Chapter 17: Chapter Sixteen

Eros

Five Years Ago

After the car came to a stop in front of the house, I didn’t wait for the door to be opened. Instead, I grabbed my backpack, opened the door, and stepped out with the widest grin on my face. I bounded up the marble steps of Villa Isadora, excitement coursing through me—an excitement I hadn’t felt in a while, my school bag slung over one shoulder. 

My polo shirt clung to my back from the late afternoon heat, but I didn’t care. Nothing could diminish the happiness flowing through my veins now. Not even the shock of seeing my father's Lamborghini carelessly parked in front of the garage door could shake me.

In my small hand, I tightly clutched a gold medal, its surface gleaming in the sunlight that bathed Crescent City. The medal wasn’t just a piece of metal; it was proof that my school had won the National Interstate Academic Competition, and I had been the top scorer in the mathematics round. I couldn’t wait to show it to my mother and sister.

The applause still echoed in my ears, and I could still see my teammates lifting me onto their shoulders after I secured the winning point in the final round. It had been a fierce battle to determine who could solve the most complex, mind-bending mathematical equations, but I had come out on top, earning not just a medal but the pride of my school.

My mother and sister had promised to attend the final round, and though I hadn’t seen them in the crowd, I was certain they’d been there, cheering me on. Mom had promised they wouldn’t miss it for the world, and I believed her because she always kept her promises.

I pushed open the grand double doors, and the sound of my polished shoes echoed through the grand halls of Villa Isadora. The familiar scent of lavender lingering in the air, washed over me, serving as a reminder of my mother’s fondness for the herb.

Her fondness for lavender was probably why she gave me Lavian as my middle name, a name I grew to hate as I got older and learned its origin. I thought it sounded too feminine, so I removed the first letter and changed my middle name to Avian, though I never actually used it.

However, every time I did something silly, Mom would embarrass me by calling me Lavian. She did it once when I was seven, right in front of my friends, and I didn't speak to her for two days afterward. She learned her lesson after that.

“Mama? Isabella?” I called, my voice reverberating through the corridors. My calls were met with silence. Usually, my sister would come bounding down the hallway, her giggles filling the house as she tried to wrestle my school bag from me. My mother would then appear next, her warm smile melting away all the worries of the world. But now, the house felt... different. Empty.

I peeked into the sunroom where my mother liked to read, but her favorite chair was empty. The blanket was folded neatly on the armrest, and her favorite book lay closed on the table next to it. The kitchen, too, was vacant, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. I frowned, my excitement beginning to shift into confusion.

"Where is everyone?" I muttered, brows furrowed.

I made my way to the living room, hoping to find them waiting. But it was empty as well, the only sound was the distant ticking of the ornate grandfather clock. By this time of day, Gaston and Louisa, the two chefs, would usually be making preparations for dinner, yet there wasn’t a single employee in sight. Had they all been given the day off by my mother? Even if she did, it couldn’t have been the entire household staff.

“Helena? Maria?” I called for the housekeepers, but there was no response. I tried again, louder this time. Still nothing. "Is it the end of the world already and no one told me?" I mused, spinning in a circle. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that this might be a prank, but I quickly dismissed it.

My chest tightened as I wandered through the west wing, checking my mother’s sunlit sitting room and Isabella’s art studio, where my sister loved to sketch. Both rooms were eerily still, as though untouched for hours.

A flicker of unease crept into my mind. My mother always greeted me after school, even if she was busy. And Isabella would typically be in her usual spot by the kitchen, teasing me about my “nerdy competition.”

When Isabella was six, she had so many dreams of what she wanted to be in the future: an astronaut, a pilot, a flight attendant, a fashion designer, a world-class chef and owner of a chain of restaurants, an actress, a singer—even though she didn’t have the voice for it—and, lastly, a painter. 

As she grew older, now ten years old, she had narrowed it down to two dreams: becoming a chef or a painter. She believed that one would eventually become her passion, while the other would remain a hobby, and it seemed she was leaning toward being a painter.

I needed answers to the questions swirling in my mind. Perhaps my father, Leonardo, would know where they were. As much as I disliked disturbing him while he was working, the unease gnawing at my chest pushed me forward.

I adjusted my backpack and made my way to the east wing, toward my father’s home office. I hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly on the heavy oak door. When there was no answer, I pushed it open. The room was dimly lit, with the only illumination coming from the faint glow of the late afternoon sun streaming through the blinds. 

The air inside was thick with the scent of whiskey. My father sat behind the massive mahogany desk, his tie loosened, his shirt wrinkled, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and an empty glass in the other. Papers were strewn across the desk, but Dad wasn’t looking at them—he was staring blankly out the window.

"Father?" I called softly, my voice uncertain.

Dad slowly looked up, his face pale and his eyes bloodshot. He didn’t appear angry at my intrusion—he didn’t seem to feel much of anything at all. For a man who always radiated power and control, he looked... broken.

It made me wonder what could have happened in my absence to cause my father to appear like someone whose world had collapsed. It also made me question why no one had told me anything.

For a moment, he stared at me, but his expression seemed distant, like he didn’t recognize me. Then his gaze fell to the gold medal I had decided to wear, and something twisted in his face—an emotion that blended pain and anger.

A sudden thought crossed my mind: Why was it that my father, who was always absent, was the only one I could turn to for answers? Did he cancel his trip because of my competition? That thought made me skeptical. He was never around, even when I was sick, so my competition couldn’t have been important enough for him to stay home.

“What is it, Eros?” Leonardo's voice was hoarse, as though he'd been shouting or crying.

"I... I was looking for Mama and Isabella," I said, taking a tentative step inside. The scent of whiskey made me uneasy, but I wasn’t about to leave without answers. "I wanted to show them this." I held up the medal, the gold glinting in the dim light. "We won the mathematics competition. I got the final point. Mama said she’d be there. I thought—"

I would have missed it if I hadn't been so focused on him. Dad flinched, his grip tightening around the whiskey bottle. He set the glass down with a trembling hand and leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"So, where are they? Mom and Isabella?" I asked, my voice tinged with frustration. "Mama said she’d be proud if I brought home the gold. Where is she? Where's Isabella? Did they plan to play a prank on me?"

Dad looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw something in his eyes that I couldn't quite place. Was it guilt? Pain? Fear? Anger?

His silence began to gnaw at me, making me anxious, and I hated feeling anxious. "Father?" I pressed, taking another step forward. "Where are they?"

Dad took a shaky breath and slowly exhaled, as if bracing himself for something unpleasant.

"Sit down, Eros," Leonardo said, gesturing toward the chair opposite him.

Confused, I took a hesitant step back. "Why? What’s going on? Where’s Mama? She promised she’d be home when I got back," I said, growing more impatient.

"Please, sit down, Eros," Dad repeated, his tone more urgent.

"I don’t want to sit. I just want to know where Mama and Isabella are," I insisted, my voice rising.

Dad sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping under some invisible weight. "Eros, there’s something I need to tell you," he said, his voice strained.

My heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t like the way Dad’s voice sounded—like each word was a struggle. I wanted to yell at him to speak faster, but it seemed like he wanted to take his time. The expression on his face wasn’t one I had ever seen before. This felt like bad news.

Dad’s voice broke as he spoke, his words heavy and slurred. “They’re gone, Eros. Your mother and Isabella… they’re gone.”