Author's Note: Unfortunately, Francis does not appear in this chapter. But the mafia does, so I guess that's something!
Matt was on another plane. It figured, he sighed, chancing a glance at his brother beside him - who was snoring away blissfully, he might add! - that three days after taking a flight to England he'd be taking another one to the south of France. It was a late flight, so Matt could have time to sleep and shower and make himself presentable before meeting Gilbert's contact in the Bonnefoy residence for a job interview. Matt yawned into the inside of his wrist and nervously gripped the armrest of his seat.
He missed Ottawa. He missed driving on the other side of the road and the shop round the corner from his apartment that sold real maple syrup, and Kumajirou waking him up then refusing to fetch Matt's slippers or newspaper or anything. Matt had tried phoning Sanchez yesterday and was greeted by the Cuban man growling into the phone, "Do you have any fucking idea what time it is???"
After apologizing incessantly to Sanchez, who calmed down after the first few seconds of initial anger ("Sorry, sorry," he apologized in his rough, gravelly voice. "I thought you was someone else!") Matt had kept their conversation brief - Sanchez was in no mood to indulge his neighbor's homesickness. He reported that the apartment was good, the plants had been watered, and Kumajirou was still full of boundless energy ("I don't understand!" the Cuban moaned. "I've taken him for so many walks my feet are 'bout to fall off!" Matt suppressed a laugh). Matt thanked the man, promised that when he called back it would be at a more appropriate hour, then hung up.
Now here he was, an hour from their destination, all for what? The guy next to him, of course. Matt only had two weaknesses - maple syrup (born from his incessant sweet tooth as a child), and his brother.
Thing was, maple syrup never made him fly thousands of kilometers from his home in order to take part in a crazy heist.
Only Ivan, Alfred, and Matt were flying down to France on this flight - Ludwig was joining them later after traveling a little further, to Italy - "He's gonna talk with our supplier!" Alfred informed Matt cheerfully but failed to specify who this supplier was and what, exactly, they were supplying. Gilbert was going with his brother for backup.
Kiku was traveling all the way to China to pick up an order of parts that he needed for the job; when Matt had asked why he couldn't simply have the parts shipped to him, Kiku had smiled politely into his sleeve and murmured something like, "Matthew-san is very amusing" before busying himself elsewhere.
With all the information (or lack thereof) that Matt was receiving, he felt like quite an outsider. Which made sense, he reasoned. If the team trusted him enough to let him in on more confidential information, that would mean they weren't going to let him off the hook after the job was done. He should be grateful they were leaving him with such a clean, no-strings-attached exit.
That didn't stop him from feeling any less lonely.
Matt couldn't look out the window because the shutter was pulled down for the night - instead, he looked out across the sleeping form of his brother and inadvertently caught Ivan's eye. The big man was sitting across the aisle from them, having requested two seats so he could stretch out his legs in relative comfort in the cramped space.
Ivan beckoned him over. Matt looked at Alfred, then gave a shrug as if to say, "I'm sort of trapped".
Ivan persisted and eventually Matt heaved a sigh and attempted to crawl over his brother, who had flung his limbs every which way during his slumber. Ivan must of wanted him to suffer, Matt thought sourly as he watched the Russian try to hold in his amusement. Matt was just edging past his brother's knees when Alfred's arm shot out and dragged the Canadian down so their chests were flush. Matt held back a yelp and tried to disentangle himself. He swore he heard Ivan giggle.
Alfred muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Artie" and tried to hook his other arm around Matt's waist. Mortified, Matt wriggled out of his brother's grip and nearly fell on Ivan in turn. Ivan chuckled.
"I am sorry that you had to work so hard to come see me," he declared, not really sounding sorry at all. "But at the same time, I am happy for the entertainment, yes?"
"Thanks." Matt muttered, and sat down properly in the seat next to Ivan, pulling his legs up under him. Ivan's large frame seemed comically enhanced in the small space, scarily enveloping. No matter how Matt arranged himself, a part of him was always touching the big man - knees, elbows, what have you.
After a few seconds of watching Matt shift in his seat, Ivan pulled the boy's legs onto his lap and draped one heavy arm over them.
"There!" he proclaimed. "Now Matthew is comfy?"
Matt blinked a few times. "Yeah. Thanks." he chuckled weakly. Ivan's arm felt warm across his shins. The Russian bent over Matt's legs in order to rifle through his bag; he pulled from it a small little box.
"I am wanting you to play chess with me, Matthew. Do you know how?"
"Er, sort of." Matt started as Ivan started unpacking the miniature, magnetic chess set. "But I'm not very good - "
"Does not matter." Ivan assured, reaching over to arrange the board on Matt's lap. "You will learn."
Matt stared down at the chessboard, chewing nervously on his lower lip as he watched Ivan line up the pieces on either side.
"Matthew will be white." Ivan instructed. "White always goes first."
"Why?" Matt asked, flexing his fingers and trying to remember the names and moves of each piece (pawn? bishop? rook?)
"Because people used to believe that black was a lucky color," the Russian explained, his eyes flitting across the board. "So white would go first because the player with the black pieces already had an advantage."
Matt raised his eyebrows. "And do you feel lucky, Ivan?"
Ivan chuckled and let his tongue flick out between his lips. "Apparently not, since I took black."
Matt gave a weak smile, and averted his eyes. "So...I'll start, then."
"Any time you are ready, Matthew." Ivan's eyes glinted and his face slipped into a mask of concentration. He followed the path of Matthew's fingers as he reached over to move a white pawn forward two spaces. Ivan responded with his own, black pawn. He had to reach into Matt's lap to move his pieces, causing the Canadian a bit of embarrassment.
Matt was nervous. He didn't want to seem like an idiot in front of Ivan, but so far all they were doing was moving pieces across the board. Then, Ivan moved his knight out onto the board, on a diagonal space right across from his pawn.
Matt reached forward, but as his thumb and forefinger closed over his pawn, Ivan purred, "Your first lesson, Matthew. You must examine all your...angles, yes?"
Matt stared at him, then back down at the board. The he noticed, with a hot rush of embarrassment, Ivan's bishop standing stark on the other end of the board, ready to move in a cutting diagonal in the very spot Matt was going to put his pawn. Sacrifice for a sacrifice.
Matt blushed and almost retracted his fingers, but then he thought for a minute, and took Ivan's knight anyways. Ivan looked almost....proud of him?
"Lesson number two." the big man murmured, slicing across the board to capture Matt's recently victorious pawn. "Do not be afraid of sacrifices if they are...bearable."
Matt felt less embarrassed, and shot a brilliant smile at Ivan. He was surprised when Ivan was the first to look away, and motioned at the board with his big palm. "Continue."
Having only played chess a few times, Matt was surprised that the number of pieces captured on both sides were almost even (except Ivan had captured more of his important pieces, but still!)
The big man reached up to scratch his neck under his scarf, and Matt asked, "Why do you always wear that scarf?"
Ivan blinked at him. "Ah. It was a gift from my sister."
"You have two, right? Which sister?" Matt pressed, eyes occasionally flickering back to the game at hand.
"The elder. Katya. She is three years older than me. She is very good with her hands, and she knits things. She made me this scarf when I was a teenager, and I don't usually take it off. It is very cold where I come from, so when I was younger and we had little money she would make things herself. One time, she made a pair of mittens for my younger sister Natalia. She is three years younger than me - strange, yes? Anyways, the mittens were pink but Natalia did not like pink, so she purposely dropped them in the mud on the way to school so that they would become dirty and turn a darker colour. Check."
"Ch - wha?" Matt looked down at the board, then up at Ivan's grinning face. He had been so wrapped up in Ivan's story - the man's accent made his voice so entrancing to listen to.
"Lesson three." Ivan sounded pleased. "Do not become distracted from your main purpose. If you mindlessly change your positions without thinking through every step you make, you stray from your goal."
As the bespectacled boy blushed, Ivan gestured at the board, signifying that it was Matt's move. Matt stuck his lower lip out in a habit of concentration, scanning the pieces. Ivan's queen was one move away from taking Matt's king - then his eyes landed on his knight.
Ivan's queen was captured. He looked up just as Ivan's eyes slid away from his lips, and Matt grinned despite himself. It seemed Ivan wasn't following his own advice.
"And what if I do lose sight of my main goal?" he asked, watching Ivan's hand move languidly over his pieces.
"Then you stop, take a breath, and refocus." Ivan explained. "When you get more experienced, Matthew, you will learn to plan out your intentions ahead of time. You will learn to read people - to guess what they will do before they know what they will do. For example, you are thinking you will use your rook - " Matt's fingers twitched away from said piece, but Ivan put his hand over the Canadian's and guided it to where he had intended to put it. " - and then I will use my pawn, which you forgot to incorporate in your thinking because you are too busy looking at all the other pieces - "
The rook fell. Matt flushed.
" - and then here I am, a step closer to a checkmate." Ivan finished.
"How...how do you learn this, though?" Matt insisted. The pretense of a chess game was momentarily abandoned, and Matt remembered anxiously that he was trying to steal security codes from a multi-millionaire. Ivan remained calm.
"Experience." he replied simply. "Luckily, Matthew, you are both sincere in your actions and physically unalarming, both of which will help you with your task. You will not be independent in this, either, which saves us from factoring in collateral damages. But please, дорогай, make a move. I am...how do you say it? Dying from excitement." the big man flashed him a feral grin.
дорогай, Matt wondered as his fingers danced over his pieces. Now where had he heard that before?
Then, Matt saw it. Ivan had left his king completely exposed, save for one lone rook. It would be an easy check. But was it a trap? Matt stilled his fingers, barely believing his luck, and chanced a glance at Ivan.
The man's face was smooth and expressionless, but when he saw Matt looking at him he said, "Fourth lesson, then. Most of the time, Matthew, your gut instinct is the one you trust."
Matt moved. The rook fell. "Ch-check." Matt stammered, a bit of pride surging in his heart. Ivan smiled, and it was a warm smile.
"Молодец!" he said, then smiled. "But it is only a check, дорогай."
"Fine." Matt grinned back, feeling better than he had in days. "Then let's keep playing."
Alfred blinked blearily as he was jostled in his seat. Sitting up straighter (man, these airplane seats always left him with such a crick in his neck!), he realized that the seat-belt signs were on and they were beginning to land. As he groped around for his belt, he came to the conclusion that Matt wasn't in the seat beside him. Straightening his glasses, which had slipped down his nose during his sleep, he looked over to see his brother's back, hunched in concentration, facing Ivan.
"Hey, Matty - " he began, and was surprised when his brother half-turned in order to shush him.
"Hold on, Al, I'm thinking!" Matt hissed, then turned back. Alfred was speechless.
Ivan gave his usual leer from over Matt's shoulder. "We are playing chess," he said, by way of explanation.
Sure, like that explained everything. Alfred propped himself up on the armrests.
"Oh." he replied lamely. Then: "Who's winning?"
"Me." Ivan and Matt answered at the same time, and when Matt spoke Alfred could hear the amusement in his baby brother's voice.
"You just don't want to admit how close I am."
"Oh, you are close, Matthew." Ivan agreed, his lips quirking upwards in a teasing expression. "But you are not going to win."
Matt gave a very un-Matt like snort. "Just move." he ordered, and absently ran a hand through his blond curls. There was a piece sticking up like a spring, and Alfred watched it jump in the poor light of the cabin with a frown on his face.
Ivan smirked triumphantly - both at the move he just made and at the expression on Alfred's face. "Something wrong, Jones?" he asked, and Alfred scowled.
"No, but you two should put on your seat-belts 'cuz we're landing!" he snapped, more testily than he should have. Ivan gently took the chessboard from Matt's lap, ignoring the whine the Canadian gave him.
"I will have time to win after we land." Ivan explained, and laughed at the face Matt made.
Alfred slowly simmered in his seat.
It's not like he was opposed to Matt making friends with his teammates, Alfred reasoned as the plane bumped and rattled in its descent. But hell, there were better people to befriend. Like Kiku. Kiku was quiet and didn't cause trouble and didn't go through people's rooms at two in the morning smelling like vodka (sure, that was one time, but it was a traumatizing one time!). Matt was quiet; Kiku was quiet. Alfred figured they would go well together! Two peas in a pod, two cats on a branch - whatever.
Even Ludwig, who Alfred considered stiffer than a corpse with a stick up its ass, would have made a better friend than some hulking, scarf-wearing Russian who knew exactly how to get under Alfred F. Jones's skin and took pleasure in doing so at least once a day.
Alfred ground his teeth when Ivan had the audacity to finger the flyaway curl atop Matt's head and resolutely read the onboard magazine.
They landed a little bit after midnight and, despite the rush for the baggage claim area, were out of the airport not too long after that. Matt was surprised, but pleased - due to his chess game with Ivan, he hadn't had much sleep and was looking forward to maybe sneaking in a quick power nap.
A rental car was waiting for them, and Ivan looked displeased. "Such a puny thing." he complained as they slid in - Alfred had meaningfully taken the passenger seat once more, leaving Matt in the back. "No good for speed. I get better one for job, yes?"
"Yeah, of course you will." Alfred reassured, feeling grumpy and all-together not up for a discussion about cars at this hour.
Ivan, however, was content to dreamily talk about cars as they sped down the roads of Provence, a southeastern French region of scrubland and slight hills with a hot, dry climate. Matt had his window rolled down to catch the breeze. They were close enough to the coast (they had landed in the Marseille Provence Airport) that the humidity from the water was of some relief, but the night was sweltering.
"We're going to stay in a hotel, and then when Artie comes down to join us we'll stay at his place," Alfred was explaining as Matt drew himself back into the conversation.
Matt frowned. "Why is Mr. Kirkland coming down here?" he asked. "Wouldn't it be better if he stays away from a crime that could possible implicate him?"
"We only have to worry about ourselves." Alfred told him, and grinned. "Arthur wants to be there to see the look on Bonnefoy's face, I guess."
"Either that or he does not trust us as far as he can throw us." Ivan spoke up, and Alfred glowered at him.
"Nah," the American declared. "Artie trusts us!"
Ivan rolled his eyes at that.
They stayed in Marseille, in a quaint hotel by the sea. Matt's room had a balcony that overlooked the port and the islands beyond. The temperature was making the Canadian's eyes heavy, and with one last look at the view he retired back inside to go to sleep.
Which was when Alfred and Ivan started to strike up a conversation. Matt could hear them through the walls, since they were in the rooms on either side of him.
They were speaking in such low tones that their voices started to bleed together - Matt almost swore they were speaking Russian at one point, so muffled and foreign were the syllables. But as Alfred got more worked up, his voice spiked, became crisper.
"And what, then, are you trying to accomplish with my brother?" he asked, rudely, and immediately dropped his voice when he realized just how loud he was.
Ivan's voice, usually smooth, held a tinge of irritation. "I am attempting to teach him some valuable tricks, instead of sending him in blind like you seem to be favoring."
Alfred spluttered out, "I'm not sending him in blind! There's nothing to tell him right now! He just needs to get through the interview, get acquainted with the house, and Arthur will tell him what to steal and how!"
"You need to give him some guidance." came Ivan's hissed reply. "Men like Bonnefoy, their specialty is boys like your brother. Unsure, no self-confidence...weak. It is like watching a lion stalk a three legged antelope."
Stung, Matt lifted his arm from under the covers and punched the wall several times in quick succession. Their voices hushed.
"...Matty?" came Alfred's uncertain question. Matt scowled up at the ceiling.
"Just go to bed!" he called out, then turned on his side.
Three legged antelope, huh? And here he was just starting to like it here. Matt wished Kumajirou were here so he could have something soft to squeeze. He bundled up his sheets into his fist and held it against his cheek.
Good enough.
Ludwig wasn't sure when, exactly, he had become friends with the youngest son of Boss Romulus, one of the most influential and dangerous mafia bosses in Italy. Ludwig had first met the boy - and he was a boy, almost ten years his junior - about a year ago when the team had flown in to Rome for that disastrous Italian job (no, not the movie; the one where Alfred had thought it a good idea to tell Boss Romulus what he thought of his hairpiece. "Honesty is the best policy!" Alfred had protested when the man had ordered a hit on him). Ludwig, always better at negotiations than Alfred, had been sent to appease the family. It was there that he met the Vargas twins, successors to Romulus's extensive crime legacy.
The elder of the twins, Lovino, at least acted the part of heir to the mob - he was a surly young man with dark brown hair, impeccably styled save for one thin cowlick that jutted out by his ear, and within thirty seconds of meeting Ludwig was ready to make him swim with the fishes. Ludwig was not impressed.
He was even less impressed when he saw the younger Vargas, Feliciano, a flimsy little boy with a soft, high voice, trilling endlessly about pasta or siestas. Even Romano seemed annoyed at his brother.
Ludwig remembered that summer, sitting there in the dim lighting of the "discussion room" as Lovino so blatantly named it (was that supposed to scare him? The little brat didn't know Ludwig at all).
Lovino had his feet propped up on the table, suit jacket open against the sweltering heat, tie loosened to show a peek of sun-kissed skin down the front of his shirt. He looked the part of a casual, "I'm not afraid to hit you with a crowbar" mobster.
"I'm just sayin', ya bastard," he was griping at Ludwig. "There's really no reason to come crawlin' back because of what your buddy said and expect us to change our minds. No one talks to Boss like that and gets away with it."
"He has the mentality of a three year old," Ludwig explained patiently. "He didn't mean it. Alfred just gets excited sometimes."
"Well, maybe you should put him on a leash!" Lovino snapped. "Look, if someone's dog started tearin' up your lawn, you'd be mad at the owners, right? So if your little American pup's not gonna behave, don't let him out!"
Ludwig, who owned three Rottweilers and had the poor foresight to let Gilbert name one, felt offended. He was good at training dogs. Alfred was not a dog; in fact, he was worse. Dogs, at least, could be taught!
"Ve~ Lovi!" It was the smaller of the two Vargas, who had propped his face in his hands and was giving Ludwig a cheerful, open-mouthed smile. "You should forgive and forget~! Grandpa Rome says..."
"He's our father, dimwit!" Lovino snapped. "And I'm not gonna forgive and forget! We're in the mafia, that's the whole point!"
"I thought we were in the mafia because it was our family~" Feliciano pointed out. Lovino scowled.
"Still!"
"He, he, Germany!" It took Ludwig a minute to realize the young boy was talking to him, and turned his head slightly.
"Me?" he asked. Feliciano laughed.
"Si, you! Do you like pasta, Germany?"
Ludwig never found himself disliking pasta, and told Feliciano as much. The Italian gave a swift bob of the head, cowlick (identical to his brother's) bobbing as he went.
"Mmm, that is the same as liking it! Me and Germany will be good friends!"
"Hey, shut up Feli, I'm trying to intimidate him!" Lovino yelled at his brother, and Ludwig was surprised when the elder puffed his cheeks up and turned an unbecoming shade of red. One of the dark suited Mafiosi who had been instructed to supervise the meeting burst out into laughter. The man had dark brown hair and a gentle face.
"Oh, Lovi, pobrecito!" he cooed. "You look like a tomato!"
Lovino became even more flustered. "Just shut up Antonio!" he whirled around and gave Ludwig a death stare. "Everyone, just shut up!"
Antonio gave another giggle. Ludwig wondered if he shouldn't just let Ivan handle negotiations. At least the big man would have done a better job at keeping the complete bewilderment off his face, like Ludwig was trying and failing to do.
As the dark haired Mafioso continued to gently tease Lovino, Feliciano turned to Ludwig with that same innocent smile.
"Ah~ Germany!" he laughed. "Would you come with me to the piazza to buy some pasta?"
And that was that. Ludwig went out to lunch with Feliciano and when he came back Lovino, looking like he had just scrubbed angry tears off his face and was sulking in an adorable fashion, declared that they would call off the hit on Alfred if the team got out of Rome within the next forty-eight hours.
("Come back to visit me soon~!" Feliciano had warbled; his brother had rudely tugged on his cowlick and yelled, "Idiota! Stop contradicting me!")
Strangely, Ludwig had gone back. One time to ask if Alfred was allowed back in the city for another job ("Of course, of course!" Feliciano had assured, talking over his spluttering brother. "Any friend of Germany's is a friend of mine!") and then several times after to do business. What Feliciano lacked in an intimidating front he made up for in a talented, almost eagle-eye for business and deals. He always had what Ludwig wanted, and at a fairly reasonable price too. Whenever Ludwig needed something of a confidential nature, he went to Rome.
Ludwig felt at home with Feliciano, despite the age difference and the fact that the younger Vargas didn't look as if he had any brains in his pretty head. The Italian would often surprise Ludwig by being wise in his own way, and eventually Ludwig had steeled himself against irritation at the brunette's childish and air-headed antics.
Feliciano was waiting for Ludwig and Gilbert at the airport, something Ludwig found funny considering he always had to wait for an appointment with the mafia. When Feliciano saw him, he ran at him, wringing his hands in anxiety. Ludwig held out his arms for the man to jump into, trying to ignore his brother's snickers. Feliciano had always been affectionate, and Gilbert loved to tease him about it when the Italian was out of earshot. Feliciano gave him the customary two kisses on the cheek.
Ludwig barely had time to half-heartedly purse his lips before the little Italian pulled back, crying, "Germany, it's terrible! Mio fratello and Antonio are fighting!"
Ludwig stared down at him. Gilbert asked, "Don't they always?"
"Si, but this time it is different! Lovi, he's locked himself in his room!" Feliciano wailed.
Lovino and Antonio, Ludwig had learned over the years, were an interesting pair. Antonio, a Spaniard who had come into service for the Vargas family years ago, was sort of the elder twin's pet. He was always by Lovino's side, and seemed to be the only one brave enough (or stupid enough, depending on how you looked at it) to tease the elder Vargas. Ludwig was pretty sure, if it was anyone else, Lovino would've had them put in the trunk of a car and shot at. But not Antonio. Lovino showed an extraordinary amount of tolerance of the Spaniard (though, that often consisted of yelling, swearing, or sulking in an amusing child-like manner). Then the Spaniard would laugh and daringly kiss the Italian's nose or cheek in public, resulting in Lovino storming away and Antonio being forced to give chase, laughing all the while. Antonio was known for his easy-going nature, thick-headed tendencies and an almost ridiculous absence of fear of his boss.
"It'll go away in a day or two, won't it?" Gilbert asked, having also been privy to Lovino's temper tantrums. "I mean, Lovino always talks to Antonio after a day or two."
"But this time it's Antonio who isn't talking to Lovino." Feliciano wailed, and Ludwig and Gilbert exchanged startled glances. This was surprising. Antonio usually had the patience of a saint when it came to Lovino, and took the constant verbal (and sometimes physical) abuse in laughing stride.
"Why isn't he talking to him?" Gilbert demanded, but Feliciano was causing a scene. He very dearly loved his brother and thought him and Antonio were absolutely perfect with each other. As his gasps became fast-paced, Ludwig placed his hands on the short man's shoulders.
"Shush, Feliciano." Ludwig commanded, feeling the beginnings of a headache form. "Here, we'll take you to lunch, and you will explain. Ja?"
"Y-yes." Feliciano sniffled, and gratefully wrapped his tiny hand in Ludwig's own large one, towing the blonde towards the car. Ludwig caught Gilbert's eyes as they started to move.
Gilbert was grinning.
Matt had thought that Arthur's home was massive. It was nothing compared to the French estate he now stood in front of. What the home lacked in English regality, it made up for in sprawling, casual expanse. Behind the home, he was told, was where the vineyards and gardens lay, ones that Bonnefoy kept impeccably groomed.
"Here we are!" Alfred had been grinning broadly all morning, maybe hoping that Matt hadn't heard the conversation that had gone on the night before. "Right. You need to go around the back to the staff entrance, and Gilbert's contact will meet you there for the interview. You got it, Matt?"
"Yeah, I got it." Matt said, a bit more sullenly than he'd meant to. When his brother's grin slipped a little, Matt sighed and reached out to squeeze his shoulder.
"And you'll be back in an hour? I can call you?"
"Yup!" Alfred held up his phone. "It's all here! Don't worry about it!"
Ivan was leaning on the roof of the car, chin propped up on his arm. His violet eyes bored into Matt's, and the Canadian felt a little annoyed. First insults and now silence. Ivan Braginsky really was a piece of work
When Ivan noticed Matt looking at him, he opened his mouth. "Matthew - "
"I get it." Matt said quickly, and offered a sardonic grin. "I won't trip. I've only got three legs, haven't I?"
"I saw a program once." the Russian said in all seriousness. "Where a lion was preparing to charge a group of antelope. It chose the one it thought was weakest, and tried to separate it from the herd. The antelope and the lion grappled for several minutes, until the antelope gored the lion in the throat. The lion died and the antelope lived."
Alfred stared at the Russian. "You been drinking?" he asked. " 'S only ten o'clock."
Matt turned back to the house so Ivan wouldn't see him smiling.
Around the side of the house was a dirt driveway leading up to the back and a small parking lot for the staff. Once Matt reached it, he knocked on the door labeled, "NO SOLICITORS" and "TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT", and waited only a few seconds before it swung open.
The woman who answered it was dressed in a simple green dress with an apron. Her long, brown hair was pulled back with a clasp and she was holding a frying pan in her left hand.
"You must be Matthew Williams." she greeted with a smile on her pretty face.
"My name is Elizaveta, and I am Mr. Bonnefoy's cook. Won't you come in?"
END CHAPTER FOUR
Translation:
Молодец - Russian for "well done", I believe.
Author's Note: Boss Romulus = Rome. Romulus was the man who was said to be raised by a wolf and who later went on to found the city of Rome.
Thanks, as always, for reading!