A Familiar Face
1363 Words
TSUKIMI
The room was too beautiful to be a prison.
That was probably intentional.
I stood by the window, looking down at the gardens.
Beautiful gardens.
Perfectly trimmed hedges. Marble statues. Roses blooming along the paths.
And cameras.
Quite a lot of cameras.
I counted six from where I stood.
There were also two guards near the main entrance and at least three more somewhere inside the house.
Subtle.
Very subtle.
I took another sip of the coffee someone had brought me.
At least they had good coffee.
Perhaps being kidnapped wasn't going to be completely unbearable.
A knock came at the door.
I turned.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
Lorenzo stood there.
Alone.
No guards.
No white-haired man.
No woman with the red lips.
Just him.
Interesting.
His eyes immediately went to the coffee in my hand.
“You seem comfortable.”
I looked around the room.
“I have a bed, coffee, a private bathroom, and a view better than my university dorm.”
I paused.
“So far, I’ve had worse mornings.”
His expression didn't change.
I was beginning to suspect his face had been permanently carved into that particular expression.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“Sit.”
I glanced at the chair behind me.
Then back at him.
“Was that a request?”
“No.”
“Then I think I'll stand.”
His eyes narrowed.
I smiled sweetly.
Then sat down.
Not because he told me to.
My feet hurt.
He remained standing.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
I wondered how long he planned to stare at me before getting to the point.
Apparently, not long.
“You know who I am.”
It wasn't a question.
I looked at him.
“Lorenzo Ferucci.”
His gaze sharpened.
“That's not what I meant.”
“Then you'll have to be more specific.”
Something flickered across his face.
Annoyance.
Good.
At least he was capable of something besides looking intimidating.
“You know what my name means.”
I thought about it.
“Should it mean something to me?”
The silence that followed was almost impressive.
I took another sip of coffee.
Lorenzo studied me.
Not casually.
Carefully.
Like he was trying to find something hidden underneath my skin.
Recognition, perhaps.
Fear.
Guilt.
Anything.
I gave him none of it.
“You're not frightened,” he finally said.
I lowered my eyes.
“I am.”
His eyebrows moved slightly.
I looked up.
“Very frightened, actually.”
He stared at me.
I smiled.
He didn't.
I almost laughed.
“You're a terrible liar.”
That was a little insulting.
I had been lying for much longer than this man had been alive.
But he didn't need to know that.
I lowered my head again and played with the sleeve of my sweater.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being bad at being kidnapped.”
His expression hardened.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Don't laugh.
That would ruin the performance.
Lorenzo took a step closer.
“Who are you?”
“Tsukimi.”
“I know your name.”
“Then we're off to a great start.”
His jaw tightened.
I smiled apologetically.
He clearly wasn't used to people talking to him like this.
That made two of us.
“Where are you from?”
“Montreal.”
“Originally.”
I paused.
“Japan.”
“When did you come here?”
“Years ago.”
“How many?”
I frowned.
“Is this an interview?”
“Answer the question.”
I sighed.
“Long enough to forget how much I dislike being asked questions.”
His eyes remained fixed on me.
“You go to university.”
“Yes.”
“What do you study?”
“History.”
“Why?”
I shrugged.
“Because dead people don't interrupt me when I read about them.”
He stared at me.
I smiled.
Perhaps I had gone too far.
So I softened my expression.
“I like history.”
He said nothing.
His gaze moved over my face again.
And this time, something felt different.
He wasn't simply studying me anymore.
He was comparing me to someone.
I knew that look.
I'd seen it before.
Long ago.
On a much younger face.
“Have we met before?” he asked.
There it was.
I lowered my eyes.
For the first time, I had to think carefully before answering.
“Yes.”
The word almost slipped out.
I caught it.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
I looked up.
“I don't think so.”
“You don't think so?”
I shrugged.
“You meet a lot of people, don't you?”
“Not many people look like you.”
My fingers tightened around the coffee cup.
There it was.
The reason I was here.
I knew exactly who he was thinking about.
The girl I had been.
The girl who had found him when he had nothing left.
The girl who had stayed beside him when everyone else had walked away.
The girl he had apparently never forgotten.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“That’s a strange thing to say to someone you just kidnapped.”
His gaze didn't leave mine.
“I'm not talking about your face.”
I waited.
“Your eyes.”
My fingers went still.
For one brief second, I forgot to breathe.
Then I laughed softly.
“My eyes?”
“There's something familiar about them.”
I looked away.
“Well, that's disappointing.”
“Why?”
“Because I was hoping you kidnapped me for my charming personality.”
Silence.
I looked back at him.
Nothing.
Not even a smile.
Definitely broken.
Lorenzo moved closer.
“Do you know anyone in Italy?”
The question was casual.
Too casual.
I knew better.
I tilted my head.
“Probably.”
His expression changed.
“Probably?”
“It's a big country.”
His eyes hardened.
I smiled innocently.
“I've heard there are quite a few people there.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
He tapped the screen.
“Do you recognize him?”
He turned it toward me.
A photograph.
A young man.
Dark hair.
A smile that didn't belong to the cold world Lorenzo now lived in.
His brother.
My eyes rested on the photograph.
And something inside me went painfully quiet.
I knew that face.
I remembered that voice.
I remembered the last time I had seen him.
But none of that could show.
So I blinked.
Then looked at Lorenzo.
“No.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
A lie.
A very old one.
He watched me for another moment before putting the phone away.
“Interesting.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He turned toward the door.
I watched him go.
Just before his hand reached the handle, he stopped.
Without looking back, he said:
“You remind me of someone.”
My heart would have stopped.
If it still knew how.
I looked toward him.
“Someone you liked?”
He finally turned.
“No.”
A pause.
“Someone I never managed to forget.”
For once, I had no clever answer.
His eyes held mine.
And suddenly I remembered a boy with blood on his shirt, anger in his eyes, and nowhere left to go.
A boy who had once asked me if I thought his life was over.
I had told him no.
I had been wrong about many things in my long life.
But not that.
Lorenzo opened the door.
“Get some sleep.”
I stared at him.
“I'm sorry?”
“You'll need it.”
The door closed.
I remained still.
Then I looked down at my coffee.
Cold.
Wonderful.
I had been kidnapped by the boy I once saved.
And he didn't even know it was me.
I smiled despite myself.
Perhaps this would be interesting after all.
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