Capo walked to the end of the pier and looked over the food, then over at the water. A minute later, he turned around.
Our eyes met and I gave a little wave.
He met me halfway and took my wrist, his nose lingering over my pulse.
“You’re sniffing me, Capo,” I said. When his eyes rose to meet mine, I smiled.
“I’d inhale you if I fucking could,” he said.
“That hungry, huh?”
“Starved.” He offered me his arm and we walked the rest of the pier together.
I didn’t want to thank him for the new perfume, but I wanted him to know what it meant to me, in my own way.
“The other perfumes you bought me were enough,” I said. “But this one—” I lifted my arm so he could smell my wrist again. “It’s…blue.”
I grinned as the space between his eyebrows tightened and his eyes narrowed.
“Blue,” I said, “is my favorite color. It…fits me.”
His eyes roamed over my dress, and my skin felt as hot as the flames from the torches. “Mariposa,” he said in that beautiful way, “fits you.”
“That, too. The butterfly…” I lifted my arms and turned around so he could see the entire dress. “I’ve always admired things that have to struggle to find the beauty in life. The scars…” I ran a slow finger along one of the light blue veins. “They make butterflies even more beautiful to me.” Then I glanced at the scar on his neck before I met his eyes again.
“You have your wings yet, Mariposa?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. I do feel different, but…still me.”
“There’s no one I’d rather you be.” He took my hand and led me to the table, where he pulled out my chair. I thanked him in Italian before he sat next to me.
It was a beautiful setup. Candles in glass. Silverware with handles that seemed made of pearl. Plates that looked like the inside of an oyster shell. Actual oysters were set on ice on Capo’s side in a silver bucket, and the table was filled with food I could eat with my hands. I took an olive and examined it while the sound of the waves rocking into shore came between us. After a minute or two, I turned and met his eyes. I could feel him examining my face—my profile.
“You asked me during our meeting ‘why me.’”
“Oh,” I said after I realized what he was talking about. “Why you picked me for this—” I motioned between us “—arrangement?”
He nodded. “I gave you an answer.”
And as he repeated his words to me that day in Rocco’s office, the memory came alive in my mind, as bright as the flowers above our heads in the darkness.
“You don’t look like the rest,” he’d said. “You stand out. You could be a queen on a throne. One I’d feel privileged to call wife. You have the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.”He’d steepled his fingers, watching me even more intensely, almost studying me in a way that I wasn’t used to: with appreciation.“The man said, ‘This is now bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called woman, for she was taken out of man.’ I’d be honored to call you bone of my bone; flesh of my flesh. My woman.”
He watched me differently than he had then—with the same appreciation, but something more solid…I washis. And as he repeated the words,bone of my bone,his hand encircled my wrist. As he saidflesh of my flesh,he set my pulse next to his. Then he set it over his heart as he repeatedmy woman.
His words didn’t come out romantic, or with a wistful tone. He was speaking the cold, hard truth. Even so, that same surge of warmth rose in me, threatening to take me under. But it wasn’t drowning that made me uneasy. It was knowing where the treasure was and hoping he would always lead me to it. It was him—the pieces of his life that he shared with me.
“I have a simpler answer for you today,” he said.
I nodded and resisted the urge to squash the olive between my fingers, which was pressed against his heart with my wrist.
“Simply,” he said in Italian, “it could be no one else. You were the one who chose me.” Then, bringing my hand to hismouth, he ate my olive. “I’m starving,” he continued in the same language. “Time to eat.”
I wasn’t sure which satisfied him more—the meal or me.
13
MARI
