‘There isn’t any,’ she replied, knotting her arms around the back of his neck. ‘I just want you.’
He gave her a gentle, reassuring nod. ‘I’m right here.’
And with that, Alex felt Lucia soften in his hold. She released whatever it was that kept her wound and tight, and let him take over.
trentanove
‘Lucia, there’s something I need to tell you.’
The change in his tone immediately ignited Lucia’s fight-or-flight response, and she felt the magic of the night of passionate sex ebb away. ‘What is it?’
Alex steeled himself and made his way to a freestanding wardrobe in the corner of the room. He opened it and withdrew a large white box, which he set down beside her on the bed. With his lips pressed into a thin line, he realised this would be the moment it could all come undone. ‘You and I have a past. A history.’
‘Together?’
He nodded. ‘Sì. From long ago.’ He pointed his chin in the direction of the box.
Alex watched with trepidation as Lucia wiggled off the lid and peered inside. What met her eyes was a collection of yellowed newspaper clippings, decades old, meticulously cut with straight edges. She withdrew the first, and immediately recognised what she was reading.
Lucia’s solemn eleven-year-old face looked back at her from the page. She began to tremble.
‘Lucia, I . . .’
‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’ She waved the paper at him.
‘No. Lucia, please . . .’
‘If this . . .’ She gestured to the bed, ‘. . . was a conquest for you, then well done. You win.’ With an exasperated grunt, she tore the newspaper clipping to shreds and threw the pieces at him.
‘It’s not like that at all, Lucia. Look.’ He pressed the box into her lap, and withdrew the next article. ‘Please, just look.’
Her eyes were darkened pits, and despite the proffered article dangling in front of her, she refused to break his eye contact. ‘Why should I?’
‘Because . . . you and I are the same.’
Her left eyebrow curled ever so slightly, and with an indignant huff she snatched the article from his hand. It began like all the others she had ever read, and in the case of many, even memorised:Venice in a flood of tears . . . High waters quash all hopes . . . Venetian Valentine’s Day DisasterandWild weather drowns hopes of survivors.
She had built up a solid wall of self-preservation over the years, but nothing could have prepared her for what she was about to learn.
As Lucia’s eyes meticulously scanned every word, Alex made his way back to the bed and sat a short distance away from her. He was waiting for it; the moment she would catch on, put it all together, but how would she take it?
Reading to the end of the page, she flipped over the article then suddenly stopped.
Alex’s heart seized.
Lucia was suddenly faced with a black-and-white photo she had never seen before. There stood eleven-year-old Lucia at thefondamentawith Mariella by her side. Just beyond Lucia, in the background, was a long-legged, dark-haired boy. With thepaparazzovisible in the foreground,thisphoto captured the moment that the infamous photo of Lucia had been taken. And, at that very moment, the boy in the background was pleading with an outstretched hand for it to stop.
Lucia studied his printed face, although it was difficult to discern on the aged paper and bleeding print lines. There was something familiar about him. His deep-set dark eyes and broad shoulders – already broad even though he was only perhaps fifteen or sixteen.
Her eyes returned to the text, and she skim-read ahead before eventually arriving at the names . . .Scarpa, Elio, e moglie, Furlan, Carla, e figlio, Scarpa, Massimiliano . . .
Lucia dropped the article and her hands clamped over her mouth.
Alex inched his way closer to her on the edge of the bed.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she turned to face him, article in hand. ‘Is this you? Areyouthis boy?’
Alex’s eyes closed slowly, and his head dropped. ‘I wish I wasn’t. But yes, that’s me.’
