Author's note: I have no idea where this story came from, I started learning Russian and about two weeks later all these ideas for a Roman story came out of me. Actually living in Russia for a summer just made it more intense and I got really attached to these two characters. I've delayed posting this because it's my baby and there aren't really a whole lot of Roman stories out there. I hesitated posting this because I'm not sure it's good enough/ready but I won't know or improve the story unless I put it out there. I'm still continuing my Antonio saga my life just got utterly complicated in every sense of the word. Constructive Criticism is welcome especially if you have some insight into Russian life in the 70s. This is really not 100% historically accurate, but I tried not to be too outrageous. This can be read without reading my other story Mira, even though it works as a prequel if you've already done so.
References for those who are interested:
Franziska: Bianca Balti
Vittorino Agnello: Milo Ventimiglia
Roman Novikov: Daniil Strakhov
I own nothing except for Franziska ,Vittorino, and other original characters, everything else is property of Kelley Armstrong.
It was the morning of my wedding; our entire town knew about it and had spent two months in an automated rush preparing for it. The bakers, dress maker, and every last goddamn person on the island was waiting at the church in stiff dress clothes with beads of sweat running down their backs, desperately fanning themselves with our vellum wedding programs. I was in the church rectory in my underwear dodging plates and objects hurled at me by my future mother-in-law. I don't remember lunging at her but it took two groomsmen, a priest and my cousin Lydia to separate us. By the time Vito came in Santuzza had a bloody lip and a few strands of my hair clenched in her fists. The priest had a black eye.
"Macché!"
We both answered back at the same time, it was probably the only thing we had ever agreed on since the day we meet.
"She started it!"
"Albanian whore!"
I don't remember breaking out of my cousin's death grip or feeling my blood roast in my veins. All I knew was that I was determined to rip her fingernails off. I charged and Vito wrapped his arm around my waist.
"Yeah well your grandchildren are coming out of this whore's legs, so you'd better close that fat mouth of your Santuzza."
Right after the last word left my mouth she started crying. I didn't give a shit. Vito ordered her out of the room with an anger I'd only seen once before, his forehead was soaked with sweat and his face flushed red. I was still kicking, still gnashing my teeth, my fists beating against his legs until everyone left the room. It took me twenty minutes to calm down, for my hands to stop shaking long enough to take a sip from Vito's flask.
"I thought they were going to start taking bets."
"Franziska you don't have to do this."
I'd already made up my mind. Vito and I had been friends since I was five years old, but our marriage was just a legal formality. Vittorino Agnello was handsome, intelligent, spoke fluent Greek, Russian, and Albanian and had been accepted to study at Leningrad University in a prestigious Russian literature program. He was tall, funny, perfect, and gay. And I was damaged. We were both leaving for Russia in two weeks. I'd barely finished high school, the only child of an Albanian immigrant who cleaned Vito's family's house and cooked their food. Neither of us would be able to marry other people. I was the only one Vito ever told, the year I turned twelve, with shaking sweaty hands and a queasy stomach. His parents needed a marriage, and we needed each other. No one would marry a slut and Vito would be expected to have grandchildren with a girl from town. So I came to him one night, climbing through his open window and told him I was going to Leningrad as his wife.
"Tell my mom I'm ready to get dressed."
He kissed my cheek and squeezed my shoulder. And then it was layers of silk and brocade. My mother made my dress from gold fabric and a lavender jacket with fabric my cousins brought up from Bari. There was no father. My mother and her maiden name walked me down the aisle.
Our vows weren't fake. When they changed me over from Franziska Dukagjini to Franziska Agnello, I meant every word. People are always quick to accept marriages, blood relations, one-night stands but complete loyalty to someone without a sexual component was an oddity. Vito and I loved each other. We'd put each other before boyfriends, girlfriends, and his mother. The marriage wasn't just a cover, it was the one way that people would respect our decision to live together. A legal way to cement our friendship.
The things I always remembered about our wedding was Vito teaching me dance, his hand on the back of my waist and my head on his shoulder listening to him counting the beats. The sound of us laughing when I stepped on his feet. Until I got it right, and the room was a swirl of color. The wine and the food, the way he joked about how fat his cousins looked in their dresses. The weight of the ring on my finger as we slept side by side still in our wedding clothes and Vito with his shoes on. I listened to our breaths, counted out the beats and danced my fingers across his palm, across our duvet, his tie, my stomach. Danced both of us to sleep humming the last song of the night. Vito's fingers laced with mine, my heels slipping off my feet with a thud. And for the first time I felt I was safe.
