I would like to officially note that no concept regarding the design of the De’Luca estate, its gardens, or the De’Luca staff is bound to my intellectual property. All of these details originate from information provided by Giovanni De’Luca’s OOC. I would also like to briefly point out that the following posts will, in accordance with RP conventions, fall within a length of 500–1500 words. This one is an exception, having been granted permission to write as much as I wish.
The Rolls Royce, used as a cover among Muggles, glided so smoothly over the streets that not a single jolt ran through his spine. With one hip pressed into the cream-coloured leather, Lorenzo braced himself against the inside of the door. Koa wood pressed into his elbows, and the cold of the Italian winter seeped through the window straight into the palm of his spread hand. Outside, two Italian cypresses swept past, dark and evergreen as they stood in Florence. With their hues, they defied the snow. To Lorenzo, the trees rushing by seemed like blurred strokes of watercolour. As though they did not obey the laws of nature, everything and everyone in Florence seemed to behave more magically. At the very least, the world there appeared full of warm wonders. Fascinated, he could not tear his gaze from the space between the thin middle and index finger. The world beyond seemed smaller, as though he could shorten the journey’s time.
When suddenly, something shifted directly in front of his eyes. Curious, the six-year-old held his breath. He leaned forward, watching intently as a small patch of fog spread between his fingers and blurred his view. In childish naivety, it reminded him of the bathroom mirror at home, when one forgot to open the windows while bathing.
«Lorenzo!» The hard voice of his father snapped his full attention away.
The mere sound of his name dragged his senses back into the car and his shoulders froze like the lakes outside. Lorenzo drew a sharp breath into his small body and pressed it back into his seat. His hand left the window and the winter landscape beyond. He did not need to turn his gaze to feel the burning stare of brown eyes on him. Breath was audibly drawn in deep, and the body shifted until Lorenzo could notice it all the way to his seat.
«Can you not sit still for just a single hour?» his father added—a question that would exile you for an answer. As if the question had conjured a snake into Lorenzo’s spine, it pressed him back against the leather. His blue eyes drifted forward, toward the window between them and the chauffeur. The steering wheel turned left, the old hand resting at its crown. Though he did not ride this road every day, the directions had already etched themselves into Lorenzo‘s bones. Cautiously, breath slipped from his nose, as if it might make the car accelerate and carry him faster to their destination.
Once more his father set the tone. This time quieter, in the way people do when testing their pet‘s obedience in the dog-park: «I expect impeccable behaviour. No foolishness. No remarks.»
The expectations moved into the car with them and now laid there in the space between their feet. To Lorenzo, it was as though they dangled before his eyes, tugging his lips apart and tempting him to ask for details. Yet when he turned his head slightly and those cold brown eyes caught his own, his tongue faltered. It fixed itself to the roof of his mouth, hiding from Salvatore Vincenti. Only a small nod followed instead.
His legs pulled tighter against the seat in an effort to make room for their new passenger, but with the stiffer posture, his heart now throbbed louder in his ears. It ran in step with the car, straight toward the De’Luca, forcing his face back toward the window, fleeing the gaze.
Lorenzo‘s neck turned with robotic control. Yet what stared back at him was no longer the sign of arrival. The windowpane had clouded over milky, forming a film around the fingerprints he had left earlier. His own high cheekbones, still softened by the roundness of youth, mirrored back at him alongside those of his father. He had to blink twice before he found his eyes. Only the dense black lashes seemed willing to show up for him, together with the neatly combed hair. «Lorenzo, I am speaking to you.»
The deep, dark eyes in the reflection looked straight at him. Lorenzo lifted his face and forced his tongue to roll. It gave voice on command, pushing the words out of his mouth:
«I will behave impeccably and make no foolishness.»
«And no remarks.»
Lorenzo echoed: «And no remarks.»
Florence was indeed a magical place, for the man turned away from Lorenzo and the trial was finished. The child‘s gaze lingered a while longer on the profile in the glass. A small bump sat upon the strong nose, bending the tip downward. With a cautious motion, the child raised his hand and set his fingertip against his own. There was no rise there—only the straight nose of his mama. Lorenzo‘s neck softened.
All at once something shifted, pressing his back gently into the seat. The car turned right, then slowed. A new texture must have joined beneath the wheels, for something unalive greeted the boy. The gravel was unmistakable. As though it stood in the doorway with kind eyes and open arms, Lorenzo’s widened. Soon they would arrive. He could hardly see the road through the fogged windows, yet he felt it like a map in his heart. It pushed aside the lump in his throat, enough to raise his head and fix his stare forward.
There, through the shaded pane across from their chauffeur, the De’Luca estate stretched down the serenely enclosed path. Even expectation itself seemed caught off guard, for Lorenzo had not realized they had already passed through the black gate, entered the inner grounds of the property, and were now drawing closer to its jewel.
Slowly, the wheels carried them closer, precisely to the place where they had stood to disembark on their last visit. The sight drew a soft breath through Lorenzo’s body, until even the huff of Salvatore Vincenti beside him resembled the dull strike of a piano key.
When it sounded again shortly after, Lorenzo was already leaning toward the side. His fingertips searched for the wood of the door, pressing tenderly against it. The estate lay blanketed in snow, as though the flakes had tried to adorn it lovingly for Christmas-time. Through the glass the colours were still dimmed, but hope flickered—soon he would step into its warmth. His blue eyes gleamed across the silhouettes, over the rises and falls like a familiar pattern. Something unnoticed crept into his cheeks and gently drew the corners of his lips into a curl. Lorenzo turned his head until his father could not see it. His tongue pressed excitedly against his upper teeth while he stole a glance toward the door handle. It was sitting in the wood like a neglected child in a ring of metal. No fingerprint disturbed the reflection of the interior’s dark hues. Even his father’s blurred features were reduced to nothing but skin and shadow, when smoothly, the car came to a halt.
Feeling it, Lorenzo burned with the urge to reach out and to curl his fingers around it. The door was wretchedly close. Childish impatience pushed his hand off his lap and cautiously toward the handle, when suddenly something looming swept across his head.
His toes curled tight against the soles of his little Oxford shoes. Lorenzo lifted his head and caught the smudged presence of the chauffeur outside. The silhouette bent over and opened the door. A gust of cold air met the six year old as he urged his legs to climb out at once. The small soles landed imprecisely on the stony ground. His stern father followed with the kind of steps that seemed to dominate even the earth beneath him. The third passenger trailed after, its presence settling around Lorenzo’s legs now trembling with the chill. Yet despite the rude expectation‘s clinging, his attention was far from the adult beside him.
In their Calabrian dialect Salvatore Vincenti spoke to their loyal chauffeur. Yet even his deep voice could not drown the silence of the De’Luca estate. Lorenzo took a step forward, instinctively pressing his trembling hands tighter against his sides. With wide eyes he stared up at the many windows.
Despite the colder world, the golden and the warm presence seemed to reach out toward him—as though the building belonged to a table of honourable knights who came to liberate anyone from the enemy’s keep. It seemed fitting, he thought, for their armour would be just as bright and their eyes as gallant as Giovanni De’Luca.
At the thought, his legs sparked a will of their own. The right foot lifted forward to quickly meet the magical warmth, when all of a sudden, something from behind pressed down upon Lorenzo’s shoulder. Fingers pushed him through the dark-grey blazer, forcing him lower. He had not noticed, but he must have been bouncing on his feet all along—for with the large hand his knees grew heavy.
Lorenzo‘s body stilled, caught mid-step. No eyes were needed to identify to whom the hand belonged. Despite its firmness it remained too gentle. The touch did not drive pain into the bones either, thus it was obvious to him—it was the chauffeur.
«Cece,» the voice whispered, steeped in an Albanian accent, before adding louder for Salvatore to hear: «Wait, young master Vincenti.»
Yet with a pounding heart and dwindling patience it was hard to endure it. The hand left the tailored cloth and, like a rehearsed routine, closed around his wrist. Barteo moved him as if serving—stretched out his thin arm and guided Lorenzo through the first sleeve of a black coat. Still, nothing could stop the boy’s eyes from devouring the estate. It rose elegant and majestic amidst the glittering white, until even the framing of its windows gleamed like magical artifacts. A shimmer spread across his face. His lips parted for a soundless ‘pretty’. Driven by curiosity, Lorenzo wanted to see more of the seasonal change. Thus, he turned his head, meaning to check whether the cold had altered the colour of the door or the reigning fountain in the forecourt, when his view was briefly eclipsed. The heavy fabric of the coat rose with his shoulders, as a gray wool scarf was slipped over his head from behind. It covered his eyes before the Chauffeur Barteo set it about his neck, pulling both ends snug.
The new weight at arm, back and shoulders kept him pinned to the ground. The coat’s stiff collar sat uncomfortably beneath the thick wool, greeting his throat. This sent a small shiver down his spine, climbing until it reached his feet. There, where only the Oxford shoes shielded him from the snow, it injected beneath the skin and struck into his stomach. The clothing was impractical, so plainly not meant for outdoor play, that at last he tore his eyes away from the house.
With as little movement of the neck as possible, Lorenzo‘s gaze shifted to where his father stood. The towering Italian, skin ever olive, checked the watch upon his wrist. Silver gleamed, so differently cold from the warmth in the windows.
«We are on time, that is good. Barteo—» The deep voice dissolved into dialect, rolling between words and pronunciations until Lorenzo no longer understood the language. A clammy feeling gripped his legs, sliding between foot and leather. Quickly the child turned away and fixed his eyes forward again. It drew him back on the welcoming face of the stonework, hoping his father— without those blue pupils—would not read his thoughts. The child cast his gaze back to where his legs already begged him to run. Even the estate itself seemed slowly impatient, as though it wished to defy the old Vincenti and open the door for Lorenzo alone. Somewhere between the press of stiff sleeve-ends and the sting of cold air, he hoped Giovanni would understand it. At least the older boy would not stare at him with that same forbidding promise, should Lorenzo have an ocean of questions in his eyes.
His thoughts carried him closer, even before he saw his father approaching the building from the corner of his view. It was command enough, even without the strict voice. The time had come to set out, to cross the few steps that still separated them from this noble harbour.
Together with the slowly dancing snowflakes, they set themselves in motion. The door drew ever closer, while Lorenzo forced himself to remain behind his father and not dash ahead. Salvatore Vincent's broad shoulders lay before him like a fence, and the heavy scarf began to feel more like a collar around his neck, than a warm hug.
They ascended the broad stone steps leading up to the entrance podium toward the door. Lorenzo’s heart beat faster at the sight of Florentine culture and knowing how near he was to the young master of the house. Last time he came face to face with this door, during summer, he had already admired the architectural structures. Unlike in southern Italy, here the compact design stretched over the materials. Everything seemed clearer and more orderly. While at home, in the South, the lighter stones and flat rooftops lingered as though his father might set someone upon each one to stalk his every step. Lorenzo drew his lower lip between his upper teeth and softly bit down. No longer standing upon the snow, his feet tried to feign warmth anew and the faint sting brought it creeping back into his face.
All merely an attempt to preserve composure as the door opened to them before their final step. The interior revealed itself, and light, utterly unlike the chill outside—spilled forth. After the long, dim journey, it nearly dazzled around Salvatore’s dark clothes. Lorenzo turned toward it, leaning his body aside in order to steal a glance within like a curious moth. The eyes longed for the sight of dark oak wood.
Swiftly they wandered about the servant’s legs, all in an effort to explore the floor between deep navy blue pants. From the generous windows, a clear light fell upon it, and from afar warm hues reflected. As though he were peering into a noble, welcoming bed, a smile clung to his lips at the invitation. By now, the adults had begun to speak. His father’s voice offered a greeting, then stepped deeper into the mythical paradise as if he belonged. Like a flaw in a symmetrical pattern, his dark figure slipped into the chivalrous realm.
Lorenzo did not follow right away. Like carved in stone, he lingered near the door-frame, letting his gaze wander away from Salvatore Vincenti and over the elegant contours of the furniture.
Just as he remembered, the frames of the windows stretched tall, rising far above their heads. Everything was imposing, like a drawn sword. Though their presence set a flutter in his chest, the glitter in his eyes dimmed. For as he took in the effortless refinement, Lorenzo noticed that Giovanni was not already standing opposite him. Nor was the boy upon the staircase, with that hidden green in his dark blue eyes. Lorenzo turned his head.
He peeked inside without lifting his feet. A dark strand of hair slipped across his forehead, undoing his careful style. Only for him to peer deeper past the butler in search of the familiar silhouette. But even in the farthest corner, among the delicate patterns, he would still find himself alone—without Giovanni.
All at once he had to swallow. His throat dried beneath bewildered eyes. The man across from him cleared his throat discreetly. It was the butler, whose bearing Lorenzo could judge at a glance to be utterly professional. The boy lifted his head to look up at him, but as usual got stuck on the man‘s collar instead. The colour of the uniform was that of two hundred metres beneath the sea. It sat without a crease, defying the winter with delicate golden accents. To the child, it was as if the dark blue had miraculously become part of the warm palette in a box of coloured pencils. It seemed everything in the De’Luca estate was the same—nothing here wished to bow to the chaotic rules of others—not even to nature, nor its occupants. Lorenzo was so fixed on the stitched gold that he almost failed to notice the man addressed him. Only when the name Giovanni rang did it pull him out of his trance and lift his gaze higher to the adult’s eyes.
Not even a single hair was out of place, he noticed right away. At the sight, the loose strand on his own face suddenly felt unfitting, like a shade too dark for an otherwise bright painting. The man’s lips closed again, and Lorenzo nodded in silence—less to confirm than as if dutifully checking off a line in a predetermined routine. Their eyes tangled in the space between them, and sudden quiet settled in. Somewhere at the edge, the dark shape of his father moved deeper into the foreign light. It resembled a smear of black haze.
Slowly a new uncertainty approached and readied to stab its nails into his stomach. Though it did not reach, as in that moment, the De‘Luca servant seemed to live up to his competence. Even without a questioning glance, the adult appeared to understand his failing and aid despite it. Lorenzo didn't know how, but relief pried his clenched jaw open.
The butler repeated, «Signor Giovanni is in the garden of the estate,» and spoke with such composure that Lorenzo immediately dared a hopeful glance toward the black blot of his father. It was occupied, shaking hands. With a professional face, his father’s mouth lay in a straight line. The elder Vincenti’s brown eyes fixed on Giovanni’s father, and Lorenzo observed as one might watch a loaded rifle.
He did not notice how meanwhile another De’Luca servant stepped outside and slipped between him and the door, waiting. One of Lorenzo’s feet slid toward the garden, but his now-freezing knee held against it. Tense, he waited for permission. But his father was still speaking, turning slightly aside now to greet another adult. Then, something shifted on the otherwise rigid face. A corner of the mouth lifted, until the trace of a smile could be seen. The sight was utterly unfamiliar—it had to be permission. It could be nothing else, insisted the quickening beat of his heart. Lorenzo‘s knee now gladly surrendered to the wishes of his legs, releasing him from his post.
His dark Oxford shoes carried him a few steps away from the door. In his apprehension he nearly stumbled straight into the De’Luca estate’s attendant. The thought that his father might have seen it made the hairs at his nape bristle, and Lorenzo cast another quick glimpse over his shoulder. The dark figure was still occupied, a smile lingering on his lips. Relieved, Lorenzo exhaled a breath and turned back to the servant. His chin pressed into the scarf.
Just as pristine as the butler, the man stood poised in deferential stance. The man stated calmly that he would escort Lorenzo to the garden wing. His voice rang clear as the light through the windows, without the burden of dialect turning it into an unruly wind in Lorenzo’s ears. The weight of expectation that had clung to his legs finally loosened. Lorenzo gave a small nod of assent, then followed him back into the open air.
The fine Florentine stone rose at his left, but his heart was already running to search for his friend. Lorenzo himself advanced more slowly, because his soles were clearly not made for snow, nor for wet ground. They belonged indoors, where his father wished him to stay. The six-year-old drew his shoulders, sealed beneath the stiff fabric, tighter against his body and shot a resentful glance down. With every step one foot threatened to slip and the cold bit at his ankles. Something tugged at him, as if a ghost wished to send him skidding. Lorenzo rounded the stone corner of the estate, following closely his guide.
They only stopped after a while, when walls rose up between gravel and hedges. Lorenzo’s gaze fixed on the historic wrought-iron gate, arched beneath a rounded span of masterful stonework. He had seen it once before on an earlier visit. From a distance, however, it had seemed smaller. For a fleeting moment, the thought of a cage came to him—but it was banished as soon as he noticed the metallic flourishes, curling almost like flowers between the bars.
Lorenzo tried to safekeep and sort the sight. He tucked his fingers into his sleeve and tilted his head back, gazing up to the snow-laden branches above. In his memory, flowers had once hung there, bursting forth as though from within—like a quote escaping a poem just to frame the arch. But in winter it was barren and only white, a herald of beautiful spring yet to come.
Meanwhile, the adult at his side, slipped something from his sleeve. With the elegance of a practiced gesture, a thin wand fell in between his fingers. He stepped forward and Lorenzo heard the tip tap twice against the metal. The sound rang brighter than iron should, as though the gate itself were singing. As though greased by magic, the gate swung open and granted entrance into a section Lorenzo had not yet known.
With the view ahead, he cast, as courtesy demanded, a grateful glance toward the adult.
«Thank you very much,» Lorenzo whispered. The man stood by the door with a neutral smile, lowering his head to convey goodwill without words, though not without asking whether Lorenzo required anything further.
«No,» Lorenzo replied, then noticed how softly he had spoken. Swiftly, he added again—this time louder, «I need nothing. Thank you.»
The adult did not move, thus Lorenzo took it as a sign that he was now to make his way alone. He stepped through the gate and heard how softly the iron closed behind him.
The light beyond now fell more gently, painting a glistening shimmer over the plants. A single glance was enough to summon a subtle stomp into his steps with renewed resolve. Let every ghost with the ill intentions to stop him in his track, return to where it came from. He thought, surely it had crawled out from his father’s luggage anyways. The garden was too beautiful to let an unsteady walk stop him.
Lorenzo rounded the next curve of shrub and branches. The gentle crunch of gravel beneath fresh snow welcomed him deeper into the garden. Cypresses and statues demanded a glance. Snow lay upon them like powdered lace on their perfect tips and curves. At their beauty, the child’ lips curled shyly into an admiring smile. As though each tree were a princess and the flowers their dresses, everything here seemed meant to bloom. It reminded him of the soft tips of hair poking into his eyes. Suddenly embarrassed he pressed his lips together, reaching for the strand. Lorenzo ran his fingers through the waves, trying thereby to align himself with this secretive world. After all, among the elegant statues everything seemed as though it must have its appointed place. Slowly, Lorenzo sank into a current of joyful tension.
The smile did not leave him, even though cold air carved its way into his lungs and escaped in small clouds from his nose. Like a yearning dragon, he let his gaze wander across the garden landscape as he wandered deeper inside. The chill had to share its place with excitement, for the geometric structures and the winter-prepared flowers guided him deeper behind the estate. Somehow he hoped to already catch sight of the young De‘Luca between oleander, boxwood, and camellias.
In anticipation, Lorenzo rose carefully onto his toes, trying to steal a glance over the neatly trimmed hedges and bushes. Short as the six-year-old was, it brought him nothing at all—save for the sight of a little blue tit. With a sweet huff, he sank back down to the ground. This time the boy quickened his pace, moving faster along the path, but stopped soon after.
His eyes had brought his steps to a halt before his mind even understood the sight as real. Around the corner and now before him, in the middle of a clearing, a white fountain rose. Like a snow queen it stood among the remnants of overwintering flower branches. Snow-white stone gleamed beneath the frozen water, which sheathed the figure from head to waist in sparkling ice. Every droplet was a crystal on the dress. Lorenzo did not notice how long he stared—only that his eyes had dried, when the first flicker of burning reminded him to blink.
He was just about to wonder if perhaps the gate belonged only to the fountain, as if this corner of the garden were a secret place meant for stories, locked away by the arch. But then something moved from behind the white marble and stepped into his sight.
There he was—the weight of scarf and cold forgotten in an instant.
Joy surged all the way to Lorenzo’s shoulders, making them lift in an almost skipping motion. Giovanni De’Luca was walking with a book in hand, not too far from him at the fountain. To Lorenzo he looked like a philosopher reciting lessons to the winter itself. Yet—something about him felt unfamiliar. The boy from the south halted for a moment, studying the sharp planes of his friend’s face. Where once a silky bronze tone lingered, something more aristocratic seemed to have settled beneath the winter-flushed cheeks. He was paler than usual. The enhanced contrast of eyes, hair, and skin was captivating—like a knight who had set aside his helm and revealed his identity to the common folk.
Only faintly did a knot begin to twist in Lorenzo’s stomach. Change always felt like a hole in the door—one a stranger might suddenly peer through. Yet Giovanni’s new complexion was too fascinating for it to grow into a bewildered freeze. It felt as though his friend were some luxurious bird, shedding and donning plumage with the seasons. Lorenzo approached with care, still keeping himself unnoticed, if only to capture the moment. Unlike the Vincenti household, where his own blue eyes alone rebelled against the tyranny of grey and black, Giovanni was like the estate itself. Every colour seemed to bear a crest in a knightly tourney, and each knight stood armoured and steady, gaze unwavering. At the thought, Lorenzo’s heart leapt excitedly. He could already picture them staging a playful duel with branches for swords.
A smile sank deeper into the corners of his mouth, to a place it seldom traveled. Unfortunately, the cold bit into his cheeks and stiff joints forbade him from following the instinct to run up to Giovanni and perhaps steal an impulsive hug. So instead, he approached on soft steps. Lorenzo’s eyes wandered from Giovanni’s mouth to the book in his hands. From where he was, he could not quite see the title. Driven by curiosity, he craned his head forward and let his fingers slip into the thick fabric of his black coat.
«What are you reading?» he asked, skipping any greeting to leap directly into his question.
The words rolled off his lips as though Giovanni’s presence alone were enough to lock away some of the Vincenti rules about noisy children in a chamber. His gaze lifted from the book back to the newly discovered red at the tip of Giovanni’s nose. Instinctively, he raised his own hand. In the same breath as the sight, he wanted to touch his own nose. Lorenzo was wondering if, despite the darker tone of his skin, his face too bore a flush of red.
«You have a beautiful fountain… and Salve,» Lorenzo added, only a second after the last word of his question, nodding his head toward the white queen of the garden.
The thick scarf tugged stiff and heavy at his neck, allowing him only a small gesture. The final greeting lagged behind the rest of his words, just a blink apart. It felt far less important to him than question and compliment.
