Chapter 1 For Books and For Bottles

Saturday mornings in Colland even in March in Italy were cold, cold enough for jogging and a great deal of sweaty exercises. Since the change, he began doing a lot of exercises than he usually did. Coming to this new town for his first year, he already had his routine planned out for the rest of the session. He would jog from his apartment to the saint Lucy’s cathedral 300 meters away from his apartment, quite close to his college, for peace and hope to begin the new coming week; then he would jog to the D’oleivre bridge from where you could see the neighboring towns and villages in the distance, for a quiet moment with his thoughts and his soul and then he would jog back to his apartment and be who he wanted to be. Domenico Pietro de Cerintti.

He fitted in the keys to the door of the second floor apartment he shared with his part friend, part enemy, Bernard Marino. The door opened smoothly without the slightest noise and he stepped in, locking the door. The small cozy living room greeted him, the familiar scent of vanilla enticing his nose. Marino never really cared for orderliness; it was he who had to enforce the rule so it was no surprise that Marino’s shirt hung carelessly over one of the only two sofas in the living room, his game console on the glass centre table that stood between the two sofas and his foot palms littered on the expensive Persian chobi rug that was the main attraction of the living room. The rug had been entrusted to his older sister in their late parents will and it had been a great struggle to get her to give it to him. In her words, “something so special should be in a home not some rogue school apartment.” She had ended up giving him anyway after extracting thousands of promises from him to keep it safe.

     On the right were two doors, one that led to a bedroom he and Marino shared and the other, the visitor’s toilet. On the left was the kitchen and a door that led to the verandah. White washed walls with olive accents, marble floors, paneled ceilings, huge windows on both sides of the TV and a good quantity of space were the order of the day.

    He journeyed to the bedroom. It was past 7 am, Marino would definitely still be snoring to Mars. He was wrong. Marino was just walking out of the bathroom half dressed when he entered.

     “Aha!” Marino exclaimed in his smooth deepset voice, his grey eyes twinkling, “I was just beginning to wonder if you got stolen.”

He shut the door, pulling off his jogging shoes. He walked past Marino without replying, heading for the shoe rack beside the wardrobe where they kept shoes.

“I know.” Marino continued, regardless of his silence, “Morning moodiness, not my concern. What’s for breakfast?"

“Where are you going?" He asked instead as he dropped unto his bed opposite Marino’s, “I’ve never seen you wake up this early on a Saturday.”

  Marino smiled, his full mesmerizing cheeky smile without showing teeth, almost a smirk that charmed the pants off the population of Colland females, regardless of class.

“I have a surprise." He beamed, throwing his muscled arms out for effect, his italian heritage creeping into his voice. “But that’s not it for now, I’ll tell you later. “Fritata, coffee, milk?”

“Si." He responded, watching with curiosity hooded eyes.

“Va bene. Alla cucina! “

He shook his head, watching Marino prance out of their bedroom. Marino wasn’t always that bubbly, something was surely making him happy. And that something Domenico was sure, will definitely involve him. 

Benard Marino, son of Kizito Marino, the worst and bearable friend on earth. He, Domenico, had met him while in Canada, on the short stay he had there. Marino, although had lived the most part of his 22 years in the USA and so behaved like them, still retained his Italian characteristics.

He blew out a breath, looking to his study table on the right directly in front of the tall windows that overlooked the street their building situated on. His engineering books he had been studying the night before were still there, opened. He hadn’t read much the night before and he had not also slept well. The anxiety in him was rising as each day passed and the seconds ticked. It was like a heavy rock in his chest that weighed him down when he walked. He knew the reason but he’ d never admit it to anyone, his new him would never admit weakness not even if they held a knife up to his neck. 

The smell of warm freshly brewed coffee wafted into his nostrils and he breathed in deeply, shutting his eyes, allowing the aroma to sink in deep and calm his hungry soul. He wasn’t hungry for food or for anything material, he was hungry for something much deeper and dangerous and he yearned for it, his body, soul and spirit and he would not rest until he got it. He got up and headed for the huge wardrobe with white doors he also shared with Marino. He wondered how he had not killed Marino a long time ago, the new him detested intrusion of privacy. Grabbing a clean short and T-shirt, he journeyed to the bathroom to shower so he could join Marino for breakfast .

******* ******* ****** ****** ********* ********** *****

“What’s on your mind?" Marino asked him as they sat at the island in the kitchen, finishing their breakfast of coffee and exquisitely prepared Fritata. Marino was a master.

He shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee as he scrolled through his messages, mostly from his sister and his flings in new York and a few from the school.

“You are acting weird. First you disappear for 7 months and when you finally return, you still don’t go to school for about two weeks and now you’ve finally decided to attend, you’re acting really weird and strange.” Marino explained.

He glanced at him and chuckled. There was something swirling in the brown depths of Marino’s eyes… concern.

“What’s funny?" Marino questioned, his tone evident of his displeasure. He shrugged again, his gaze already back to his phone. Concern….. an emotion he would never be deceived by. His phone was suddenly snatched from his hand.

“Try me and I’ll smash this phone of yours.” Marino threatened holding up his phone, his look challenging. He paused, retracting his hands only because he knew Marino would carry out his threat.

“You tell me your reason now for being weird in the next 30 seconds or I smash this phone.” 

He glared at him. How the hell did you show concern by threatening to break someone’s phone?

“Hand me back my phone, Bernard." He spat, his hands outstretched

“25.” Marino counted, glaring at him equal ferocity. 

“Benard.” He growled.

“23, and its Marino.” Marino growled back, his brown eyes becoming a shade darker, they ventured into a glaring contest, both of their chest rising and falling in anger.

“1.” Marino said and the phone went down on the marble tiles, the heavy sound piercing the silence.

Silence.

Then…

The dining table was overturned in a jiffy, plates and frittata, mug and coffee all spilling unto the floor. Grunts and growls, punches and hits for the next five minutes and they didn’t stop. He hit Marino harder with each punch, that heavy rock in his chest was suddenly pressing harder, needing release and he swung his fist harder, his breathing becoming heavier, his eyes glazing over with rage.

It was until Marino sent a stinging punch to his stomach and a heavy push to his shoulders that threw him off did he realize himself.

“What's wrong with you, Domenico! Were you planning on killing me!?” Marino shouted, up on his feet holding his bleeding nose as he stared down at him who was still on the floor.