“How do you already know my name, dear...?” The girl sounds shocked. “My name is Lily. Madame Viktorov made me your assistant; she wanted me to make you feel at home, since you came all the way from Raccuja.” “Well, I really don’t need an assistant, but I appreciate the help, Lily.” Lily smiles again and heads for the door. “Please don’t be late on your first day. You wouldn’t want to get punished when you’ve only just arrived.” Lily’s warmth fades when the door closes behind her. How I yearn for that warmth to never leave. When I think of warmness, I think of my father. His rough hands from working on the family farm and the textiles he makes as a side job. The smile that makes me feel at home. Sicily was where I was born and raised, and I never thought I would leave; it was my home. My final solo in Raccuja would be the death of that dream—an illusion that hit me hard in the face. “You did wonderful, my sweet figlia.” My dad hands me a bouquet of callas: my favorite flower. The petals remind me of bonnets that I would dress my dolls in when I was a girl. When I smell the flowers, the aromas send sweet chills down my spine. “Thank you, Papa. I’m glad you came this time. No work tonight?” “No, my dear...” My father reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a yellow folder with my name on it: “Feodora Bello.” “What is that, Father?” As I speak, two men appear behind Papa; they look like they could break me like a twig. One of them grabs my bouquet, while the other grabs for one of my arms. “Who are you? Let go of me!” I try to kick the man who took my bouquet, but it does not faze him. “I’m sorry, figlia, but this was the only way.”
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