*****
It's dark and cold. My heart is beating madly. I feel his presence, but I don't see him. I pace fearfully, watching the full moon peeking through the tree branches. I hug myself, trying desperately to keep warm. It's so cold... I feel myself slowly but surely turning into an ice cube.
I feel my blood freezing in my veins. I begin to walk faster, safer, on the cobblestones drowned in darkness, feeling myself being followed.
The wind begins to pick up, bringing unintelligible whispers. I wince as the silence is shattered into a thousand pieces by a short laugh. I stutter when I feel a light touch on my left hand, feeling her cool breath moving through my hair.
— Are you cold?" he whispers in my ear as he brushes my hair away from my shoulder, revealing my neck.
— Please, don't... I murmur in a whisper, swallowing dryly.
— Shh, don't be afraid. You're with me now. You know I would never hurt you, don't you? She wraps her arms around me, pressing her lips to my left shoulder. Wouldn't I? he repeats the question, in a more emphatic tone, making me flinch.
— Yes... I say, feeling a tear trickle down my face as he binds me to his chest.
— Yes? Is that all you have to say? What do you agree with? Tell me, I want to hear it, baby... he commands, tightening his grip.
— I know you'll never hurt me.
— Why?" she murmurs into my hair, gently stroking my skin.
— Because I am yours, because I belong to you, I say each word drowned in tears, realizing the meaning of words that carry enormous weight.
— Because you were meant for me. Because your soul was mine. Because your soul belonged to me. Because you are mine, because you belong to me. Because you are and will forever be mine, only mine, he whispers firmly in my ear, blasting me with every word spoken.
I close my eyes, feeling shackled. It is over. Everything is in vain. There's nothing I can do, no way out. I am his, but he... he is not mine. He's caught me in his carefully woven net. I want to escape, I'm desperate. I could run to the ends of the earth, but he'd still find me, no doubt. I know that, no need to prove it.
Our souls are linked. No matter what I do, he'll find me and handcuff me, over and over...
*****
— No! I scream, gasping for air.
I reach for the lamp, desperate to turn on the light that brings me sweet comfort. I rise to my feet when the room is flooded with light and take a deep breath, calming myself. I instinctively bring my hand to my neck, shuddering at the memory of the icy touch in my dream, which was so close to reality, I swear I can still feel it on my skin.
I close my eyes for a few moments, and massage my temples, wanting desperately to escape the shadow of the dream. I sigh and swear under my breath as my gaze falls on the clock indicating that it's three in the morning. I only have a few more hours to sleep, but something tells me that it's useless to lay my head back on the pillow. I know too well that the moment I close my eyes again, the nightmares will unapologetically come flooding back.
I reluctantly get out of bed and pull the blanket behind me, wrapping it around me as I open the sliding doors. The cool night air causes me to come to my senses as soon as I step onto the balcony dimly lit by lanterns that are placed on either side of the street.
I rest my elbows on the marble railing, then rest my head in my hands. I try to think of anything other than the dream I've just had, but it's impossible.
Although it's been two years since the nights have become hell for me, I still haven't found a solution. Sleeping pills don't help me at all, on the contrary, they work against me, prolonging my torment.
Until two days ago I was convinced that dreams are just a contaminated manifestation of the subconscious, designed to protect me from traumatic events, but now I wonder if this is the truth. The subconscious is the prison of desires and traumas, but somehow I have convinced myself that my dreams are generated by it in order to soothe my pain, to fill the void left by it...
— Aren't you sleepy? I hear a familiar voice, then smell the pungent odor of tobacco.
I blink often and turn my head to the left, looking with mild curiosity at the one who has haunted my dreams incessantly, and I can't help but wonder if his presence in my dreams was mere coincidence, if his presence had a purpose.
— No. I don't suppose you either, since you're here, I murmur half aloud, fixing my gaze on him.
I moisten my lips as he steps onto the shared balcony and laugh at the thought that he literally lives two steps away from me. I take a fleeting glance at him, but it's enough to make out his well-defined features and enviable body. She looks beastly, no ifs or buts.
He stops some distance from me, which catches my attention.
— Do you mind? He glances at the cigarette in his right hand, then looks at me questioningly.
— No, I'm used to it. It may be strange, but I like the smell of tobacco. I usually appreciate people who smoke, although there are obviously exceptions, I reply lazily, feeling for a few seconds that I'm in a new dream.
— So you're a smoker? he looks at me amused.
— Nope, it is not for me. I don't like smoking. It makes me feel sick.
I lift my head and our eyes meet for a few seconds. I swallow dryly, feeling lost in his dark gaze. He approaches slowly, stopping less than a step away from me.
— I don't recommend you go for it. It's not a good habit, he fumes, staring at the empty street.
— I smile amused. This while puffing on that cigarette like it's the last one on the planet, I nod negatively, shifting my gaze.
— Says the stranger who's my neighbor, she retorts, looking at me accusingly, then takes another puff.
— Do you think if you know my name you'll know me? That I'll stop being a stranger? I turn and stare at him.
— The name says a lot about a person, he makes a gesture of slight disinterest.
— It doesn't take three lifetimes to really get to know a person. You'll never know them completely. There will always be secrets, withholding, speculation. And the list can go on and on, I hasten to reply, slightly intrigued.
I fold my arms across my chest, staring dazedly into the darkness. I then turn my attention back to the dark-haired man who has a million-dollar grin plastered on his face, and I can't help but wonder why he's smiling like that. He takes a last puff, then stubs out his cigarette and turns to face me, looking at me searchingly. He looks away thoughtfully for a few moments, nodding slightly, as if agreeing with me.
— I seem to have a rather difficult neighbor. I wasn't expecting such an answer, he seems genuinely surprised, which makes me frown.
— Looks can be deceiving, and I have too many locks. Don't waste your time trying to find the right keys to unlock them, because you'll never succeed, I sketch a vague smile, glancing down the street.
— Beautiful and tough at the same time. You seem to have become five percent less foreign. I learned something about you in just a few minutes. I'm guessing that's a record, she's got a really infectious smile.
I snort in amusement, shaking my head in denial. I lean back and take a quick glance at him, only to find that he's already looking at me. My gaze falls on his white T-shirt that has red splotches in places, and my heart clenches as the information I've learned this afternoon about his family begins to rewind in my mind.
The Internet is an absolutely marvelous thing, and if you know its secrets you can learn precious things. The record of the man in front of me is clean as a teardrop, but the name he bears is stained with heavy sins.
The Martelli family's influence has its roots in Italy, but its members have unapologetically asserted their power in Spain and the United Kingdom over the years, becoming one of the best known and most influential families. Its name carries weight in this country, and that's no secret.
— Redecorating? I arch my eyebrows slightly questioningly as I nod briefly at his t-shirt.
He lowers his gaze to the red stains and shrugs nonchalantly, pursing his lips to give me the most likely answer, but stops and looks behind me. I can easily read the astonishment crossing his face and I know that the dozens of boxes sitting in the middle of the room are his source of interest.
— I take it you're going to be here for a while? He fixes his gaze on me, studying my face carefully.
— It seems so, I reply simply, glancing briefly in the direction of my room.
Silence falls over us for a few seconds, but is soon broken.
-—I didn't think Irina was the type to ask you to sleep in separate rooms, she giggles softly, catching my attention.
— Irina?! I ask almost instantly, turning my eyes on him, clearly surprised.
— Dima's mother. I guess you've already met her, he squints his eyes, looking at me with obvious interest.
I analyze his face carefully and bite my lips hard to stop the giggles that caress my lips. I smile involuntarily, amused by his inquisitive look. He frowns puzzled as he scrutinizes my face carefully. I lean my head back slightly so I can get a better look. A shy smile blooms on his face. I scan his face with my eyes for a few seconds, feeling drawn to his beautifully contoured features and penetrating gaze.
I lower my head and turn my gaze back to the street, staring blankly. I feel him watching me for a few more seconds, then he returns his gaze to the empty street.
We sit in absolute silence for a few minutes, listening to the soft whispers of the wind, slipping through the green leaves of the trees, kissed by the silver moonlight. I am enveloped in a state of calm, and for a while I forget the strange dream.
— Aiyana. My name is Aiyana, I whisper after minutes, turning my head to the side to look at him.
— Aiyana... he says my name slowly, fixing his gaze on mine. The flower of eternity... The one who remembers the struggle. Innocence and chaos. I had your name imprinted on my skin without realizing it, he frowns, visibly embarrassed.
- They say the lilac brings good luck, and maybe it does. I guess that's why so many people have it stamped on their skin, I murmur, trying to see the logical side of things.
- The one who will always remember the fight and the winner. You know, in Italian Enzo means winner. The winner of the fight... the dark-haired man frowns thoughtfully.
My heart stops for a few moments as our eyes meet again. A strange shiver runs down my spine. I bite my lips, completely taken aback by the connection between our names. A coincidence, a new coincidence...
— Did you win? I ask in a whisper, not knowing exactly why I'm asking.
— Not yet. Do you remember the fight? he murmurs in a low tone.
— I don't have a fight to remember. 'Not yet...' I swallow, glancing down at our arms resting on the marble handrail, lightly touching.
I straighten my voice and lean back, smiling briefly when he fixes his gaze on me. He watches me carefully, analyzing my every gesture. I remain motionless for a few seconds, enveloped in a sense of familiarity.
— Good night, I murmur, barely taking my eyes from his.
— Good night, Aiyana, he emphasizes my name, at which point the shadow of a smile appears on his face.
In two steps I reach the shelter of the thin curtain that turns my body into a shadow. I flick the tiny switch on the lamp, and the room sinks into darkness in the blink of an eye. I sit up in bed, staring at the pitch blackness for a few moments, then turn my head to the left, focusing my eyes on Enzo's silhouette. The dark-haired man stands motionless, staring at the empty street.
I swallow dryly and run my right hand mechanically down the side of my chest, running my fingers over the tattoo that's hidden by the thin material of the shirt I'm wearing.
I met his face a thousand and forty-six days ago. His name perfectly complements my own, and the tattoo that stains his left arm is matched on my skin.
Our tattoos are identical, and that is impossible, it should be impossible..