Finally caught up in the varyar-verse! Nice!
Have you ever considered combining it all into a single thread, threadmarked, where you can update the individual storylines as you please?
Thanks! Glad you're enjoying it!
As for consolidating it, it would probably be a good idea, but threadmarks confuse and scare me.
Update!
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The dining room was, in contrast to the parlor, thoroughly Italian. Specifically, it was Roman, or at least some architect’s idea of what a Roman dining room would have been like.
Fine china. Crystal glasses with golden rims and bases. Silverware that was actually silver.
The food itself was less amazing – penne ultra arrabiata, the standard dish of Italian Libya. It was good penne ultra arrabiata, but it was not the exotic cuisine Genoveffa expected. Then again, it was done on fairly short notice. And the wine, more Lamia Libica, was superb.
Genoveffa saw the Contessa cross herself and murmur a Latin prayer before eating. She didn’t join in, mostly because she didn’t know that particular prayer. Her Latin more or less began and ended with the Pater Noster and Ave Maria, much to the chagrin of the good sisters of Our Lady of Lepanto who had taught her not so very long ago.
Then they ate.
The pasta was good, the conversation mild.
The Contessa asked about Genoveffa’s projects (a conspiracy thriller Il Bersaglio and a superhero movie Arma Invisibile), her hobbies (drawing – not very well) and her sports team (Atalanta BC out of Bergamo, near her hometown of Albino).
She did not ask about Genoveffa’s miseries or her rapist producer. Genoveffa didn’t mention them, either.
Eventually, the Sicilian took their plates away. There was no dessert, which was fine with Genoveffa. She felt what was perhaps belated awkwardness, embarrassment, realization her driver (cheese and bread notwithstanding) was hungry and bored and tired.
Finally, inevitably, The Issue came up again.
“You could go to the police,” the Contessa said after dabbing her lips and chin with a silk napkin.
Genoveffa shook her head vehemently. “I can’t! He’s connected!” That was no lie. All the Cinecittà bigwigs had patrons in the Party or else the Banda del Lazio (the Roman Mob) or the Cosa Nostra (the Sicilian Mob) or maybe the ‘Ndrangheta (the Neapolitan Mob). The local bigwigs were tight with either the Facists or the Serpenti (the Cyrenaican Mob)/
“Mm,” the Contessa said. Her expression was rather stormy. It made Genoveffa nervous, made her wonder who would be stupid enough to make her angry. “All right. Here. I’ll give you the private number of a friend in Rome. He’s very well connected. You see? If you ever have a problem you want to go away, he’ll make them go away. FILOMENA!”
The Sicilian swiftly appeared.
“Paper and a pen, please.”
The Sicilian swiftly disappeared and reappeared with the items in question.
The Contessa swiftly scribbled something on the paper with the pen and then slid it across the table to Genoveffa. “There. If you need it.”
Genoveffa took the paper, studied the number. She had no words.
“I’m sorry,” the Contessa said. “And my offer still stands.”
“Th – thank you.” Genoveffa pushed herself up before she took the offer and damned herself. She wanted to take the offer, but she didn’t want to at the same time. She was better than that.
Wasn’t she?
She thought of what Dino had done to her, had made her do with him, and wasn’t sure.
The Contessa stood up. “My door is always open. At any hour of any day,” she said with an inscrutable look on her face.
“Thank you, Signora Contessa,” Genoveffa said. She backpedaled, dizzy, drunk, dismayed, uncertain.
Her driver was waiting, and said nothing as Genoveffa collapsed into the back of the car, barely able to say “The hotel,” in a stable voice.
“Yes, signorina,” the driver said. Whatever he felt, he didn’t voice it.
“Good,” Genoveffa said. She held a piece of paper to her breast and wondered...