Francesca was lying on her side, facing away from him. Alessio could make out the lines of her curls stuck to the back of her neck.
He quietly padded to the window and opened it, and the cool flush of the night air wafted across his bare chest. It was reviving and refreshing. Francesca must have felt it even in her sleep, as she rolled onto her back, as if welcoming its reprieve across her skin.
The moonlight cast shadows over the furniture, outlining the silhouettes of their little shared life in that poky apartment. Their temporary life.
Francesca’s fervent desire to have Alessio stay plagued him. He didn’t want to go home; he hadn’t lied. But all logic and reason told him he had to return to sort out the mess his former life had been.
He cautiously paced the apartment, trying to reconcile the war waging between his heart and mind. Eventually he came to a stop and leaned against Francesca’s bookshelf, watching her sleep. The rise and fall of her chest, the way her arm moulded to the curve of her waist.
A woman unlike any he’d met before. A companion. A friend. A confidante. These were three qualities he’d never experienced so perfectly in tandem with affection and physical attraction. Her wild enthusiasm. Her passion, her fire, her humour. The way she defended the little things. Her care and kindness. Her desire to prove herself, her ambition.
It was then that an idea germinated in Alessio’s mind. And there, by the bookshelf, he reached for his phone and opened a new email.
* * *
Still awake at 4 am, Alessio needed something that might serve as a distraction. Doom-scrolling wasn’t a healthy option, that much he knew.
His eyes landed upon the street library book he’d finished that night, and he figured now was as good a time as any to return it. So, he slipped on his scuffs and yesterday’s tee as quietly as possible so as not to wake Francesca.
Alessio descended the rear stairs with only the moonlight to light the way, thankful the sun hadn’t yet broken over the arid landscape of the lower plains. He walked through the trattoria, crossed the piazza, and returned the book to the street library box.
On his way back he stopped by the central fountain to splash some water on his face. While it was cool and fortifying, something stole his attention and he stopped still, hunched over, hands full of water.
The hairs along the back of his neck prickled, despite the thick clinging heat.
Where are you?
Slowly, he rose and turned around.
I can feel you watching me.
As nonchalantly as possible, Alessio surveyed the piazza. He found not a soul, not a single pair of eyes. No movement, save a few seagulls kicking through dry leaves at Lu Ientu’s front door.
I can’t see you, but I can feel you . . .
Instinctively, he turned to carefully assess Da Martino, pretending to wipe his face dry with the hem of his tee while he scrutinised it.
It was faint. He could barely make it out at the distance. But there, high up on Da Martino’s terrazzo, was the pale glow of a lit cigarette.
Gotcha! Three weeks until I shut you up for good . . .
* * *
Locking the trattoria’s front door behind him, Alessio felt somehow bolstered by the encounter in the piazza. The presence of someone watching him from the inky shadows didn’t perturb him. Being scrutinised and studied was second nature to him. And if it was indeed Elio, Alessio just hoped it indicated his rival was rattled about their final showdown.
Walking past the kitchen on his way back to bed, Alessio stopped short.
Caught by a ray of moonlight shining in through the kitchen window was Francesca’s tazza della pasta. It was sitting on the bench beside the Virgin Mary–shaped bottle of holy water. He realised he had a unique opportunity here, alone in the kitchen. Was it genuine curiosity, or the stubborn part of himself he struggled to truly switch off? Was it the desire to prove himself as a ‘100 grams per person’ kind of chef?
‘Buongiorno, San Francesco,’ he whispered with a respectful nod to their watchful guide, then he stepped inside and picked up the cup.
The perfect measure?
Alessio still wasn’t sold.
He set it back down and reached for the electric scales. He just had to know.
Alessio scooped a level cup of ‘00’ flour, flattened off the top with the back of a knife, and emptied it into the weighing bowl. He watched the red digits dance for a moment before settling.
