Peasants and Kings

by Emma Slate

  A thread of resolution curled through me and I reminded myself that I still breathed air into my lungs, that it wasn’t too late for me yet. The Foscari might’ve been looking for her all these years, but they’d never found her. If she could run for so long, I could too. They knew less about me than they knew of her. She’d found a way to disappear, to create a new life. And I had to do the same. I wouldn’t risk staying out in the open. Not after reading the letter and understanding the direness of the situation.

  I had twenty thousand dollars to start a new life. Twenty thousand dollars and my mother’s blood in my veins.

  Something in my brain snapped into place, and as fast as emotions had come pouring out of me, it was like the faucet had suddenly been shut off. My tears dried on my cheeks as I moved around the motel room, throwing my toiletries into my suitcase and zipping it closed.

  I put the letter and the money back into the manila envelope and then rolled it shut and secured it with a hair tie.

  Looking around the room, I made sure I had all my belongings and then left. I hoisted my suitcase into the trunk of my car and didn’t bother checking out of the motel. I’d prepaid, planning on leaving early the next morning.

  But my mother’s final words had lit a fire of urgency, and I refused to sit still, to give in to the paralyzing emotions that threatened to pull me into their undertow.

  I had a full tank of gas and no idea where to go. So I just drove.

  I thought about my father. Gianni Russo. How had he met my mother? How had a sheltered young Moretti woman come across an unsuitable boy not of her echelon?

  Their love had been so powerful that they’d been willing to risk everything to be together.

  I never truly believed that kind of love existed, but clearly it did. My parents were lucky enough to have found it, but not lucky enough to be able to grow old together.

  They were tragic, star-crossed lovers.

  Grieving and with only the help of Sister Agatha, my mother had somehow found the courage to escape Italy and come to the States. How had she done it? Sheer force of will? She came from the bloodline of Italian mercenaries. No doubt, the strength of her resolve was buried deep in her DNA, perhaps the reason for her tenacity.

  I’d never heard of a family of Italian mercenaries in existence since The Crusades. It sounded ridiculous. And yet, my mother’s words rang true. I knew it in my bones.

  Afternoon turned to evening as I drove farther and farther from the plot of land that was my mother’s final resting place.

  I replayed pieces of my childhood in my mind, pouring over every memory, every conversation I could muster. I tried to see those recollections through the lens of an adult, knowing what I knew now. But it would take longer than a car ride to nowhere to unravel the myopic emotions that steadfastly clung to my memories.

  Just because she’d told me the truth didn’t mean I was suddenly full of forgiveness. Compassion, maybe, in the distant corners of my angry heart.

  Guilt, definitely.

  Her letter was only a window into her psyche. Now she was gone and had left me with half-truths. The window was shut. And just like that, the numbness of the adrenaline faded away, leaving a tempest of wrath.

  Hours later, my skin still tight with anger, knuckles white from gripping the wheel, I knew I had to think about stopping for the night. I’d been heading east for hours and exhaustion was setting in.

  I drove through yet another city that looked like all the rest, every stop at a red light an excuse for my rage to flicker again.

  Estrangement from my mother wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I’d been safe and loved, but it didn’t make up for the lack of friends, the lack of attachments I longed for, or my inability to connect with others because I’d always been terrified that as soon as I made a friend, Mama would rip me away and drag me to a new place.

  It wasn’t a true sob story, but it was my story.

  “Mama, why?” I asked, hitting the steering wheel.

  My mother’s letter had told me just enough to crack the lid on a Pandora’s box of my background. I wanted to know it all, but I hadn’t been given the chance.

  And then I had the worst thought of my entire life: My mother might’ve died to protect me, but what if it had also been a way out of her own personal pain? What if she no longer had the strength to continue living? She’d never dated. She’d never made connections, either. What if she’d been too tired, weighed down by her past, knowing her future would be just more of the same?

  She’d been completely alone.

  Now I was completely alone, destined to feel what she felt.

  Tears I thought were long gone suddenly welled at the corners of my eyes and blurred my vision. There was a faceless enemy tracking me, bludgeoning me with anxiety and fear.

  I pulled off the highway, not bothering to look at the signs. I drove through the small town, passing quiet streets.

  When I found an empty parking lot, I turned into it, put the car in park, and then let loose the sobs I’d been attempting to hold back.

  They came from deep inside, from the depths of my soul and marrow. I purged it all. I flogged my heart with thousands of lashes in the form of detrimental, guilt-stricken thoughts.

  And when there were no more tears, I finally leaned my throbbing head against the cool window and took a deep breath.

  I fell into a light sleep and woke when the new day appeared on the horizon. I stretched my sore body and rubbed my tender eyes.

  A choked, maniacal laugh escaped my lips when I realized where I’d spent the night.

  In the parking lot of St. Mary’s Church.

  Here. Here, I’ll be safe.

  Chapter One

  One year later

  * * *

  I rode the elevator to the top floor. When the steel doors opened, I rushed down the long white hallway with slate gray carpet and came to the last condo. I pounded on the light wood door for what seemed like forever.

  The door to the apartment opened and Tiffany stood in front of me, all long-legged, blonde, and staring at me with glittering aquamarine eyes.

  “Sterling?” she asked in shock. “Where have—I haven’t seen you—where the hell have you been?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Tiffany grasped me gently around my wrist and all but hauled me into her luxury condo. She released me and then shut the door.

  I clenched my cold hands into fists and looked around the room. It was an open floor plan with a modern kitchen and stainless-steel appliances, yet the living room was inviting and airy. Light gray walls matched the accent pillows on the white couch and high-end white trim carpentry highlighted the room. The last time I’d been over had been two years ago when she’d just moved in and she’d had no artwork to display. Now, expensively framed and expertly hung black and white photos brought the entire ambiance together.

  I glanced at the clock on the microwave, noting the time. “Crap. I didn’t even think—I just came over. Were you asleep?”

  She snorted in wry humor. “I’m a night owl.”

  I nodded. “Right.”

  “Sterling? What’s going on? Where have you been this past year? I’ve called and called—”

  “I got a new phone number.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Can we sit? There’s a lot we have to—can we please sit?”

  “Yeah, absolutely. Should I get a bottle of wine?”

  “How about something stronger?”

  “Glasses?”

  “Don’t bother.”

  She let out a long exhale and then went to the kitchen. Tiffany came back with a bottle of rye whiskey. Unscrewing it, she took a swig and then handed it to me.

  “You look like hell,” she said, studying me carefully.

  When I’d had my fill, I handed the bottle back to her.

  “I haven’t had my hair cut in over a year.”

  “That’s the least of it. You’ve got shadows under your eyes. Are you sleeping?”

  “A few
hours a night.”

  She paused, holding the bottle of rye between her legs. Staring down at it, she said, “I thought you ghosted me.”

  “Shit,” I muttered. “I didn’t want you to think that, but there was no way for me to explain it all to you. Now I’m here and I don’t know what to do and you’re my best friend—my only friend—and, oh fuck, I probably put you in danger just for being associated with me and…”

  I grabbed the bottle from between her legs and took another fortifying sip.

  “Danger? What are you talking about?” Tiffany asked.

  “My mother died last year,” I said quietly.

  “Violetta died? Did she have a funeral?” When I nodded, she frowned. “Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve gone with you.”

  “I know.” I shot her a tiny smile. “But I—I didn’t think about it, honestly. I just kind of…went into a daze. I packed a small suitcase and drove to Kansas for the funeral.”

  Her eyes were somber. “She was so young. What happened?”

  I stared at my hands. The home manicure I’d given myself a few days ago was already chipped and my nails needed attention.

  I lurched off the couch and began to pace across her wooden living room floor. My cheap shoulder bag rested on the end table and I reached for it and unzipped it. I felt around at the bottom of the ripped lining and dug out the letter. I hadn’t had the heart to burn it. The money had all but run out and the letter was the only thing I had left of my mother.

  I showed the letter to Tiffany.

  She frowned. “It’s in Italian.”

  I nodded. “It explains everything, Tiff. My childhood, why we moved all the time, why she wouldn’t ever let me stay in one place too long. This explains it all.”

  Her eyes were bright like glowing gemstones.

  I enlightened her about the contents of the letter, including what my mother had said about our lineage.

  Tiffany’s gaze widened. “You can’t be serious. You honestly don’t believe—”

  “Yes, I believe her,” I said. “The letter alone might’ve given me pause, but the twenty grand that went with it made it real.”

  “Twenty grand? Where did she get that kind of money?”

  “I don’t know. The letter didn’t say. It was all she had left.”

  I told her of the extreme measure Mama had taken to protect me.

  Tiffany’s hand went to her mouth, almost as if to stop the sounds of horror from escaping her lips.

  I fell silent, giving Tiffany a chance to process everything I’d said. I’d had a year to replay everything again and again, on repeat.

  “Jesus, Sterling, I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine. Can you tell me the rest? I want to hear it all.”

  Nodding resolutely, I continued. “After her funeral, I drove southeast. I wound up in a little town in Arkansas, and by some miracle, I was able to get a job under the table and rent a small apartment. But nothing happened. No scary men came looking for me, it was just boring. I started to think I was nuts for doing this, for living a life under the radar. I started to doubt everything. I didn’t want a life like my mother’s, always running. I knew why she did it, but I…anyway, I spent a lot of nights awake, wondering how it all could’ve turned out this way.”

  I bowed my head, needing a moment to compose myself. It had been so long since I’d been able to confide in someone. I’d kept to myself this past year, not wanting to make connections, not wanting to get involved, knowing I’d inevitably have to leave at some point.

  “There was a car accident a few days ago just outside the town I was living in. I wasn’t involved, but I saw it happen. One of the cars rolled into a ditch. The other smashed into a guardrail and caught fire. I didn’t think, Tiff. I just pulled over and before I knew what I was doing, I was running to the car on fire. It was a mother and her young boy who’d been hit. I couldn’t get the driver’s door open; it was smashed shut, but it didn’t matter. She was gone. The boy was screaming in the back seat and the fire...”

  I shuddered at the memory.

  “Oh my God, is the boy okay?” Her voice sounded very far away and pulled me from the memory of my recent past.

  I nodded my head. “He’s fine. He has a few scratches from glass, but nothing major. The fire…I got smoke in my eyes and couldn’t see. The paramedics were washing my eyes out for me, and my contacts had to come out. But someone caught the whole thing on video and it’s gone viral. Our local news station picked the footage up, and I freaked out. My face is all over TV. All the footage is high definition, it’s everywhere. Local TV, online, all over.”

  “Shit.” She shook her head. “You’ve worn contacts for as long as I’ve known you. I’ve never even seen you without them. But that’s not enough, is it? How could they possibly know you’re a Moretti? Your mother said in the letter that heterochromia isn’t that uncommon.”

  “They published my legal name, Sterling Miller,” I said with a grimace. “I’ve been giving people fake names for a year, and I lied to the paramedics, but then the police showed up and started to document witness accounts and asked for my ID. I thought about getting a fake ID when I went on the run, but I didn’t know the right people to ask, and I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself by getting involved with criminals, you know? And fake IDs are not foolproof. You can tell a fake a mile away.” I let out an exhale and shook my head. “I might’ve been able to stay on the run, but Sister Agatha knew my legal name and my trait, both of which are now public. And now my face is all over the media. The Foscari have every piece of the puzzle they need to identify me.”

  “Here, take another drink.”

  I threaded my hands through my hair. “I’m sorry that I brought this to your door. But I—I had nowhere else to go.”

  “No. You were right to come to me. I’m glad you did,” she said. “You should’ve come to me a year ago. You shouldn’t have had to do this alone. You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  The adrenaline had worked its way out of my bloodstream, and I leaned back against the couch cushions in exhaustion. “Strong. Yeah.”

  “I’m serious. You did what your mother said to do. You disappeared. You tried to start a new life. And then you screwed it all up by rescuing some kid.” She smiled. “You’re not just strong, you’re a good person. So good, Sterling.”

  Emotion fizzed in my throat. I couldn’t speak through the tightness, so I reached out and squeezed her fingers.

  Tiffany raised the bottle of rye. “To Violetta.”

  “To Mama.”

  We passed the bottle back and forth until I was too tired to keep my eyes open. When I finally lay my head on the couch’s accent pillow, my legs strewn across Tiffany, I could almost pretend we were teenagers again, gossiping about the boys in our class and rating them on a sliding scale of hotness. I could almost pretend we had our entire lives ahead of us.

  My eyes drifted shut, and I let myself believe I was still that girl who didn’t know what the future held.

  “Sterling?” Tiffany whispered.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  Chapter Two

  “Psst. Hey. Hey, Sterling. You’re drooling.”

  I opened my eyes and caught Tiffany’s grin as dreamy morning light filtered through the large glass living room window. She held out a cup of coffee to me and I reluctantly sat up, realizing I’d fallen asleep on the couch.

  “What time is it?” I asked, taking the coffee from her.

  “Nine.”

  “I don’t even remember falling asleep,” I murmured, stifling a yawn.

  “I tried to get you to move to the guest room, but you flung me off. So I covered you with a blanket and left you to it.”

  I looked into the coffee mug, steam rising toward my face. “Thanks.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I don’t know. Exhausted. Numb. Confused.”

  Her aquamarine eyes were clear, and her skin was flushed
with health. She didn’t look like she’d been up late pounding rye whiskey and talking to me about my past and my very screwed up present.

  “There’s a clean towel in the guest bathroom. Did you bring a suitcase with you?”

  “I left it in my car in the parking garage. I should grab it real fast.”

  “I’ll have Jerry get it.” She called down to the security desk and a few minutes later Jerry stood at Tiffany’s threshold and she was giving him my car keys.

  Jerry came back within ten minutes, handing off my suitcase. I thanked him as Tiffany closed the door.

  “You passed out last night before I could offer you leftovers. You must be starving.” She smiled.

  “I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning,” I admitted.

  “Take a shower. I’ll have eggs ready by the time you get out.”

  “Eggs would be good. Tiff? What am I going to do about this mess?”

  “Shower first, food second, discussion third,” she said, her tone not allowing for argument. “There’s a fresh bottle of my favorite lavender body scrub. I swear it’s transformative.” She pointed in the direction of the guest room. “Go.”

  I saluted her and grabbed my suitcase to wheel it into the bedroom. Once I closed the door, I settled the suitcase in the corner and unzipped it. I pulled out an old pair of faded jeans, clean undergarments, and a gray threadbare T-shirt. With my toiletry bag in hand, I headed into Tiffany’s guest bathroom.

  The water was hot, and the pressure was perfect; the lavender body scrub soothed my senses. I hid for as long as I could, blocking out my hopeless reality.

  But I knew I couldn’t hide in Tiffany’s shower, no matter how nice it was, and so I finally climbed out and towel dried my hair.

  I got dressed and then went to the kitchen, lured by the aroma of eggs. My hunger kicked into high gear.

  “You made this?” I asked in surprise when Tiffany slid a plate across the counter. I hopped up on a bar stool and reached for my fork.