‘For what? This was you. All you. It always was!’
‘You . . . you gave me the opportunity when no one else would.’
His eyes traced her sun-kissed face, and all he found there was beauty, illuminated by that bright spark of passion present in everything she did. The invisible inner beauty which permeated all she laid her hands on. The outer beauty, which tugged at his soul beyond all reason and comprehension. The kind of beauty he had never before experienced in the flesh, but now depended on like a drug. Those magnetic engulfing eyes. Her luscious curves that moulded to his naked form, wrapping him in comfort and security. The familiar feel of her delicate fingers tracing territorial lines over his bare skin, marking what was now hers.
How could any woman have conquered him so deftly, so quickly, so that all he could focus on was her?
Now that there was no reason to keep up their charade, Alessio could no longer subdue the most primal need he felt for her. There, in front of the entire town, her family and friends, and the ghosts and shadows of their ancestors, Alessio dipped Francesca in his arms and kissed her.
He felt her hands cling to him, initially from the shock, then claw at him with want. It was electrifying, casting all care and what-ifs to the universe and feeling her answer the rhythm of his passion and match his thrum of desire.
Hot. Prickles. Tingles and flames.
Alessio felt her lips smile against his as the raucous applause of the crowd brought them back to the moment.
‘Can’t I just keep you here?’ he whispered against her cheek. ‘Just a moment longer?’
He felt her flinch in his hold, then she looked squarely into his eyes and drew him closer. ‘Keep me forever . . .’
Her eyes trapped his long enough to tell him that this moment was different. She seemed to look past what had come before and was staring deep into something new. But just as she pulled him down another inch to catch his mouth once more, Alessio felt her coming free from his grip.
The stage had flooded with Impastino locals who prised Francesca from him. She was hoisted onto shoulders and paraded around the piazza, wrapped in the trattoria’s red and white striped banners and ribbons. Alessio’s eyes never left her.
His insides buzzed for her, for them, and for the day’s outcome. He wasn’t lying when he’d said he was proud. It was beyond anything he had known: a redemptive pride that he extended to his own return to the kitchen.
Watching her bounce through the rippling waves of hands and shoulders ready to catch her, his heart swelled.
He turned to his left, assuming Elio would still be there on the stage. But there was no sign of him or his supporters; nothing to show for his participation in the final tappa save his messy kitchen station and a few black and blue banners strewn underfoot.
Alessio let out a sigh of relief. Now was the time to celebrate and forget about the petty Martino bullsh—
Celebrate . . .
A delicious thought germinated in his mind’s eye as he watched Francesca over by the tabaccheria, still perched on someone’s shoulders.
Celebrate?
Just as Felice passed by him on the stage, Alessio reached out to grab him and called for the translating councillor to join them. ‘Felice! Erm . . . Sindaco!’
‘Sì?’ Felice stopped short as his shirt was pulled, then turned and, seeing who it was, he grinned.
‘Sorry!’ Alessio said, flattening down the front of Felice’s shirt. ‘Can I – I mean, we – please have the piazza tonight?’
Perhaps Felice could read the twinkle in Alessio’s eyes and the heightened colour in his already deeply olive skin. ‘What are you thinking?’ His crooked smile read: playful plotting ahead.
‘I want to host a dinner for Francesca tonight. Here in the piazza. Anyone can come along. Bring your own table, chairs and dysfunctional families.’
Giovanni’s head popped over the top of Felice’s shoulder. ‘A permit will be requi—’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Felice snorted. ‘History has been made here in Impastino today. Please go ahead. And no, no permits required.’
‘Amazing. Grazie mille. I’ll whip around town this afternoon and gather what I can. I’m happy for all restaurants to cook for and support this. Even them.’ His chin flicked in the direction of Da Martino. ‘Or people can bring their own food . . .’
‘Fantastico! Ottimo! We can leave the stage here! I’ll ask the concerto band and the choir to play. And there’s the Mazzucchelli boy . . .’ He turned to Giovanni. ‘The one who was once a DJ in Foggia in the eighties . . .’ Giovanni nodded, taking notes.
‘On one condition, Alessio.’ Felice’s expression became serious.
‘What’s that?’
