Chapter Twelve
1014 Words
Luca learned very quickly that Elena did not walk anywhere without purpose.
She moved through the estate like a general conducting an inspection — not rushed, not slow, every step deliberate. Luca followed two paces behind her, where Domenico had placed him with a quiet, “There,” as if positioning furniture.
“Do not drag your feet,” Elena said without turning around.
“I’m not—”
The wooden spoon struck the back of his calf.
Luca yelped. “I wasn’t dragging.”
“You were hesitating,” Elena corrected. “Hesitation is lazy.”
She turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “When I walk, you walk. When I stop, you stop. When I speak, you listen. You do not interrupt. You do not swear. You do not put your hands in your pockets.”
Luca removed his hands immediately.
“Good,” Elena said. “You learn.”
They entered the main corridor. Staff stepped aside as Elena passed. Heads dipped. Conversations died instantly.
Luca noticed everything and understood very little.
At the first stop, a woman approached Elena with a ledger. Elena took it, flipped through several pages, and frowned.
“This is incorrect.”
“Yes, Signora—”
“No excuses,” Elena snapped. “Fix it.”
She handed the ledger back and moved on.
Luca opened his mouth to ask a question.
The spoon tapped his forearm.
“Silence,” Elena said without looking at him. “Questions are a privilege.”
They crossed into another wing. A guard opened the door before Elena even reached it.
Inside, a man stood waiting — mid-forties, stiff posture, nervous eyes.
Elena stopped.
“You are late,” she said.
“My apologies—”
“Unacceptable,” she cut in. “You waste my time.”
She turned her head slightly. “He is American.”
The man glanced at Luca, confused.
“He will stand there,” Elena continued, “and learn how a man behaves when he disappoints me.”
Luca straightened instinctively.
The man swallowed. “It won’t happen again.”
“It already did,” Elena replied coolly. “Leave.”
The man left quickly.
Luca exhaled without realizing he’d been holding his breath.
Elena turned to him. “What did you learn?”
“That… punctuality matters?”
The spoon hovered.
“Again.”
“That you don’t repeat yourself.”
Tap.
“Better.”
They moved on.
By midday, Luca’s body hurt in ways he hadn’t known existed.
Not from physical labor — not yet — but from the constant vigilance. Where his hands were. How he stood. When he spoke. How he breathed.
Every slip was corrected.
Sometimes with words.
Sometimes with wood.
At lunch, Elena sat at the head of a small table. Luca was placed to her right.
“Eat properly,” she said, watching him like a hawk.
He reached for bread.
“Fork,” she snapped.
He froze, switched hands.
She nodded once.
“Acceptable.”
He dared to ask, “Why me?”
The spoon struck the table.
“You speak out of turn,” she said. “You are with me because my daughter allows it.”
That again — my daughter.
Luca felt the weight of it without understanding why.
“You are uncultured,” Elena continued, cutting her food with surgical precision. “You speak loudly. You move like the world will accommodate you.”
She glanced at him. “It will not.”
“I grew up differently,” Luca said quietly.
“That,” Elena replied, “is not an excuse. It is a weakness.”
The afternoon was worse.
Elena took him into town.
Not as a guest. As a shadow.
She stopped to speak with shopkeepers. With elders. With women who kissed her cheek and whispered gratitude.
Luca said nothing.
Once, he nodded too eagerly.
The spoon tapped his wrist.
“Do not fawn,” Elena murmured. “You are not a dog.”
At a small square, Elena paused to speak with two older men. Luca stood behind her, posture straight, jaw tight.
One of the men glanced at him.
“Who is this?”
Elena smiled thinly. “A lesson.”
The men laughed.
Luca did not.
By late afternoon, his patience was shredded.
When a boy bumped into him accidentally, Luca muttered a curse under his breath.
The spoon struck hard.
“English,” Elena snapped. “Still unacceptable.”
“I didn’t even say it loudly!”
“That,” Elena said, turning on him fully, “is not the point.”
She stepped closer.
“You do not exist loudly in my presence,” she said. “You observe. You absorb. You change.”
People were watching.
Luca felt heat climb his neck.
“Yes,” he said tightly.
Elena nodded. “Good.”
Back at the estate, Luca sagged with relief — which was immediately punished.
“Stand straight,” Elena barked.
He straightened.
They paused at the terrace.
Beyond it, she was there again — sparring now, movements fluid, controlled, devastating.
Luca caught himself watching.
The spoon struck his ribs.
“Eyes forward,” Elena snapped. “You have not earned the right to look.”
His breath caught.
“Why am I here?” he asked quietly, carefully.
Elena studied him for a long moment.
“Because,” she said finally, “you are alive when you should not be.”
She turned and walked away.
Luca followed.
By nightfall, he was exhausted beyond reason.
Elena stopped outside his guest wing.
“You will return here,” she said. “You will sleep. Tomorrow, you will do better.”
“And if I don’t?” Luca asked.
She raised the spoon.
“You will learn faster.”
She handed him off to Domenico without another glance.
As Luca limped inside, one thought echoed relentlessly in his mind:
He had come here to expose power.
Instead, he was being reshaped by it.
And the woman with the wooden spoon was enjoying every second.
- Writer
