“Absolutely not.”
“Raffa!”
“At what point in our acquaintance have I given the impression that I can be moved once I make a decision? I am an immovable force, Guinevere, unless I am the one deciding to move.”
“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I spent most of the day thinking you were so dreamy,” she scoffed, crossing her arms in an approximation of a pose she’d adopted from me.
It was not nearly as effective, given she was five foot nothing and looked like a woodland sprite, but it was endearing nonetheless.
“Dreamy?” I asked, letting my amusement leak into my tone.
She sighed dramatically. “Yes, Raffaele, I thought you were dreamy. I’ve since reconsidered my position because you are being very annoying and stubborn.”
“I prefer obstinate. It is one of my favorite English words,” I offered helpfully.
Her response was an exasperated groan. “Is that the secret to being a successful businessman in Italy? Annoying your subordinates into obeying your orders?”
“First, Guinevere, you are not my subordinate. I make a point of avoiding entanglements with employees.” Not to mention that most of the women I worked with were terrifying in their own right and married or related to me. “Second, for future reference, pouting is not the way to sway me. Though you do look molto carina when you do it.”
“You’re mocking me now,” she declared. “Wow. And I thought I was supposed to be the younger one here.”
“Trust me, you are.”
There was a moment of quivering silence before we both laughed. I hadn’t felt so at ease and happy in years, but the reason for my contentment wasn’t something I was going to worry about now. I was still riding the high of making Guinevere come on my tongue twice and the sight of her pinned beneath me, asking me to paint her in my cum. Even though we were arguing, the atmosphere in the car was warm and intimate, our own little universe traveling seventy miles per hour under a clear summer sky.
There was something about being with her that insulated me from the normal demands of reality. Something stronger than a bubble, something with resiliency, because it made both of us feel safe to let our guards down. A snow globe of some idyllic fantasy world I never wanted to leave.
Our silence was undercut by the humming purr of the Bugatti as I drove us through the dark streets of Toscana after dinner at Fattoria Casa Luna. Imelda had asked no questions when I texted her to bring me a spare change of women’s clothes, and she had even managed to keep a straight face when Guinevere emerged from the cellar wearing an oversized green T-shirt with the logo of the vineyard embossed on it in gold and a long tan linen skirt she had to roll three times at the waist so she did not trip over it.
Imelda was a good friend.
The winery was closed to tourists on Sundays, so she had invited us to have dinner together with her husband, Mario, on the patio. Their chef was almost as good as Servio, and I had the good fortune to watch Guinevere try boar sauce for the first time, the way she smiled around her fork and hummed a random tune that spoke to her simple joy in the food.
It was a good day.
Maybe the best I’d had since I was too young a boy to know the evils of my world, playing games like bocce, morra, and mosca cieca with my sisters in the olive grove beside the barn.
There was an ache in my chest when I thought about taking Guinevere to Villa Romano, to the setting of those happy days. How she might bring them back to life for me after my father had tainted that place for most of my adulthood.
“Can I please explain why I think it’s important that I go back to the apartment behind Fortezza da Basso?” Guinevere asked softly, turning in the seat to face me. Her hands were twisted loosely in her lap, but her thumb rubbed back and forth over the opposite knuckles almost frenetically, like she was nervous.
I dipped my chin for her to go on.
“I don’t really know how to say this without making a mess of it, but I’m going to try because it’s worth it. I mean, this”—she gestured between us—“is worth it. I know we’ve only known each other for like ten days, and I know I have to leave in just over a month. I know I’m probably going to sound crazy and scare you away, but you told me that the name Vera suited me because I’m honest or true, right? So I’m just going to say it.” She dragged in a deep breath, held it for a second, and then let it rush between her lips. “I’ve never known anyone like you before, and I really don’t think I ever will again. You say you aren’t sweet or kind, but in the last ten days you’ve shown me more kindness and generosity than anyone ever has. Today was one of the best days I’ve ever had. I wish I could keep it perfectly preserved between the pages of a book forever and pull it out when I’m old and gray and boring again, but I know I’ll never forget a moment of it.”
She inhaled sharply, and I took a moment to glance at her even though I knew it would be hard to pull my gaze away from the sincerity in those thick-lashed eyes.
“All this is to say, this—you—are important to me. So even though this is inevitably a fling, I want to do it right. I want you to know that I am spending time with you because I like the man I am getting to know and not because I like the fact that you buy me Dolce & Gabbana or that you live in an actual palace. And I want the independence I was seeking in coming here. Living with you and relying on you, while it’s been a godsend, just doesn’t feel right in the long term. I want to stand on my own two feet so I can meet you halfway. Does that make any sense?”
I blinked as the last of her words sank beneath my armor and took root somewhere so deep inside me I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to dig them out.
“You know, I do not believe I have ever heard you say so much at once,” I mused and then mock-winced when she hit me on the shoulder.
But her laughter was my reward. She had been so brave, my fawn, standing on those shaking legs but unwilling to back away. She knew what she wanted, and she wasn’t afraid to stand up for herself. It was such a compelling combination, that tangle of innocence wrapped around a curious mind and a steel spine.
More intoxicating than any of the wine we’d drunk that day or any woman I’d ever wanted in all my thirty-four years.
“You are such a jerk,” she said, but there was a soft smile on her face, and she reached over to squeeze my thigh as if she couldn’t help it.
“You make a good argument,” I said, tone somber now because she deserved that. “I am older, wealthier, and local here. The power skews in my favor, and I would never want you to feel . . .” I made a face. “As if you did not have a choice in this.”
“For the record, I don’t feel that way. At all. Remember earlier when I said you were dreamy?”
I chuckled. “Distintamente. Still, I hear you, and even though I do not like the idea of you sleeping across the street from a drug deal, I am not in charge of you, and I respect your decision to stay there.” I hesitated before adding, “For now.”
Her only response was a light laugh as she relaxed back into the seat, curling up her legs to hug them to her chest as she tilted her head to look out the window at the watercolor blur of the landscape passing by.
“Grazie, Raffa.”
“You do not have to thank me,” I said. “Just call me if you hear or see anything that is not right. Prometti?”
I did not think I would sleep knowing she was alone in that place and decided that one of my soldati could be spared to keep surveillance on her, at least for the first few nights, to make sure it was safe enough.
“Prometto,” she swore.
Minutes later, she was asleep against the passenger door.
When I parked in front of her building, I took a moment to study her in the yellow cast of the sodium streetlights. Even bathed in unforgiving shadows, she seemed ethereal, some fata who should be curled up in a woodland grove instead of a Bugatti Chiron. I caved to temptation and pushed her hair back over her shoulder. It was heavy as brocade silk, fine and thick. I thought about braiding it again and was surprised when arousal pooled warm in my gut.
I had given up on this. On moments such as these, strung together like beads in a rosary, something only the pious could hold and find comfort in. The day of my father’s funeral, faced with the eradication of my entire remaining family if I did not step into his shoes, the boy I had been and the man I had tried to become had died a swift death. Laid to eternal rest in the ground beside capo dei capi Aldo Romano. A man who, the last time I’d seen him, had branded me with the Romano family crest with the iron we used on wooden wine boxes at the vineyard. I had promised him I would never live under his rule again, and in a sense, I was right.
Instead, I took over it.
A reluctant mafioso if ever there was one.
Leo had teased me at first, wondering if I could stomach the responsibility after years in England living as a student and financial analyst.
To prove him wrong and keep my mother and sisters safe from the tradition of new capos eliminating the old reigning families, I buried who I was six feet deep inside my soul.
Somehow, an American foreigner had stumbled upon the gravestone. And instead of fleeing like any sensible, sheltered girl should have, Guinevere had sunk to her knees in the dirt and started excavating.
I did not want to take her inside that appartamento di merda. I did not want to leave her alone in my city. I did not even want her to leave my car.
But I appreciated her speech, both for the courage it took to speak so candidly and for her solid logic.
So I got out of the car, rounding the hood, and opened the door softly so I could catch her body as it slumped without the support. I unclipped her seat belt and carefully took her into my arms the way I had done so many times when she was sick. Only now, I could appreciate the way her hair smelled of the rosemary shampoo Martina had bought her and the lingering undercurrent of wine I knew would probably arouse me at inopportune moments for years to come. Her hair tickled my cheek as I curled her into my chest and locked the car. The key was in her purse, zipped into a compartment, and the door buzzed loudly when we entered, but she was out like a light.
The apartment still smelled faintly of za’atar spice and slow-cooked meat from the restaurant next door, but I could admit it was clean enough as I laid her in the thin, rough sheets of the single bed. It was easy to tug off the oversized skirt, but I left her in the winery shirt and arranged her aura of inky hair on her pillow so it wouldn’t fall on her face. I itched to braid it but resisted because I realized I was just making excuses to stay.
It took effort, but I pressed a kiss to her smooth forehead and stood up to survey the apartment properly before I left. The lock was pathetic, so I used the butcher’s knife from the kitchen and wedged its blade through the frame over the door as another layer of defense before I climbed out the window, closing it securely behind me and then dropping to the wooden overhang over the first floor. I dangled from my fingertips and fell to the cobblestones to find one of the skinhead thugs from that morning watching me with a cigarette hanging loosely from his gaping mouth.
“She sleeps safely every night, I’ll give you one hundred euros a day,” I told him, smoothing my shirt as I moved to the Bugatti. “If she has even one bad encounter, I will gut you and feed your innards to the rest of your crew.”
