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Erik

Chapter 51

The Volpi

Giovanni was originally born in Sicily. This explained his darker complexion - darker than the other citizens of Venice. His parents were travelling bakers, moving between territories - all the way up to, eventually, Venice. When an illness befell them during his childhood, taking their lives, he was forced to the streets - and forced into thievery as well. But he worked hard to be educated regardless - reading (stolen) books by day and picking pockets by night.

When he was sixteen, he charmed and fooled his way into a dishwasher position at the Fox Den Inn, then cook, then chef. By twenty, his pleasant mannerisms awarded him a position as treasurer. And when his innkeeper master died, childless, unmarried, and feeling a fatherly affection toward his employee, he passed the deed to the place to Giovanni.

He told me he got his scar from a kitchen accident. He said that he broke his leg falling down the stairs. I didn't quite believe this, but I didn't press it, either.

Over the next six month, most of my time was spent with alone or with him, in my room, learning Italian. Because I didn't want to leave the room without a mask - and felt too imposing to ask for one, or for the work of creating another bath, for that matter - I requested a wash basin. I didn't feel trapped here. I liked the solitude. The fact that I knew I could leave at any time kept it from feeling like a prison.

By the end of six months, due to my hermit-like study habits, I could speak Italian as well as anyone.

Giovanni was impressed. He'd been impressed ever since that first day, when he'd asked me to learn fifty words by the next morning. I didn't learn fifty words. I learned three hundred - and could have learned more, but I had to eventually sleep and eat.

And with new language came new books. I could now read any book I wanted in the bookshelf there, and when I finished some, Giovanni would bring me more.

Salvatore would visit, as well. He'd learned to read after coming to Venice, and loved it as much as me. He'd show up two or three times a week with a new book, asking me to read it, and we would discuss.

I loved it. I felt as though I had a friend in Salvatore, though he was twice my age. Giovanni had become my teacher, and I had to show him respect and reverence as such. He never demanded those things, but I felt he was owed them.

With Salvatore, though, it was easy. Relaxed conversations and laughter for an hour every few days. Talks of books - of fiction.

And though I hated nonfiction, there was one subject that began interesting me greatly: engineering. The science of making things work. I wasn't sure if it was simply curiosity, or if it was the idea of making something rather than tearing things apart, that fascinated me. But I begged for those books - any book on engineering Giovanni or Salvatore could find. And, too, anything related. Mathematics. Chemistry. I wanted to understand how to create.

When I told Giovanni halfway through these six months how much I loved music, he surprised me the next day with a new, porcelain mask - a piece of clothing I hadn't worn since the day I was caught by Carmelo and Vincenzo. He brought me downstairs, down to the cellar, to show me a new furnishing he'd purchased; Vincenzo and Carmelo played cards at the table and watched my eyes with interest.

A piano. A grand piano.

I hadn't known how to react. But when Giovanni saw my hands shake and eyes close against tears, he shooed the two from the room - told them to make themselves busy upstairs, see to guests, whatever else.

They obeyed.

He asked me if I knew how to play, and I responded that I did. I sat down at the bench and recalled a piece that Marie and I played all the time, as though it were yesterday. As though it hadn't been four years since I'd last heard piano music.

In the middle of the song, Giovanni's harsh voice cut through the sound as he yelled in Italian: "Boy! Get your ass back upstairs!"

I turned to look - Carmelo was watching us with wide eyes from the middle of the staircase. He looked between us. "Sorry, Father - but he plays so well!"

"Carmelo-"

"If Erik says I can stay, can I?" he asked, taking a step down rather than up. I noticed again how boyish and light his features were - bright brown eyes, and even when his mouth wasn't smiling, his face seemed to anyway.

Giovanni turned to me. "Do you mind that my son stays and listens?"

I shook my head.

"All right, then." He waved Carmelo down, who stood on the side of the piano. It made me nervous, but I chose to ignore it.

I began to play again, when-

"How old are you, Erik?"

I didn't quite meet his gaze, remembering what he'd said about me the night he brought me here. That I was molto brutto. Very ugly. "Twelve," I responded.

"A year younger than me, then!" He smiled widely. "Where did you learn to play?"

"Carmelo," warned Giovanni, "if you are to stay down here, then you will behave yourself. Control your boundless energy, for once."

Carmelo's shoulders drooped. He nodded. "Yes, Father."

I began to play again, and this time I closed my eyes. Time passed, and I let myself get lost in the music, feeling its-

"I wish I could play like that."

"All right, boy," said Giovanni lowly, "go back upstairs."


I asked Giovanni often when I would start learning to be a thief. He told me when he felt I was ready to join the family. The Volpi, the Foxes. Right now, he told me, he was giving me time to heal.

And I was grateful for it.

I kept waiting for him to tell me that it was time - learn or leave. But he never did. He watched and waited, but didn't show any signs of impatience. It was jolting how little he seemed to care what I provided for him, as though it was me he found value in, rather than whatever skills and work I could give.

But then some time before I turned thirteen, I heard a knock on my door. Late into the night. Extremely late. I put my book down on the bed where I'd been sitting, put on my mask, and went to the door. I opened it to find Carmelo standing there, grinning widely, eyes alight.

"Stay quiet," he whispered, pushing into my room. I stared at him with wide eyes, unsure whether to close the door or not. He looked at me, and as though he had read my mind, waved with his hand to tell me to give us privacy.

I did so, and took a step toward him as he went to the middle of the room. "Carmelo?"

He spotted the bookshelf and whistled lowly. "My God, you do read a lot. Too much, I'd say. Far too much. You read that much, and you'll never have time for anything else."

I looked at the bookshelf, and then back at him. And, I know it was irrational, but the fact that he'd just now invaded on my space, only to tell me how to live my life, sent a wave of annoyed anger through me. "It's funny - I don't remember asking."

His eyes whipped to mine in astonishment, and then amusement. "Oh, yes, with a tongue like that, you will fit in quite nicely." He turned to me fully. "I have a request."

I crossed my arms. "Yes?"

"I want to learn how to play piano."

I blinked. "Oh, no. I am not going to teach-"

"In exchange, I have a skill to teach you."

That piqued my interest. I uncrossed my arms. "All right... Let's hear it, then."

He smiled. His mouth didn't open. But I swore I heard his voice in my ear. How would you like to throw your voice like a ghost in the shadows?