Page 27 of Nikola
His expression clearly told me he didn’t believe it.
8
SKYE
“You’re coming home. Take the jet and I’ll pick you up from the terminal myself.”
“Why, Papa?” My fingers trembled, desperate to keep my composure. Last night’s events had left me rattled, and I knew if he learned about my reckless misadventures at Revelation or the memory I’d shared with Nikola, my days at D’Arc would be over. “I’m so close to finishing my studies.”
Though I’d never been studious like many of my friends, I’d chosen music for my major to make my mama happy and because I’d never had much of a drive for anything outside of piano. Sad, but true; I was still figuring out who I was.
“Because Mama and I miss you. You must miss us too. And Italy, our castello. Princess, Italy’s calling you home.”
“You’re right, I miss Trieste and Italy, but I have to finish this.” I smiled and released the breath I’d been holding since the call came through. There weren’t too many places in the world that matched up to Trieste. Life in Papa’s castello was like a fairy tale meant for a Disney princess. “Besides, you can always FaceTime me whenever you miss me.”
“Not the same.”
Translation, Papa would be upset if I cancelled our traditional November gathering with them. He was a creature of habit, and after a decade of making traditions and doing what he thought was best for our family, he hated breaking them. That meant being home for the upcoming weeks off of school.
I stared at my father’s scowl and had to suppress a giggle. He hated FaceTime, and he only made an exception for Mama and me, which was made apparent by the look on his face. FaceTime was a necessity in our situation, given the hearing disability. Text messages worked too, but they tended to go on and on forever.
“How am I to hug you over FaceTime?” Papa signed with a begrudging expression.
My father—Dante Leone—was the love of my mama’s life. She fell for him fast and hard when she was eighteen, although she claimed it had everything to do with his charm and charisma and not his chiseled jaw and dark eyes.
I didn’t inherit any of his traits—especially not the sprinkling of gray on his temples—although sometimes I couldn’t help but wonder if my baby brother who died prematurely would have been his spitting image.
My chest throbbed at the memory of a tiny, lifeless baby in Mama’s arms. She was heartbroken, and Papa wasn’t far off. The day we buried the youngest member of our family was one of the hardest I could recall.
I was only nine years old when I found Papa alone in the study, crying and broken. To this day, it was the only time I’d ever seen him cry.
Not knowing what else to do, I climbed on his lap and hugged him, not letting go even when I felt his tears dampening my hair.
It was devastating to see the man who was fiercer than life so sad and heartbroken. It was then that I learned it wasn’t the big,powerful weapons that scarred people for life. It was events that were out of our control.
Like the loss of a child.
“I can’t wait to hug you too,” I signed on the small screen, tucking the memory back in the vault. “What are the plans for the holiday break?”
“Well, we’re having our regular November family dinner with Uncle Amon and his clan of kids,” he stated. Uncle Amon and Aunt Reina were the closest relatives we had, and the only ones in Italy. “My brother just about started crying when he heard we might cancel.”
Another lie. Uncle Amon would never spill a single tear.
“We’re just having it a bit earlier, that’s all,” I reasoned.
“Why can’t you just ditch your classes and come home early?” Papa suggested, changing the subject. “I won’t tell your mama. We can play hooky together and do something fun. Just you and me. Maybe go fishing?”
“You hate fishing,” I reminded him. “You said it’s boring as fuck.”
“Don’t curse. Your mama will have my balls.” He glanced around, then shot me a glare. “Don’t tell her I said that either. Now, when are you coming home?”
I rolled my lips and drew myself back to the present as I signed, “Thanksgiving break is about to kick off, so I’ll see you then. Where is Mama?”
Papa’s expression darkened.
“She’s on the phone with those damned Nikolaevs.” I chuckled. Thosedamned Nikolaevswere Sasha and Branka, my favorite pseudo-parents. “They want us to spend Thanksgiving together.”
“That’s wonderful.”
