Chapter 18 Settling into the Orlovs Life
••Luciana••
The door creaked open, stirring me from sleep, and Roman walked in without even sparing me a glance. His focus was entirely on the wardrobe, where he busily packed a few essentials: clothes, documents… Perhaps a suit. Or even two. I remained still, feigning sleep while my mind absorbed every detail.
The bed was big enough for two people who didn’t particularly like each other, yet he still opted for the study. Maybe he needed space. Maybe he wanted silence, or maybe he simply didn’t care. Regardless of the reason, the room felt more expansive and emptier than Sicily ever had.
He gently closed the door behind him, but the silence he left behind felt heavier than the sound.
Eventually, I forced myself to get up, splashed water on my face until the morning chill melted away, combed my hair into a decent state, and slipped into a simple dress. Each movement felt mechanical, yet I pushed through it until I could breathe without feeling like the walls were judging me. By the time I stepped into the kitchen, I was donning the most composure I could manage.
They were already gathered—Roman, Mildred, and Nadia—and the instant I walked in, three pairs of eyes turned toward me.
Mildred brightened with a cheerful “Good morning,” Nadia offered a gentle nod, and Roman didn’t even glance up for a split second, fixated instead on his plate, as if recognizing my presence might ignite the room.
I took my place at the table, and a thick silence settled among us, pierced only by the soft clinking of cutlery.
The quiet held until Roman’s phone rang. He answered with a rapid-fire string of sharp Russian syllables before disappearing down the hallway. I couldn’t decipher his words, but his tone screamed intensity. Once he slipped away, the silence returned, settling into a more comfortable, or at least tolerable, pace.
After breakfast, I retreated to my room and FaceTimed Antonio and Matteo. I recounted my experiences at Pier Twelve, the vacant dock, and the biting cold that made everything feel amiss, but I conveniently omitted the part where Roman yelled at me. No point in fueling their already fiery tempers.
Matteo’s eyebrows would have shot up as if they were trying to escape his forehead, while Antonio would be searching for the next flight, with a machete in hand. I could practically see their dramatics in my head, and the image was ridiculous enough to finally pull a laugh out of me.
Unpacking kept me occupied for a bit, though thoughts of shopping slipped into my mind more often than I’d like to admit. Then, a reminder of my financial cutoff courtesy of my beloved father, Don Vittorio Moretti, struck me. I chuckled, realizing I hadn’t mentioned my need for funds to my husband at all.
Which meant I would eventually have to ask him. Someday. Ideally when he was ready to speak to me in complete sentences again… somehow.
As evening approached, I wandered into the kitchen, planning to ask the maid for a snack. Instead, I was greeted by a comical disaster: Mildred was battling a pan that seemed ready to call the fire department. The oil was hissing and popping threateningly. Meanwhile, Mildred was frantically waving a kitchen towel at it, as if trying to exorcise a demon.
“Alright then,” I interjected, stepping closer. “How soon do we need to evacuate?”
She jumped, startled. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! The woman on YouTube made flipping onions look so effortless!”
“Did that YouTube lady also crank her stove to dragon-fire?”
Mildred let out a frustrated groan and dropped her towel. “I swear I set it to low. Well, low-ish. Fine, okay, medium. It looked so slow on the video!”
Gently pushing her aside, I turned down the flame. The pan surrendered, simmering with a resigned sizzle.
“There, crisis averted. No casualties,” I declared.
Mildred pressed her hands to her cheeks, mortified. “I just wanted to make something decent for once. Nothing fancy. Just… edible.”
There was a sincerity in her voice that tugged at my heart.
“Then we’ll make it edible,” I reassured her. “Together.”
She peeked at me through her fingers, surprised. “You’re not laughing?”
“I mean, maybe internally. A little, but I’m impressed you took a shot at it.”
Her shoulders relaxed as a wave of relief escaped in a soft laugh. “You’re way too composed for someone in this chaos."
I handed her a spatula. “Now let's do it again, the proper way."
She snorted—an actual snort—and accepted the spatula with a shy smile.
“Alright, teach me,” she said. “Before that pan devises another plan.”
Side by side, we tackled the cooking process slowly, transforming the kitchen from a war zone into a collaborative space. Mildred listened intently, asked questions, and somehow managed to avoid giving the house a second round of smoke signals.
When the onions finally surrendered and smelled heavenly, she beamed as if she’d just achieved a great victory. “See?” I said playfully. “Your culinary debut wasn’t a total flop.”
She nudged my shoulder lightly. “You owe me some credit if this turns out good. If it flops, you have to say I put in the effort.”
“I promise to testify on your behalf.”
Her smile lingered—warm, authentic, and far more tender than anything she’d shown me since I arrived. I drifted to the garden door for a breath of fresh air. The evening breeze slipped in, pleasantly cool against my skin.
“By the way,” Mildred called casually from behind me, “Roman left for New York this afternoon. Not sure when he’ll be back.”
My fingers froze on the door handle.
So my husband had left the country without a word to me. No heads-up, no courtesy, not even a dry text. Meanwhile, I couldn’t step outside the gate without turning security into a national alert.
Gazing at the darkening sky, a weariness settled within me.
So this is my life now: locked doors, silent breakfasts, and a husband who travels the world without saying a single word to me.
How exactly am I supposed to survive this marriage?