His Enemy's Daughter

Chapter 4

“Pack light,” Rafael said, flipping the tiny leather ticket between his fingers like it was dessert. “We’re only gone for the weekend.”

“Pack light?” I echoed, because in my world that usually meant hoodies or oversized tops, and sweats or shorts, my sketchbook, and an emergency jar of eclairs. “You do realize I own more emotional baggage than actual luggage.”

He laughed — the kind of laugh that meant he’d won the argument before it started — and handed me the ticket. It was real: a little rectangle of promise with my name on it and the word Italy printed like a spell. I stared at it until the paper blurred.

Rafael travels like some people breathe: naturally, often, and with a little perfume residue. He was the uncle who came home with souvenirs. I’d always wanted to see more of his world, and now I had two days with him and his family at least for the weekend then before I came back home or more like this cage.

I wish I could stay the rest of the summer, I need a change in scenery at least out of this mansion.

Mrs. Baines scowled at the mess I created with my clothes but packed my favorite hoodie anyway. Marco double-checked my passport like it was a fragile artifact. My father kissed my forehead and said, simply, “Be careful,” which meant everything and nothing at once.

I tucked the ticket deeper into my pocket and imagined Italy: the standard buildings, the Italian arts, late espresso and pasta restaurants, a language that would sound like music when strangers argued in the street.

___

The flight passed in a blur of window-eyes and Rafael’s stories about a Sicilian pastry chef who’d once tried to teach him patience. When the plane touched down, Italy slapped me with warmth and the moist air around that smelled like Sweetness.

We unloaded from the plane around 1:00pm and met with the chauffeur to take us to Rafael's home.

Rafael’s Villa came into view, it was the kind of house that made you suspect it had been designed by someone who mistook elegance for emotional manipulation. Rafael’s wife, Sofia, met us by the entrance with a smile that could have signed treaties.

Sofia guided me through the rooms with the grace of someone showing off a museum they half-owned, while Rafael disappeared to take a call that sounded both casual and commanding.

The guest room felt like it belonged in two timelines at once—part classic, part vintage, stitched together with quiet elegance. A king-sized bed sat at the center, its white sheets patterned with faint flowers, the kind you only noticed if you leaned close. A vase of fresh flowers rested on the bedside table, their color softening the sharpness of the stone walls.

The dressing table with varieties of facial products, the walk in closet, the side that leads to the bathroom that had a scent of luxury and lavender soap smell.

The balcony doors opened onto a view of the sea, where the water caught the sun like broken glass. A breeze tugged at the curtains, carrying the faint scent of salt and bougainvillea.

I dropped my bag on the bed and pulled out my sketchbook almost instinctively, my fingers already itching. The view captivated me.

___

It was late afternoon, already. I woke to the sound of my door creaking open and the bounce of little footsteps. Lucia stood at the edge of my bed, grinning. I raised my body to a sitting position and drawled my hands down my face, cleaning the remaining sleep. My sketchbook was still sprawled across the sheets, one of my half-finished drawings sat there.

“You fell asleep while drawing,” she announced, holding up my phone like evidence. “Good thing you took a picture first.”

I stretched, blinking against the soft orange light slipping in from the balcony. “Guess I was more tired than I thought.”

Lucia climbed onto the bed without asking, flipping through the sketchbook with wide-eyed fascination. “These are good. You have to draw me next.”

Before I could answer, a knock sounded, and Matteo leaned against the doorway, casual as ever. “Get up,” he said. “It’s almost five. We’re taking you into the city—just an hour before dinner. No excuses.”

I sat up, running a hand through my messy hair. “What if I said no?”

“Then you’d regret it later,” Matteo replied smoothly, already turning down the hall.

Lucia tugged on my arm. “Come on, you’ll love it.”

And she was right. The hour spilled over to an hour and a half and it passed in a blur of narrow streets, warm shop front lights, and the hum of voices that didn’t seem to quiet even as the sky darkened. Matteo showed me where the locals gathered near a fountain, Lucia darted in and out of small stores where she went to buy cookies, and I tried to keep up, sketchbook in hand, stealing bits of scenery between laughs.

“Keep up,” Lucia shouted from in front of me and Matteo as she dragged me when she saw an Icecream truck.

“I am keeping up, I’m just… taking it in.” I said when we reached.

Lucia, was around twelve or so, so the enthusiasm and energy still was there, Matteo her brother, maybe two years older than me had that protective aura, but he was still cool and fun. And turns out I was not all too neutral and sarcastic like always, I felt light and happy. Spending time with my cousins and about my age grade.

___

By the time we got home, Sofia had ordered pizza—thin crust, still steaming from the oven—and a stack of juice bottles for us. We ate sprawled in the living room, greasy fingers and laughter mixing with the smell of spicy sauce.

Matteo picked a movie, since none of us could agreed on what to watch and soon the room filled with the glow of the screen.

It was cozy and simple. The kind of evening that didn’t need to impress anyone.

At nine, Sofia swept in, graceful as ever, hands on her hips. “Alright guys” she said, smiling but firm. “Bed time. You can conquer the rest of the city again tomorrow.”

Lucia groaned dramatically, Matteo rolled his eyes, and I gathered up my sketchbook with a quiet smile. As we headed upstairs, I realized I hadn’t felt this free in years.