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So Italy? He ran his thumb across his wrist. I held it in my vein and no doubt felt my pulse quicken. – Marika Fabiani… Do you have relatives in Russia?


– N-no… no… – I stammered out, not abandoning my attempts to free my hand. Finally I succeeded, and I repeated already firmly: – No. Only husband.


Without answering, he pulled out a chair and, turning its back to me, saddled it, legs wide apart. He casually placed his hand on the back of the chair. He looked at me again, and I realized that I didn’t even want to eat. A chill ran through my body, followed by a sudden wave of heat. Not knowing where to hide, I went to the countertop and turned on the kettle. She awkwardly jerked her hand and pushed a cup half-filled with cooled tea. According to the law of meanness, it fell to the floor, shattered into pieces, spattering my jeans. I didn’t see Max, but I knew he was looking at me.


– Diamine! Accidenti a te, Max! In modo da cadere nella tua sedia! (Damn! Damn you, Max! May you fail in your chair – translated from Italian.)!

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