Page 146 of Wounded King

"Violetta," he showers my face with kisses, and tears streak down my cheeks.

"Papà."

"You remember. You remember me, Stellina."

Stellina—little star. I do remember. I remember him calling me that now. His huge hand gently cups my right cheek. "You look a little better since the last time I saw you."

"I was unconscious," I mumble.

"You are a stunning woman, Violetta, bellissima." His head jerks quickly from me to Marcello and back to me, "He better treat you right."

"He is, Papà. He loves me, and I love him."

"Good. Good. I'm glad to hear that."

He sits down on the bed and takes both of my hands in his. "We have so much catching up to do."

I nod happily. "Marcello said you met with Elaine and Sebastian?"

"I did. They're both fine people, despite what your mother did. Very fine. But you, Violetta," he leans forward conspiratorially, "you've always been my favorite."

I would be lying if I said his words didn't please me. They do. I've never been anyone's favorite before.

"Even as a little girl, always full of sass and energy. Why do birds fly, Papà? Why do bees make honey, Papà? Why is a circle called a circle, Papà?" He smiles indulgently. "Always full of life and questions, this one." He says the last part to Marcello, who is trying his hardest to appear relaxed as he leans against the wall, but it's obvious he doesn't trust Enzo.

"I wish I could remember more," I say wistfully.

"You will," Enzo replies with so much confidence that I believe him.

I spoke briefly with Elaine and Sebastian yesterday, after pestering Marcello into letting me call them. They filled me in on their meeting with Papà. Sebastian seems to have really taken to him; he was excited, almost protective when he talked about it. Elaine, on the other hand, was more reserved. Her voice was careful, like she wasn't sure what to feel. She always said she didn't remember much from back then—even though she's older than me—but now it sounds like she remembers more than she let on. She admitted to hearing yelling. Screaming. Fights between Mom and Papà. And I think... maybe those memories are heavier than mine. Zia Rosa appears at the door. Since I came home, she's been hovering over me like a mother hen, baking and cooking my favorite dishes, feeding me every hour on the hour. If I'm not careful, Marcello will have to roll me out of this bed once the doctors allow me to get out of it.

She pushes a teacart filled with pastries and steaming espresso into the room, and she doesn't even try for a second to pretend she isn't eyeing Enzo over from head to toe.

"Now you know the doctor said to take it easy, dolcezza," she admonishes. The feared kitchen towel dangles from her arm.

"And who is this charming creature?" Papà gushes, smiling at her grotesquely through his scarred features.

"The caretaker of this stellina," Zia Rosa declares, glaring at him.

"My zia, Rosa," Marcello interrupts. "Zia Rosa, this is Enzo, Violet's father."

"Hmm," she grunts, seemingly unimpressed, although I'm pretty sure Marcello has already filled her in on all the details about my father, and from what I learned from the internet, he's not a man you want to cross.

"What did you bring us, bellissima?" Papà scrutinizes the loaded cart of goodies, "Oh, bomboloni, my favorites. Did you make these?" He takes one and swallows it whole. His eyes gleam before they roll back in his head, and he throws a chef's kiss at Zia Rosa, making her… blush.

"How did you know these are my favorites? They're delicious. You'll have to give my cook the recipe."

"Nobody will get my recipes. Not while I'm alive. Maybe this dolcezza will one day, eh, Violet?"

"Me?" I exclaim, startled. I was too engrossed in watching her and Papà, and now I'm stunned. "But…"

I realize I have no idea if she has any children, which brings on a wave of shame, turning my face red. Zia Rosa has been nothing but nice to me, and I haven't even talked to her about her and her family. I'm a terrible person.

"Si, you! Who else, silly? You'll have to feed that brat once I'm gone," she nods her chin toward Marcello, who hasn't left his spot by the wall. "Come and get some espresso," and with her next words, she makes it clear that she knows exactly who my Papà is. "You better not dare butcher anybody in this house."

Papà nearly chokes on a small sfogliatelle he just plopped into his mouth—which is one of my favorites. I can't reach the plate, but Marcello, ignoring my father's coughing fit, pushes off the wall and hands me one.

"Thank you."