*****
I look at the reflection of the moon in the raging ocean, crashing its waves against the fine, brown sand. I close my eyes for a few moments, enjoying the gentle breeze of the wind playing with my hair incessantly. I tread lightly on the damp sand, feeling its every oily movement beneath my bare feet, pausing in front of the moon to admire it fully, amazed at the grace with which it slips through the clouds.
- You don't recognize me, but your soul does. He remembers me, he always will.
The boy's familiar voice makes me turn my attention back to him, watching as he passes me, stopping with his back two meters away.
- Maybe.... I whisper, watching the dark silhouette in front of me.
- Sooner or later you will be mine. I've waited years to meet you, a few months, a few weeks... equals zero for me. Don't fight your feelings. Open your eyes, Aiyana! Look around you! I'm closer to you than you think, and your soul knows it.
- Does your face look familiar? I ask, taking a step forward, approaching the boy who is standing with his back to me, hiding his face.
- Patience. You don't need to see my face to know who I am. You'll recognize me soon enough, that is if you haven't already, the amusement in his voice makes me frown.
- Just a dream. A nightmare, like all nightmares. It's not real! I close my eyes in sorrow.
- He asks, giggling. If it's just a dream, why can you still feel my fingerprint after you wake up? He whispers in my ear, coming up behind me, and brushes my hair off my left shoulder. This is my signature, you'll remember it when you wake up. You'll remember it every day, every hour, every minute, every second, she whispers and presses her cool lips to my neck, hugging me then.
- It's just my imagination. It's always been like that. You exist in my dreams, but not in real life. You're just a fantasy, that's all. Even if you were real, you'd still be fake. A dream, a wish.
- Consider me a dream, but remember I'm a dream come true. I'm real, I'm here with you. Are you afraid? He whispers in my hair, making me sigh.
- I don't know. Should I be? - No, you shouldn't be afraid of me. As long as you're with me, you're safe. You'll always be safe with me. Never doubt that. Just believe...
- I'm not afraid of you! I'm afraid of my sick mind! I exclaim, smiling bitterly. I'm afraid that I'll end up on the edge again, and this time I'll fall into the abyss, with nothing to hold on to.
- You won't fall. I'm not gonna let you fall. And even if you slip, I will catch you for sure. You'll never be alone again, he leans his chin against my shoulder, stroking the skin of my neck with his silken locks.
- It's not real! It's just a dream! You're not real!" I scream and break free, pushing him back with all my strength.
*****
I glance at the coffee machine that announces that the elixir of my life is ready, so I grab the cup of coffee without a second thought. I bring it to my lips and sip, closing my eyes for a few moments. The warm liquid caresses the inside of my mouth, giving me a feeling of well-being, but it doesn't last long as last night's dream contaminates my thoughts.
I sigh and gently massage the left side of my neck, falling for a few moments in thought.
I dreamt it again. For a thousand and forty-four days, his face was foreign to me. A strange face that wiped away my tears and embraced my body in the cold evenings. I never thought I would ever meet him, that I would know his face in this life, but now I know....
His name is Enzo Martelli.
I begin to gasp at the memory of last night. His voice crashes against the walls of my mind, and his face appears like a ghost before my closed eyes. I can still feel his palms caressing my thighs, sending cold shivers down my spine.
- Damn! The coffee's gone out again! The dramatic voice brings me to my feet.
I frown slightly and open my eyes lazily, watching Dima as he sits on one of the high chairs in front of me. He scrutinizes me questioningly, expecting me to retort.
- No, I just slept badly last night, I shrug nonchalantly, taking another sip.
- Strange. I'd heard you sleep better after a cool shower, he fixes his eyes on mine, as if trying to read my thoughts.
- Too bad I hate cold showers then, I chuckle softly, rolling my eyes.
She looks at me for a few seconds, then turns her attention to the fruit bowl. He takes an apple and bites into it with relish, remaining silent for a few moments.
- Last night Enzo had a party. I thought I saw you with him in the pool. But clearly my eyes are deceiving me, he chuckles briefly, glancing at me. Although, come to think of it, it couldn't have been you. I mean, really, you would have beaten the poor man up only if he had the nerve to breathe in your direction, Dima now laughs in utter amusement, most probably imagining the scenario.
I huff annoyed and point my middle finger, which seems to amuse him even more. I soon realize it's a lost cause, so I turn on my heel and open every drawer and cupboard in search of the ingredients I need to make muffins.
It's only a few more hours until my mom gets home, and all I can hope is that the muffins will lessen the shock of my completely unexpected arrival.
She has no idea I'm here. Even Dima had no idea that I'd come a month and a half early to visit, and it took him by surprise when I suddenly showed up at his workplace. I can't say I regret it. The shock that crossed his face when I appeared before him made my day.
- By the way, what's his deal? Does the whole firm live in this area or what?" I hear myself suddenly ask, looking at Dima who has just thrown the apple's peel in the trash.
He purses his lips in a straight line and frowns, looking as if he's thinking about something, but it's impossible for me to figure out what.
- I have no idea. He bought the house next door two days ago. I assume he liked the area, he glances over his shoulder, then makes himself scarce.
- Or the view... I mutter to myself, remembering an important detail from last night.
I bite the inside of my cheek, almost mechanically preparing the muffin filling, as the thought of it again races through my mind. He moved in next door only a day after I arrived, and that's a clear indicator that he didn't send me the note. If he was the author of the note, he wouldn't have risked mailing the envelope when he could have simply put it in the mailbox himself.
I frown as men's laughter crashes against my eardrums and my eyes widen as the door to the back terrace opens and Dima walks through, accompanied by the dark-haired man who made my blood sing in my veins the other night.
I stop stirring with the spatula in the glass bowl I hold to my chest, watching them slightly puzzled as they walk forward into the kitchen, up to the counter in the center of the room. The dark-haired man gives me a brief smile, then his gaze falls on the paper trays I've prepared, and his smile widens.
- Are you making muffins? What flavor? He arches his eyebrows questioningly, looking genuinely curious.
- Marijuana, I'm going classic lately, I reply after a few seconds, pretending to be excited.
The smile suddenly disappears from his face and he blinks often. He glances in Dima's direction, as if to make sure that the answer I gave him wasn't just in his head.
- You really slept badly last night! puffs Dima, gesturing with his hands to give gravity to his words. Although I think we've gone somewhat beyond formal introductions... Enzo, meet Aiyana, sister and thorn in my side! Aiyana, meet Enzo, my boss and friend!
I give a brief smile to the man in front of me in greeting, but this doesn't seem to please Dima as he glares at me, clearly annoyed. I roll my eyes and take a step forward, leaving the telly to chance as I take my right hand off it, holding it out to the man who is looking at me with a hint of curiosity.
- Nice to meet you, Enzo, I murmur, smiling genuinely this time.
- My pleasure, Aiyana, he says my name slowly, emptying my lungs of oxygen as he leans down to kiss the bridge of my palm.
I frown imperceptibly when the man who introduced himself to me on the first evening comes to mind, and who took me completely by surprise when he kissed the bridge of my palm without any restraint. I part my lips, wanting to ask him when his habits have changed, but I refrain when I realize that Dima is looking at me as if I were a public danger.
I try to find an explanation in my mind, though, because the last time I checked in Spain you kissed a stranger twice on the cheek, a gesture of courtesy, but never kissed the bridge of the palm, a gesture of respect. So he shows respect... but to whom? Me or Dima?
A cold shiver runs down my spine when he separates his lips from my skin, and my gaze falls on the ring he's wearing on his little finger. I pull my hand back slightly when he releases it, dreading my voice as I hide behind the countertop.
I start mixing the muffin mix again, expecting them to leave the kitchen. I frown almost imperceptibly when I realize they have no intention of leaving. I lift my gaze from the glass bowl, watching them in turn for a few seconds.
- Do I have something on my face? I arch my eyebrows quizzically, not understanding why they both stare at me insistently.
A sly smile blooms on Dima's face as he moves his head slightly from side to side in denial. He gestures briefly toward the door, causing me to follow his eyes as he crosses the kitchen and heads toward the living room.
- She seems nice, but she's not. She's capable of unleashing hell on earth to get what she wants. I'm telling you right now, you don't wanna piss her off. Dima's voice is heard as soon as I leave the kitchen, making me roll my eyes.
- Don't forget that you sleep in the same house as me, though! I shout after him, slightly irritated by his misplaced retort.
He doesn't answer me, content instead to laugh at my reply.
Dima is two years older than me, but he behaves like a four-year-old. At twenty-two, he lives his life as he pleases, entertaining himself at night races and famous clubs. He has lots of friends from all over the world and is extremely sociable, which is why everyone likes him. He's obviously a huge hit with the girls, which I never understood.
At first glance you'd say we're completely different, but we're really the same person. We think alike, act alike, talk alike and above all, we love adrenaline.
We're crazy, it's true. We have strong personalities and we never step on our egos and that's our biggest flaw. Sometimes I wonder how my mom manages to handle both of us. To be honest, I don't make problems, at least not too many and not too big compared to Dima, who has made them all. If I made a list of all the stupid things he's done... well, it would take more than a month.
Dima has always been the problem child, but mom never blamed him for that, and never will. He's young and allowed to make mistakes, he learns from mistakes, and he has. The mistakes he made as a teenager have matured him, molded him, made him wiser, even though it seems he hasn't learned his lesson, he has every time. And I have learned from his mistakes, not all of them, it's true. I have my mistakes.
I stare at the door to the living room for a long time, wondering what he's up to. Dima's always up to something, always involved in some big thing or about to do something stupid, and the fact that he's friends with a member of the Martelli family doesn't inspire me with confidence.
A quiet noise hits my eardrums, catching my attention. I drop the crystal bowl on the counter in front of me, realizing the noise is coming from somewhere to my left. I take a few steps and cast my gaze out the generous window, freezing for a few moments at the sight of dozens of wooden crates being unloaded by several men in front of Enzo's house.
A strange shiver runs through me, making me feel uneasy. Who would pack their things in wooden boxes!
- I've clearly lost my mind! I mutter under my breath, unable to believe I'm worrying about something so trivial.
I giggle briefly and turn on my heel, but stop abruptly when I catch a fleeting glimpse of a sizable emblem on one of the boxes. I frown and approach the window, gasping in shock, for the emblem is more than familiar to me. I hastily scan the people carrying the boxes and swallow dryly.
Though their clothing doesn't immediately stand out, the deep vermilion shirts and black leather boots certainly attract attention. I blink often, shuddering at the thought that my intuition never fails.
Watching the members of the Spanish Legion, I can't help but wonder what they're doing here, and most of all, who the hell is this who is now in my house? Who is the one who dared to violate the boundaries and glue his so vulgar body to mine just one night ago?