Rosaria and I had rotated in the same circles once or twice. She was a world-famous opera singer. But she wasn’t someone that I’d usually befriend. Well, I never really befriended anyone, but she was in another league. Her mouth was known for more than just her singing.
I accepted her offering, agreeing with her. The gelato was the best that I’d ever had.
Her wide mouth grinned. “I see thebella bestiais keeping you thin. He drives you to the point of skin and bones with his sex.”
She pinched my side and I jumped a bit.
I smiled, licking around the wonderful flavor of pistachio. “It’s hard not to—if you were married to Brando Fausti, you’d understand.”
“I do,” she said, a wistful sigh following. “I have one of my own. But the difference between mybella bestiaand yours is that mine feeds me loads and loads of pasta after!”
Her laughter was as beautiful as her rich soprano.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I think the question is…what are you doing here, Ballerina?” Her voice was smooth, each word mellifluous. She could read a cartoon and make it sound…exotic.
Lifting my gelato, pointing at nothing in particular, I said, “Exploring.”
She looked me over. “I can see that. Come,” she said, giving me her hand. It was chilled from the cold treat. “Let me show you something.”
Practically dragging me behind her, she came to a stop in front of a fire-red Ferrari with the top down. The leather seats looked hot from the constant beating of the sun. Car fit driver, in all aspects.
“What are you waiting for?” She whipped her door open, sliding in.
“Where are you taking me?”
Something about her seemed a bit unstable, if not dangerous.
Revving the engine, she threw back her head and laughed. Her mouth was wide, her teeth whiter than her jumpsuit, and her lips the same color as the car. “Get in! I promise to bring you back to yourbella bestia.” She winked.
Oh, what the hell. I’m in Italy. She has a Ferrari. Why not?
She tied a headscarf around her voluminous hair, the color of the dark sea, and her skin shimmered golden bronze in the heat. “Ready?”
My bag and camera stayed clutched to my stomach as she sped through the Tuscan streets, taking turns like effing Luca Fausti during one of his races. The urge to ask her to slow down passed through my thoughts every two seconds, but Rosaria Caffi seemed like the kind of woman who basked in the thrill of speed.
She turned toward Siena, barely avoiding a crash collision with a bunch of Italian men who were in a truck that consisted of three wheels and a bed. Instead of shouting obscenities, they threw kisses our way.
Rosaria lifted her hand, giving them a flirty wave.
As much as I would have loved to absorb the scenery, it passed me in a blur. The constant chug of it started to hypnotize me. A numbness born out of fear might have had something to do it with it too. Some of the roads were extremely narrow.
“I have seen you dance,” she said, pinching me a bit.
I slapped at her hand. “Quit it.”
Her eyes, which were round, but alive with an emerald green twinkle, crinkled with her grin. “You daydream too much. Be present.”
“I am! How can I not be? I’m too terrified to even close my eyes!”
“What did I say then?”
“When?”
“See! You have a floating mind. Bring it back down. For now.”
“All right. You’ve seen me dance. In Paris?”
