CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by Melinda Terranova
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Erica Russikoff
Cover Designer: Lee Ching with Under Cover Designs
Interior Designer: Lee Ching with Under Cover Designs
For my two boys.
The sickening scent lingers, thick and heavy in the air. The stench reminding me of a field full of rotting vanilla flowers. My eyes are drawn to the candlelight that dances across the ancient stone walls highlighting the many bowls scattered around the room. Terracotta bowls overflowing with the same fluid as my bath. I lean back until my skin is flush with the tub, the motion causing ripples to lap at my breasts.
There is a slight movement in the corner of the room; a young woman stands with her eyes downcast, her face forlorn. She leans against the wall, hands gripping her full-length skirt. A skirt that is smeared in red to match her arms and hands. I follow her tearful gaze. On the stone floor are a dozen dead girls, naked and lying face down. Their long, stained hair is matted to their backs.
A blood-curdling scream erupts from my lungs as I try to scramble out of the blood-filled bath.
Shivering as I climb out of bed, I wrap the quilt around me. It is uncharacteristically cool for this time of year in the sunshine state; the quaint city of Brisbane is usually warm and sunny in October. The cool of outside seeps through the glass as my thoughts get lost amongst the sheets of rain that change direction with each gust of swirling wind. My stomach grumbles and I take that as my cue to get changed and head downstairs. I turn on the coffee machine; the familiar whir is comforting, and the coffee’s aroma fills the kitchen. I perch myself on the barstool and sip my steaming beverage when my mom descends the stairs. I watch her watch me as she walks toward me and gently plants a kiss on my cheek. I know in my gut that she heard me screaming from my nightmares earlier.
“I had another dream.” I gaze down at the coffee in my hands.
Her arms wrap around me, holding me tight against her, as she rests her cheek on my head. A few moments pass before I feel her sigh, and she steps back to look directly at me.
“I’m so very, very sorry, sweetheart.” She looks above my head before she continues. “So sorry that you’re having these horrible dreams. If I could take them away and be burdened by them, I would without hesitation.” Her face wears a look of grief, which is new to me, and she seems to force herself to smile.
Her eyes glassy, she kisses my cheek, and pauses before she turns and continues to get ready for work.
End of conversation.
Standing at the sink to rinse my mug, I mull over what my mom just said. Burdened? What does she mean by burdened? Her tone implies something more, so the statement confuses me. The tap water does nothing to drown out the whispered argument my parents are having at the bottom of the stairs. They are throwing around swear words in Italian, and I hear my name spoken. Grabbing my bag, I escape out the back door. The tension my dreams are causing between my parents is getting worse. If only I would wake before I start screaming, then no one would know I suffer so frequently. I climb into my car, turn the key in the ignition, and “Psycho Killer” blares at me from the speakers.
“What station is this?” I cringe.
I quickly turn it off with a little more force than necessary, put the car in reverse, and recklessly back out of the driveway. Speeding down our quiet and deserted street, I feel agitated, the song lyrics resonating deep in my subconscious. I drive in circles in the pouring rain for what seems like hours before I attempt to put together all the events leading up to the time when my nightmares began, but nothing seems out of place. Am I losing my sanity? I’m sure the same thought has crossed my mom’s mind; she always looks so helpless and almost guilty when I have one of my dreams. It’s as though she feels responsible, which makes me think there is more to them than I realize.
The repetitive and mindless tasks at work keep my mind busy for most of the morning, and I decide to skip my afternoon lectures. I cannot concentrate on anything, so I head home to relax. Once home I curl up on the sofa with a book, hoping to somehow forget about my nightmares.
I startle awake to a loud clank as the front door slams. The rushed footsteps down the hall stop as they enter the lounge room.
“Kat, you’re home.” Nicolette tilts her head slightly.
“I couldn’t be bothered going to classes today.” I stretch, sitting up.
“So lazy.” She laughs.
I give her a shut up or I’m going to throw my book at you look and poke my tongue at her. She giggles and quickly retreats backwards to head upstairs.
Nicolette and I are best friends. We’ve been inseparable since she was born, and I have always taken on the protective role and bailed her out of trouble with our parents. We have been told many times that we look like twins—I guess it’s the long, dark brown hair and the same dark eyes that make us look similar.
“What’s for dinner?” Nicolette shouts form the top of the stairs.
“No idea.” I groan as I remember it’s my night to cook.
I drag myself off the sofa and head to the kitchen, opening the fridge to stare absentmindedly at the food. Grabbing out the already assembled lasagna, I pop it in the oven, make a salad to go with it, and continue to read sitting on the bench.
Mom and Dad arrive home simultaneously, both wearing a look of something between stress and worry. They dart about the house crossing paths without speaking, attempting to look busy. I watch them and think it strange that they are both home so early when my mom pipes up and announces that Nonna is coming for dinner.
“She has a surprise for you.” Mom smiles.
I place the book on the counter now that she has my attention. “What is it?”
“Not telling. I promised her I would wait until she got here.”
“Fine,” I huff and jump down to check the lasagna.
There is a knock at the front door, and Nicolette races to get there first.
“Nonna!” I hear her exclaim.
“My darling baby granddaughter,” Nonna replies in a thick Italian accent.
My Nonna is a typical old Italian woman: very loud and set in her ways. Her grey hair is always in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, a pale pink lipstick enhances her petite l
ips, and the classic scent of Chanel No5 is ever present when she is near. When Nicolette and I were young, Nonna would tell us tales about our ancestors and their superstitious beliefs. She told them with such intensity and detail that it appeared as though she believed they were true. Our mom would always warn Nonna to keep the tales suitable for children. Nonna would exclaim that Nicolette and I were old souls and we had imaginations that other children couldn’t possibly understand.
I hear them make their way to the kitchen; the rustling of shopping bags overshadows their footsteps. Nonna is first to appear, and she opens her arms, inviting me for a hug. I skip over to her and engulf her tiny frame with my embrace. She hugs me tight.
“I have a surprise for you,” she whispers, “but first we eat.”
After dinner we all head to the lounge room to have the usual coffee and cake when family are over. Nonna hands me a large pink envelope.
“Your early birthday present.” She glances at my mom.
“Thanks, Nonna.”
I carefully open the envelope and pull out the paper to read it. I am stunned, speechless. My eyes snap to Nonna, and squealing with delight, I launch myself at her, nearly knocking over the coffees on the table.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I shower her with kisses.
“What is it? What does it say?” asks Nicolette.
“I’m going to Italy!” I squeal flapping the card in the air.
“What? When?” exclaims Nicolette.
I look at the itinerary. “My flight leaves tomorrow at eight in the morning.”
“Better get packing.” She looks at me with surprise.
“What about my assessments and work?” I worry.
“It’s all taken care of. Your dad was tying up all the loose ends this afternoon. Your shifts at work are covered for a few weeks, and your lecturers are happy for you to hand in any assessments remotely,” Mom explains.
“But there’s no return flight,” I state. “When am I supposed to be coming home?”
“When you feel it is the right time for you to come home,” Nonna interrupts my mom who was about to say something.
My mom gives Nonna a look that I cannot decipher, stands abruptly, and storms into the kitchen. I stare toward the kitchen where she is making loud banging noises with the dishes from dinner. I hear Nonna sigh and I turn my head in her direction; she smiles at me, but something about her smile is off. I wait for the banging to stop and head to the kitchen. Mom has her back to me and is staring at the coffee machine while it goes through its cycle.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Yes,” she sighs as she turns to face me. “I’m sorry for before,” she whispers, grabbing my hand in hers. “I still remember my trip to Italy for my eighteenth birthday—one that is etched into my memory as if it were yesterday. I hope you get to discover the wonderful culture, the beautiful landscapes, and the extensive history that Italy has to offer and that you will be able to reflect on your time spent in our homeland when you are old.”
“I was worried you were angry that I was going.”
“No, I’m definitely not angry, not at all.” She shakes her head. “I’m just being a typical mom, worried that you will be so far from me and your dad.”
“So, when will I be coming home?”
“You stay as long as you like, Katalina; everything will be waiting for you when you return home.” She squeezes my hand. “Come on, let’s get back to Nonna with the fresh coffee.”
I tune out of the conversation taking place in the lounge room. My thoughts flicker back to all the strange conversations I have had with my mom lately. I have a strange feeling that she and my Nonna know something that they’re not telling me.
I sit cross-legged on my fluffy floor rug in my walk-in-robe when Nonna appears in the doorway.
“Would you like some help packing?”
It is not a question, I realize, when she sits opposite me on the step stool. It’s just past midnight and I’m surprised that she is still here. She looks at me with her onyx-colored eyes, her pupils disappearing into the darkness that surrounds them. I inherited her dark eyes, as did my mom and sister.
“Thanks, but I’m nearly done,” I reply stifling a yawn.
“I won’t keep you long; I see that you are tired and you have a long journey ahead of you. I’m not sure how much your mom told you about her first visit to Italy, but I wanted to tell you a little about our family over there.”
“Oh, Nonna! I’ve heard all the stories before,” I protest. I’m way too tired to sit and listen to the ridiculous nonsense she used to tell us years ago.
“This is important, Katalina!” She says my name with extra force to emphasize that I should listen.
I’m taken aback by her sudden ferocity. She takes my hand in hers and gently squeezes it.
“Our family over there is different. You will no doubt realize this once you spend a length of time with them. You will be staying with your aunt Maria in Rome, in our family’s apartment near the Pantheon. This apartment has been in our family since it was built in the sixteenth century. Our ancestors moved there long after they were forced to flee their village in Craco in southern Italy.” She looks at her aging hands and takes in a quick breath, pausing momentarily to rub her arms as if to warm herself. “You already know that our family has a long lineage dating back centuries, and I have spoken of our family’s history, but there are many secrets that are not mine to share. Please remember that you mustn’t be afraid of the unknown. Your aunt Maria will help guide you if you so choose the path that is before you. I love you dearly, my Katalina, and I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
I open my mouth to speak, unsure of what to say in reply. I do not understand what she is talking about. It occurs to me that perhaps I’d underestimated the truth behind the stories she used to tell.
“You don’t need to say anything, I’m sure you are confused right now, but just remember what I have told you and it will all come together soon. I have one more gift for you.” She holds up a long gold chain with a pendant on it. Taking my hand, she turns it, and gently places the necklace in my palm.
It is a delicate filigree-ball-shaped pendant made of gold with a tiny latch on one side. Opening the latch with my thumbnail to look inside, I find that it is empty.
“This pendant has been passed down through our family for hundreds of years. It is time for you to have the honor of wearing it, if you so desire.”
“It’s beautiful.” I smile.
“Take it with you to Rome and keep it in your bag at all times,” she insists. “Enjoy your holiday, sweetheart, and I will see you when you come home.” Kissing the top of my head, she exits my room.
“Thank you, Nonna, I love you,” I call after her.
I curl up in bed with my covers pulled up under my chin thinking about the past twenty-four hours, the strange conversations with Nonna, and my mom’s emotional outburst. I think about how exciting the next couple of weeks is going to be as I drift off into a deep sleep.
I wake before sunrise and feel more alive than I have in weeks. I bounce out of bed wired with energy, overexcited for the journey ahead. My stomach growls loudly and my hunger is feverish, but I ignore it as I am too busy getting ready for my early departure for the airport. Dragging my large suitcase down the stairs, I salivate at the aroma of bacon and pancakes. Entering the kitchen, I see Nicolette, Mom, and Dad standing at the island bench surrounded by pink helium balloons. I’m not sure when they had the time to do this, but the gesture creates a lump in my throat. I swallow and blink away the tears.
“Happy going away,” Nicolette chants.
“I’m going to cry.”
“Okay, let’s save all the tears for the airport,” Dad jokes.
We all sit in silence devouring the breakfast spread, washing it all down with strong coffee. I eat more than usual, yet I can’t seem to satiate my hunger.
“This is it!” I exclaim nervously as we pull into the park
ing lot at Brisbane International Airport.
Dad takes my suitcase out of the boot and follows Nicolette, Mom, and me into the airport. Mom and I line up to check in my baggage, and Dad and Nicolette head to order some coffee. I take in the emotional scenes around me: the long hugs goodbye, the happy reunions, and the bored businessmen waiting for their flights to be called. I wonder who I will be sitting next to.
The butterflies in my stomach get worse as the time for my flight nears. We join Nicolette and Dad at the café where they hand me my vanilla latte, magazines, and a book called Midnight.
“Thanks, Dad, this should keep me awake on the plane.” I smile graciously as I sip my coffee.
The time comes when I need to head to the departures lounge to board. I swallow my nerves as I hug my family goodbye.
My mom takes my hand in hers and whispers in my ear so that only I can hear. “Trust your instincts, trust your heart, and most importantly, trust yourself.”
I choke back the tears. “I love you. See you soon.”
“Bye, we love you,” they all sing in unison as I head through the doors.
High on adrenalin, I board the airplane and find my seat by the window. I stow my small bag in the overhead compartment and have to climb over a little old lady to get to my seat. As the plane starts to taxi toward the runway, a pang of fear bursts in my stomach and a million questions start spinning in my head. I have never met my Aunt Maria. I’ve only seen photos of her from my mother’s holiday and a few snaps of her from years back. Will I recognize her at the airport? How will she know what I look like? As if on cue an air hostess offers me a warm, damp towel, which I accept graciously and drape over my face, leaning back in my seat. The warmth is instantly calming, and I take heed in knowing that I will be up in the air within minutes, hopefully leaving my worries on the tarmac.
Exhausted from continuously flying for the past sixteen hours, I feel lethargic, my legs ache, and I’m ravenously hungry. I head to the nearest coffee shop as I have over an hour before I have to board my last flight. I order my coffee and scoff down the ham and cheese croissant within minutes of ordering. The jet lag seems to be affecting my appetite.
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