When we crawl into bed it is with our legs tangled and our hands stubborn, and when I drift, it is with the bass line softer and the next day already stepping into the wings with truffle dogs and markets and cameras and a woman who is learning how to revisit the past without the fear of agony waiting in the wings.
Morning arrives on padded feet: pale sun, a breeze that smells like thyme, a knock that turns out to be breakfast on a tray—strong coffee, eggs soft as clouds, a dish of peaches that taste like the color blush. We eat on the loggia with our ankles brushing, and even though we don’t talk about Harrison or prisons or letters, the conversation sits between us like a cat that’s decided to be affectionate on its own terms.
The truffle hunt is a small circus.
Biscotto and Regina zigzagging like furry missiles, a handler who speaks to them in Tuscan that sounds like gossip, Vecchio in a cap he pretends isn’t adorable, Lulu in wedges that sink into soil while she insists the dogs “understand her aura.” Vasso’s hand finds the small of my back as we duck under low limbs; I steal his scarf and knot it in my hair; Nonna Rosaria appears out of nowhere to thrust a warm focaccia square at me with a grunt that translates toeat, you look too happy to sustain it on air.
We find a truffle the size of a toddler’s fist—Regina’s, of course; Biscotto sulks until he is bribed with salami from Lulu’s Mary Poppins purse—and Vecchio insists on christening itMatrimonio.“Because you lock it up and hope it gets better in the dark,” he cackles, and Nonna smacks him with a tea towel.
By afternoon the market in Montalcino is a painting, with scarves and tomatoes, old women haggling like it’s aerobic exercise, a man who sells knives and poems.
Vasso buys me a straw hat I pretend to resist and then wear like I was born for this exact time and place.
We perform besotted with an indecency that would make the tabloids yawn if they didn’t have such good light to shoot us in, and when a “friend with a Leica” happens to catch us laughing over a shared gelato, I let him tuck my hair behind my ear; I lean into his shoulder like it belongs to me.
It’s almost easy…until a reporter with a mic and too much nerve cuts in, “Naomi, about the scandal that led to Mr. Dillinger’s father’s serving prison time, what did you know, and when did you know it?”
I feel Vasso go still. And I don’t smile when I reply. “That’s nobody’s business but ours.”
Undaunted, he pivots to Vasso. “And tell us, having acquired Kane Holdings and everything that comes with it—does vendetta feel good?”
Vasso doesn’t miss a beat. He pulls me closer and brushes a kiss on my temple. “Wedded bliss with this woman feels much much better.”
I look into the lens and say, calm as a lake, “We know exactly what we’re building. And we’re doing it together.”
He looks at me like he’s never seen me before and also exactly like he did when he first did, which is a neat trick and a dangerous one. The question hangs in the air, moves as the dogs bark and Chef Nonna swears at someone about bruising tomatoes.
“Now do everyone a favor and fuck off and leave us to enjoy our honeymoon.”
A smattering of laughter follows, but no one doubts that Vasso Dillinger doesn’t mean his dismissal.
Still staring into his eyes, I lace our fingers because the world is watching…and because I want to. He squeezes back and my heart trips over its own feet.
The bass line we’ve been dragging lowers a register and a melody threads over it—cleaner, louder.
We keep moving.
Lulu announces she’ll wear heels for the truffle dogs because they “like height.” Vecchio buys a knife and a poem and tells the poet the knife is sharper.
On the way back to the villa, Vasso coaxes a vintage Vespa through the lanes like he was born doing it—one hand easy on the bars, the other on my thigh, his shoulders relaxed and speed just shy of reckless.
I wrap my arms around his waist, tuck my cheek to his back, and wish the road would refuse to end. He’s warm, sun-soaked, smelling of thyme and engine and something that’s just him, and for a few stolen bends I let myself hold on like I never have to let go.
We crest the drive as the villa throws long shadows across old stone.
I tip my face up beneath the brim of my straw hat, eyes steady. “We know what we’re building,” I say, softer now, for him. For us.
He brushes his knuckles over my cheek, then leans in to kiss my lips. “Together,” he answers, and this time it isn’t propaganda at all.
The bass line is still there.
But for the first time, the melody is louder.
And by the time the lanterns blink on, Vecchio has all but agreed to the exchange, the lighthouse, the casks. Hands shaken brusquely and glances traded, the kind of yes that just needs a signature and a good headline.
Tuscany, it turns out, has been good to the Dillinger Agenda.
But…next is Greece and Vasso’s mother.
