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The room, like his old room, also had its own bathroom. The bathroom was at the opposite end of a walk-in closet. Francesco checked the drawers and cupboards and found they had clothes.
This room had a balcony that overlooked a small garden maze with a large tree at the centre. A large wooden desk with a computer sat in front of the doorway to the balcony. Three bokshelves lined the wall to the right of the desk. The books were in various languages, but Francesco was able to identify the Chinese and English books.
The fatigue from flying for almost a day weighed heavily on the boy, and he took to his new bed. The bed was far more comfortable than the one on the plane, and the boy fell asleep almost instantly.
When Francesco woke up, it was late in the evening. The maids had returned to the room and closed the doors to the balcony. The room was in darkness, save for the lamp near the bed.
Francesco saw the shadow of a man standing over him. The boy sprang from the bed, putting as much distance between him and the intruder as possible. His heart raced and his chest heaved as he scanned the room, plotting his escape.
"Tranquillo, piccolo." The shadowy figure said. The voice was deep and authoritative.
Another shadow near the door moved, then the lights illuminated the room, and the boy saw the faces of his intruders clearly. The figure at the door was Assistant Morbidelli, while the one near the bed was a man he had never seen before.
The man's hair and beard were speckled with white. A pair of fierce, deep brown eyes pinned the boy in place. Like the governess, everything on the man looked perfectly placed. The man looked strong and robust, not at all like the age the wrinkles on his face claimed to be.
He said something in Italian, presumably to Francesco. But the boy had no idea what he said and glanced at Assistant Morbidelli for clues. Morbidelli said nothing and ignored the boy's confusion, staring straight ahead. The man glanced over his shoulder and spoke to the assistant.
"Mr. Francesco, Mr. Baggio would prefer you to stand properly and greet him."
Francesco carefully studied the man as he righted himself. Mr. Baggio? Is he my grandfather? Again, the boy glanced at Assistant Morbidelli for a clue and received none.
"Good evening, grandfather." He said, uncertainty shaking his voice.
"She didn't teach you Italian?" The man asked angrily.
"No, sir."
"Paolo," he said, looking over his shoulder.
"I have made arrangements." Assistant Morbidelli reassured him.
The man turned his attention back to Francesco and ordered him to prepare for dinner. Two of the maids helped Francesco get ready. To his embarrassment, they helped him bathe, get dressed, and style his hair.
Dinner was anything but enjoyable. Like his assistant, Francesco's grandfather scrutinised the boy's every move. He angrily called out every wrong move the boy made. When the boy hesitated to put food in his mouth, the old man shouted at him.
"Do not play with your food! You waste the chef's effort. She didn't even teach you basic decency." Mr. Baggio wiped his mouth with the napkin, then slammed the cloth on the table. "Unlike your mother, I will not indulge mediocrity. You will not leave this table until you finish every dish." He declared.
Francesco looked his grandfather square in the eyes. He may have been afraid to meet the man's stare earlier, but the smouldering anger in his chest emboldened him. The boy daring to stare him down greatly surprised the man; he gave an order to Assistant Morbidelli with a smirk.
"You will obey." He said hopefully, then left with his assistant.
The boy, left alone at the table, slowly chewed his food as he thought about his meeting with his grandfather. Did he make the right choice? The answer to the question would be far from his mind for the next few weeks.
The very next morning, the maids who had helped Francesco get ready the night before woke him before sunrise and had him dressed in sweats. His chief bodyguard was similarly dressed and gave the boy unintelligible instructions. Aware of the boy's inability to communicate, the man demonstrated and ordered with a series of hand gestures.
He made the boy jog around the immediate property, following a stone path that led to the annex, then around the slope past the vegetable garden, then up through an orchard that led to the back of the house. The boy ran the path until he was winded.
Following the jog, Francesco had breakfast, then lessons with his governess. The governess was the only one in the house who spoke to him in English. She taught him math, penmanship, and Italian before lunch. His afternoon lessons included etiquette, history, and science. After dinner, he had another session of Italian before he was given free time. Perhaps his free time should not have been called that, as it existed purely for him to complete home work assignments.
That was his routine for the first month. Needless to say, the boy struggled through the routine, falling asleep during lessons or meals and sometimes being unable to finish his homework, which led the governess to scold him. Once a week, Assistant Morbidelli visited, and the staff gave him a report. In the beginning, Francesco tried asking him to stop the maids from bathing and dressing him.
"Learn to command them," was his response.
By the second month, the boy's routine had shifted. His etiquette lesson was moved to the morning, replacing penmanship, and swimming was added to his afternoons. Francesco did not meet his grandfather again following their first encounter. The only people he ever saw were the guards, staff, and Assistant Morbidelli. Everyone had their tasks and did just that. No one sat down and talked to the boy unless his governess had mandated a conversational exercise.
In a house filled with people taking care of him, loneliness ate at Francesco. He felt a craving growing like a knot in his chest. It wasn't until he dreamed of Aurora and Logan that he understood what he was craving.
"Can you hug me?" The boy asked his governess as he handed over his test paper.
"That is beyond my duties, Mr. Baggio." She said with a smile.
That night, Francesco curled into a ball and cried himself to sleep. At his next meeting with Assistant Morbidelli, the boy asked to see his mother.
"Ms. Aurora will not return to Italy, and until you are recognised as Mr. Baggio's heir, you are not permitted to leave this house."
Asking for his mother seemed to incur a punishment. The boy's lessons ran until 8 p.m.; now lessons from the gardener filled his mornings.
In the third month, Francesco's grandfather made periodic visits to the house. The boy became increasingly aware of why his mother had been against sending him here. The man only spoke to him in Italian; if Francesco could not understand or answer properly, he scowled and shouted at the boy, calling him a disappointment. His grandfather made it very clear that he would not allow the boy to tarnish the family's reputation. The boy knew he had made significant progress in his studies, but his grandfather never complimented him. Every accomplishment seemed like a failure in the man's eyes. He might not be on the streets anymore, but this place and its people did not feel like home.
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