She makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh, puts her hand in mine without meeting my eyes, and then reaches down and lifts her handle.
“I’ll show myself to my room,” she says.
“You can pay me tomorrow,” I tell her back as she takes off in the direction of the house murmuring the word stronzo over and over again. There’s a wet mark on her ass from where Verga drooled all over her, and I know I’m smiling like a lunatic as I look after her. But that exchange was the most fun I’ve had since—
“What did you do to her, Gi?”
Zio Leo steps out from between the trees, a bouquet of sunflowers in one hand and pruning shears in the other. My favorite camera, a gift from Nonna, hangs around his neck. He’s smiling so wide I can see the gold tooth in the back of his top row of teeth. His thick dark brows are lifted to that hairline that refuses to budge. Sneaky, handsome old bastard.
I shrug and he puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Women, no?” he offers, following my gaze to where Ava disappears around the final curve of the path, stumbling a little when Verga goes down into playful puppy pose like he’s about to pounce.
“Did you take any pictures, Zio?” I ask, nodding toward his chest.
“Certo,” he chuckles. “There was much to capture during the arrival of our guest.”
My uncle presses the flowers against my chest. “Forse, these will help?” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Another note from London.”
I take the sunflowers even though I know they won’t help, and then shove the envelope in my back pocket to be filed away with the others.
“You know, Gi. You might consider what the man has to say. A sabbatical could be good for you.”
He runs a hand through his thick gray hair then removes my camera strap from behind his neck and lifts it up and over mine, patting my sweaty chest once as I look him over. The man is always impeccably dressed, even at home on the farm, a mix of Professor Indiana Jones and Robert Langdon, but with an Armani twist. Always dressed the part. Three-piece suits are apparently the uniform of a dean of a five-hundred-year-old university.
“I always consider it,” I lie. “But my family is here.”
We start to walk, our strides matching despite the five inches I have on him. It’s muscle memory—this pace we keep—ingrained in us from two decades of walking together side by side to and from the city proper and campus. When I was a boy, he never left me behind. And now I return the favor.
“And we will be here when you return. That is what family does,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder.
But we both know that the second part of that statement isn’t always true. It’s time to change the topic.
“How long is she here?” I ask, keeping my tone as even as I can while lifting the camera to cover my face as Zio studies me.
But Zio speaks seven languages fluently. He is a master of communication. Has degrees in words that I don’t even know the meaning of. So whatever I’m trying to keep out of my voice, I have little chance of hiding.
He lets out a throaty chuckle and pats my back twice before letting out his signature sigh.
“Long enough, Gi. Long enough.”
CINQUE
Ava
Not even half a day’s travel freshly dumped and a lying asshole welcome committee could ruin the charm around me. The moment I round the curve, the Beast still tight to my side despite my shooing motion, I almost forget that the two men who stole my dignity even exist. As much as one can forget being humiliated twofold—but this. This place is a fairy tale.
Tan and gray stone stacked together in varying patterns, evergreen painted shutters hanging like ornaments, burnt sienna tiles sliding down the roof, and ivy—so much ivy, dripping from every window as if mother nature were standing inside the oversized openings pouring it out of a bucket.
I realize I’ve let my luggage fall much like the ape did moments ago, but I leave it as I follow the Beast’s wagging tale toward the side of the villa. I run my finger against the stone and sniff the chalky residue left behind. Smells like ancient dust. Earth. Andgoat—excuse me, sheep. I tangle my hands in the ivy, let it twist between my fingers. Shit. I hope this isn’t poison ivy.
There’s a distant barking. I’ve lost sight of my canine guide. The tinkling murmur of water on water pulls me around the back of the villa, and I find myself two steps from toppling into the bluest pool I’ve ever seen. The water is cascading over the far edge of the Olympic-size rectangle, down to a place I cannot see, both because it disappears out of sight and because my eyes are fixated on the view beyond—golden hills roll down and over one another, flanked by dense woods. It’s a sea of sun-kissed, grassy waves. Spotted here and there by green puffs of trees with fluffy white sheep resting in their shade.
I lift my phone to capture a picture and nearly drop it in the water when I hear, “Ciao, bella. Ti piacerebbe nuotare con me?”
I shield my eyes from the sun and turn to find a teenage boy lounging poolside in the tiniest Speedo to grace this planet.
“I’m sorry. No hablo Italian,” I try, mentally kicking myself for not sticking to my Duolingo when the fact that I used Spanish registers in my addled brain. Between interviews and studying for finals and the MBE, something had to go.
