"How was it different?"
"Because that woman was a tyrant. I swear she's a direct descendant of Caligula," Gabriele mutters as we walk hand in hand by the lake.
I stare at him, open-mouthed. "Did you just make a joke?"
He shrugs. "It happens."
"I'm sure it does. I just didn't think I'd be around to see it."
He looks down at me, brow furrowed. "Am I really so forbidding?"
Does he have to ask. Surely the man knows he's terrifying most of the time, even to those closest to him.
"Not at the moment." I flash him a saccharine smile. "Right now you look like a panda. There's nothing scary about them."
Gabriele shakes his head. “Let’s go get lunch.”
I motion to the six bodyguards who've been trailing us at a respectful distance, doing as much to keep the paparazzi at bay as to protect us. "What about this lot?"
Gabriele turns. "Does anyone want pizza?"
The chorus of agreement is immediate and unanimous.
We walk to the restaurant hand in hand, a small thing that feels surprisingly natural. When we arrive at Pinoli, it's clear they know Gabriele. The staff install the guards at the two tables closest to the door where they can monitor who comes and goes. A pair of bewildered tourists are relocated from their corner table, which is promptly reset for us.
“Do you come here often?” I ask.
“Are you chatting me up?”
I shake my head, not entirely sure what to make of this lighter version of my husband. “It would a wasted effort. You’re already a sure thing.”
“Yes,” Gabriele agrees. “I am.”
He pulls out my chair and helps me make myself comfortable. Then he takes the seat opposite. There, his back is to the wall and he has a clear line of sight to the door. That means he can spot danger before it arrives, not that anyone is likely to get past our entourage.
Gabriele’s seat is also partially in the shadows, which means he can eat without fear of being watched.
A waiter appears and greets Gabriele with genuine warmth rather than sycophancy. He brings a plate of antipasti.
"We didn't order," I point out.
"We don't have to. Giovanni runs the kitchen. He'll send what he thinks we'd like."
What Giovanni thinks we'd like turns out to be exactly right. The prosciutto is extraordinary. It’s wafer thin, dissolving before it even needs to be chewed. I eat several pieces and leave the sundried tomatoes.
Gabriele watches me set them to the side. "You don't like tomatoes?"
"Not those. They look like little red wrinkly cockroaches."
Gabriele grins and pops another in his mouth.
We drink the wine Giovanni sends and somewhere in the middle of an extraordinary pizza with artichokes, which I would never have thought to put on a pizza, I become aware of a change in Gabriele's posture. He carries on eating but something has shifted. He seems to pull slightly toward the wall.
I set down my napkin and turn.
Two older women at a table across the restaurant are staring at my husband. A quick involuntary glance is forgivable but their fixed focus is something I have no patience for. I want to slap the looks right off their faces. I don't, because I have standards. I get up instead.
I cross the restaurant and stop at their table.
