowing freely in each glass.

I enjoy it more than I thought I would.

Yes, they’re loud and the inebriation doesn’t help them control their volume. But they’re happy to be with each other and the joy and love is infectious. My muscles relax as the wine flows in my bloodstream and food fills my stomach.

Yet, I never let Marie leave my sight.

For every glass of wine I drink, she downs three. She’s on her seventh and I don’t touch my third. By all counts, she had two whole bottles by herself, but she doesn’t sway and her eyes still seem clear, her attention drifting from family member to family member, a slight frown on her face whenever she looks at her sister Lisa. Who I noticed did not drink at all, though she did pretend to put her lips in her glass.

She also didn’t touch any cold cuts or raw fish and seashells.

Must be pregnant and not wanting the attention. No one seems to notice, too absorbed on other topics.

When Marie finally turns her eyes to me, our gazes collide and I feel warm all over for an entirely different reason than alcohol. Her cheeks take on a peachy hue. It’s lovely.

I don’t know what compels me to follow her when she excuses herself and walks to the library at the back of the house. She doesn't hear me. I watch as she pours herself a glass of what must be whiskey from the crystal decanter resting on a vintage cart.

The place is tastefully decorated with a thick dark green rug and a modern beige sofa in the middle of the room, surrounded by shelves of books and priceless art hanging from the walls. A bit pompous but it works with the rest of the house. She looks out of place, though. Almost too raw.

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