[Emila Soranzo]
Growing up being the daughter of a diplomat and a socialite, I always knew – even as a little girl – that my life could be used a leverage to manipulate my parents, but it never seems like it's going to happen to you. It was also always quite clear to me that I could lose either of them at any point of my life. I've read about losing a parent, but it always felt so far away, which is why when it happened to me, it felt like I wasn't living in my own body, like I could see everything from a distance.
The feeling of a hand rubbing my back as my mother's casket was carried into my family's crypt was downright disgusting. I felt compelled to push it away and scream to the owner to get away from me, to let me crumble as I needed for the loss of my mother. The only one who could fix me during such a dire time, is my mother, but I felt her last touch and heard her last words two days ago...and I won't ever have either again.
"Dear, I think it's best if we go home; you need to rest and eat," my fiancé said as he kept on rubbing my back.
I simply stepped away, not agreeing with his plan "I'm going with my father – he shouldn't be alone."
Carson, my fiancé, nodded with a frown "Then allow me to stay, I'll help you take care–"
"No," I shook my head "this business trip has been scheduled for months, and I think it's best if my father and I spend some days alone; we need to grieve."
He leaned down to peck my lips, accepting my words "Okay, but just say it and I'll be on a flight home as soon as possible. Do you hear me?" He's always quite stubborn about me assuring him I understand what he says, because I rarely accept his offers.
I nodded, forcing a weak smile "I hear you, baby."
It felt wrong to hug him goodbye, right outside my mother's burial site, but there was no alternative. Once he had walked away, I rushed in my heels to catch up to my father "Babbo," I took his hand upon reaching him "let's get you home."
(Daddy.)
He glanced at me to show me a weak smile "You don't have to come with me, bunny," he said in his thick Italian accent. "You should go to New York with Carson; get your mind off things."
I shook my head "I'm not leaving you alone."
My dad brought my hand up to his lips to give it a peck "Thank you, bunny."
On our way back to the Italian Embassy, which is where my family has resided the three times my father has served as the Italian ambassador in the UK. The first time was when I was born, which is when my parents decided they would stay in London even after my dad wasn't the ambassador. He has been ambassador in some other countries, but just last year he was named the Italian ambassador for the UK – he was supposed to retire after this term, and go on a lengthy holiday with my mother...but that's never going to happen now.
She was the sole reason why I agreed to a wedding in the first place, and she's not even going to see that fulfilled. For me a simple signing of the papers, and dinner with my family would've been more than enough; much of my life I've been to grand social events, so I personally avoid them at all costs.
Once we were in the residence, my father gave me a peck on the cheek and told me he needed to take care of work "Babbo, you can't go back to work—"
"My work is not as sympathetic as you are, bunny," he softly smiled as he looked at me from the top of the stairs. "I asked the chef to make you dinner, so please, eat and then sleep. Sì?"
My burning puffy eyes filled with tears "Mum would be proud of you; you reminding me to eat when she was the one who always had to pummel you about eating."
He let out a light chuckle as he looked beyond, he's not even halfway here "I had to learn something from 34 years of marriage."
My dad was about to walk away, but I stopped him "Babbo, it's okay to not be okay — I can handle it, I can take care of myself."
He just nodded as he half-smiled at me "It'll always be my instinct to put you before myself. Eat," then he disappeared into his office.
A member of the staff took my coat and I made my way to the kitchen — I don't want to eat in the dining room; my mummy always took extra time to make sure the table was perfectly decorated whenever we ate there. Memories I'm not equipped to relive yet.
In the kitchen the chef was platting my lunch: spaghetti alla carbonara. He's the owner of various Michelin star restaurants in Europe, but he loves being a private chef, especially my family's.
"Hi darling," he quickly wiped his tears away before pushing the bowl towards me. "How's your dad? How are you?"
I picked up the fork and twisted it right in the centre, thinking carefully about my reply "Never been worse." Salvatore worries, especially because we know each other beyond our professional relationship; my parents met him through me, when we were dating. He loved my mother like his own, and spending time in the kitchen with her made him so happy — my mother repaired the Salvatore's broken childhood.
Salvatore nodded, pursing his lips as his eyes filled with tears "Are you staying here tonight or are you going back to your flat? I want to make you a special sweet treat."
As soon as I was done slurping the spaghetti in my mouth, I stood beside him to rub his back "Darling, please, don't hold back — I know how much you loved her, and I don't have the strength to keep myself together, let alone you."
The brunette nodded with a quivering lip "I'm making desert, want to help?" He sniffled, letting the tears roll down his face, as he looked down at me with pity in his eyes.
I shook my head and showed him a light smile "I need to sleep, so I'll just finish my pasta in my room."
Salvatore nodded, and leaned down to wrap his arms tightly around me "She lives on through you."
Every inch of my face twitched as I tried my hardest not to sob. I've always been told I'm more like my mum, and it brought me such happiness and pride, but now it just reminds me that whenever she's talked about it will be in past tense...whilst I'm still here, going through life without her.
I broke the hug and gave Salvatore a peck on the cheek "Come to my room if you don't want to be alone, okay?"
He nodded.
After picking up my bowl, I made my way back to my bedroom. I have my own flat, which I share with my fiancé, but I still have a room here in case I ever wanted to stay here, which was my usual weekend routine.
I'm only eating because I don't want my dad to worry about me, but I don't crave anything. Everything feels stoic and meaningless. My mother was responsible for making me into the person I am today, so a life without her makes no sense.
We were supposed to decorate the embassy for Christmas together this week...she wanted me to have my engagement party here as soon as all the trees were up.
I fell asleep in bed, looking up at the ceiling, remembering the way my mum could make anywhere feel like home. Due to my dad's job we moved around a lot, but England was always our home, and even away from it my mummy managed to make a home out of every house we lived in.
When I woke up my eyes were heavy on me, and my limbs were sore; that spaghetti I had was the first thing I ate in two days, so I'm exhausted, famished, dehydrated and depressed — not an ideal combination.
God only knows from where I got the energy and strength to get out of bed, and walk to the bathroom where I vomited. At least I made it to the toilet.
After flushing, I opened the faucet for the bathtub and decided to wash my mouth whilst it filled. Fuck. My head hadn't throbbed like this since I went on a bender when I turned 20.
Once I spat out the water mixed with vomit and spit, I straightened on my feet and heard my bedroom door being opened "Babbo?" I asked with an arched eyebrow. "Or is that you—" I stopped on my tracks when I saw the three military-looking men in my bedroom. Two of them wearing balaclavas, and the one with the uncovered face seemed familiar — I've seen him before, I was trained as a little girl to never forget a face.
(Daddy?)
He took a cautious step forward "It's all going to be all right—"
"Ahh!" I screamed at the top of my lungs and reached for the nearest thing to throw at them. "Help!" I leapt to the bathroom, but before I could enter it, one of them picked me up by the waist, gaining a kick in the shin and an elbow to the ribs from me. "LET GO OF ME!"
Even though he groaned and lost his balance from my strikes, he kept a firm grip on me "Stay fucking still," he ordered in deep hoarse voice with a British accent.
"Fuck you!" I tried to push his arm off me, but it did nothing but tire me. "DAD! SOMEONE—" I was prickled in the neck with a syringe "please..." my eyes fell close and I lost consciousness.
The next time I opened my eyes it was so sudden and alarming. I was on a bed and the room was pitch black. My head was throbbing, once again, but my body didn't feel as heavy as before.
I sat up and groaned at the feeling of something pulling at my right arm. My left hand inspected my right arm and I found a needle in it, so I quickly removed it — I don't know what the fuck it is.
"You shouldn't do that," the deep hoarse voice with the British accent from before I passed out, said.
"Who—" before I could finish, the light was turned on, blinding me for a couple of seconds. "Turn that bloody thing off," I demanded.
"The princess is awake," the man announced with annoyance, and a couple of heavy footsteps approached the room I was in.
"What do you want?" I asked in a stern tone, blinking rapidly to get used to the light. Once I was able to focus, I saw the same three guys that were in my bedroom, but this time only one was wearing a balaclava, with a skull painted on it.
"Nothing," the bearded one — he seems to be in charge — said. "We are not here to hurt you, on the contrary." His eyes glanced at my arm "That you just ripped out of your arm was for your dehydration."
My eyes were furrowed as I looked between the three "What do you mean you're not going to hurt me?"
"Your father sent us," the one with the Mohawk and a stubble said in a Scottish accent. "I'm John MacTavish," he approached me with a gentle smile "you can call me Soap."
I kicked his crotch "I'm not calling you anything, twat," I spat and heard a gun being unsheathed.
He groaned, clutching his crotch "She's feisty."
When I looked up, the man with the skull balaclava was pointing his handgun at me "She seems unable to behave."
"I'm not a child who gets told around," I said, looking into the man's eyes. They're an olive green and by the way the light reflects on his lashes, they're a golden blond. "What do you mean my father sent you?" I hissed.
"Ghost, put it away," the bearded one told and the masked one complied, though he wouldn't stop staring. "Please give me a moment with Emilia."
"No," I quickly said. "I don't want to be alone with anyone."
He sighed and in his eyes I could see that he had no intentions of harming me, but I could not speak for the masked one. The one I kicked had finally stood straight.
"My name is John Price," he informed, sounded quite proud of his name "I'm the Captain of the 141 task force and I've been a friend of your father's for fifteen years — you and I've met before; you were—"
The memory hit me suddenly "You were married to my aunt Isadora," my eyes squinted as I tried to remember the last time I saw him; I was barely 10. "Then you–"
"The details of our short marriage are unimportant," John interrupted. "I just want to make it clear that you're here for your safety; your father put this plan in place seven years ago with my help – he wanted to make sure you had a way out in case things ever got...unsafe for your family."
"Unsafe? What do you mean unsafe?" The volume of my voice raised with every word and so my demand to know the truth. The three of them stayed quiet, and the only one who could look me in the eye was Ghost. "What the fuck is going on?!"
"Your mother's death wasn't what it appears to be," John finally said with hesitation in his voice.
The man with the balaclava simply exited the room, and no one paid any mind to him.
"Who killed her?" I asked as tears filled my eyes and rage flooded my veins.
"We don't–"
"Then find out."