Page 44 of Bitter Prince
She stretched, arching her back and yawning at the same time. “Man, my brothers would kill me if they knew we were in Italy.”
I scoffed. “No, they wouldn’t.” They adored her.
I looked out the window, watching the city come alive. The Piazza San Marco in the heart of Venice would soon be crowded with tourists from all over the world. The area was thronged with cafes, restaurants, and so many iconic sites. It wasn’t home, but it was familiar.
“I can’t believe I’m in Venice,” she murmured. “All I have to do is cross the canal and I’ll be in an enchanted Renaissance city.”
I tilted my head pensively. “I’m surprised your brother never brought you to Italy.”
She shrugged. “He prefers Russia. I guess he feels more at home there.” Phoenix stirred and I pushed her dark brown hair off her sleeping face. “You and Phoenix…” I found Isla’s emerald gaze, watching us. “You are so close. It makes me jealous.”
I frowned. “Why? You have your brothers.”
“They’re so much older. So protective. But you two are like twins. You’d die for each other. Kill for each other.”
I chuckled. “Your brothers would do both those things in a heartbeat.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. You two share most of your memories together.”
“Except for her hearing loss,” I muttered. “I hate that she had to suffer that one alone.”
I’d always protect her. I felt her pain; she felt mine. I sensed her sorrows; she sensed mine. I made a promise that I’d protect her, and I’d do everything in my power to keep that promise.
“You two are chatterboxes,” Athena complained. “So much talk about dying. How about sleeping before we die?”
Isla and I chuckled. “It’s time to wake up,” I said. “Don’t you want to go lounge by the pool? Then when the sun sets, we’ll go out for dinner on the piazza and grab some ice cream.”
Phoenix opened her blue eyes, smiling dreamily and stretching. “What did I miss?”
“Not much,” I signed. “Sleepyheads. Plans for pool lounging. Dinner at the piazza and gelato.”
A knock sounded on my door. “Come in,” I called out.
The door opened and Maria, Papà’s cook, poked her head through.
“I have to go,” she said. Her large bag slid off her shoulder before she caught it. “Your papà is out, but he will be home shortly. You girls be good, okay?”
I couldn’t help but smile.
“We’re always good, Maria.” She watched Phoenix and me, smiling affectionately.
“How you two have grown,” she murmured, her tone melancholic. “It feels like only yesterday that you were visiting Italy for the first time. Both of you look like—”
Something in my chest twisted, but I ignored it. I knew we looked like our mother. We’d heard it our whole lives. Papà sometimes couldn’t bear to look at us because we reminded him so much of what he lost.
“Non importa.” When my brows scrunched, she added, “Never mind.” Then she moved her hand in the sign of the cross. “Mamma mia, you are Italian but don’t speak a lick of it.”
I shrugged. “I know gelato.”
Maria had been our family’s cook for as long as I could remember. When Mamma died, she became more than that. She was the one to comfort us and watch movies with us and eat ice cream with us. When we were sent to boarding school, she’d come once a week and bring us home-cooked meals. So we wouldn’t forget what home tasted like, she said.
She followed us to California, but she always said she was the happiest here, back in Italy. It was where her sisters lived. So when we left for college, she returned and continued to cook for Papà. I often wondered why she didn’t just live in his villa, but she said nothing was better than a woman’s independence.
“I have breakfast ready for you,” she continued. “Sit on the terrace and get some sun. Teresa will bring it out for you once you’re downstairs.”
I climbed off my bed and padded over to her, hugging her. “Thank you.”
“Say hello to your family,” Phoenix signed, and I translated. Maria never quite picked up the ASL.
