“Whatisthis? What’s happening? Why are these people… Back thefuckup. Get away from her!” he shouts at one of the paparazzi shoving a camera lens in my face.
“Um… I…” I really don’t want to tell him about Daniel, but I don’t know how I’ll get out of this one. Overwhelmed, my eyes mist over and a tear escapes.Shit. I cannot show weakness in front of him. He’ll never let me live it down.
“Are youcrying?” Giovanni sounds horrified, glaring daggers at the fans with a disgusted look he reserves only for cheap polyester. Tucking me under his arm, he navigates through the knot of people with ease, pushing them aside like they’re bobbins of thread. He starts walking at a faster pace, creating a good amount of distance between us and the fans and whispering in my ear, “I’ll take you to my shop. We’re almost there. What do those people want from you? How can I?—”
“What are you doing? Get the hell away from her!”Oh no. Daniel rips me away from Giovanni, causing my body to lose ten degrees of warmth. My brother’s hand replaces Giovanni’s armon my shoulder, steadying me. His breaths are erratic, almost like he sprinted after us.
“I suggest you remove your hand from her before I break it,” Giovanni warns in a cold, practiced tone of voice that actually scares me.
My brother doesn’t move an inch, and Giovanni looks just unhinged enough to follow through on his threat.
“Step the fuck back,” he commands, forcefully shoving Daniel.
If I wasn’t so traumatized, I’d snicker at how my brother’s six-foot-two, two hundred pound body staggers backward like a baby deer learning to walk. I rarely have the pleasure of seeing someone humble him. He’s going to get so much shit for this later.
I weakly interject. “Daniel… I’m fine, it’s all okay, he?—”
“Is this your boyfriend?” Giovanni asks in a strained voice, focusing all of his rage squarely on my brother. “Where the fuck wereyouwhen she was getting swallowed up by those people?” He moves closer to me, growling, “Testa di cazzo.”
Breathing heavily from running toward us, Daniel wears a bemused expression now. My brother is a lover, not a fighter. His job was to literally run away from the line of scrimmage. I watch his brain process this interaction in real time. His pupils might as well be pickleballs as they ping-pong between us, trying to understand how we know each other. It’s not every day that someone genuinely doesn’t recognize Daniel. You’d have to live under a rock—or in this case, a pile of designer suits—to not knowtheDT.
“Tessie, you know him?” Daniel asks gently, frowning at the bottom of my soaked silk dress.
“Tessie?” Giovanni grumbles. I turn my head to face him, and my nose almost grazes his neck. When did he get so close to me?
“Yeah. I know him. It’s fine… We’re fine,” I reply awkwardly.
“She works with me. I see her every day,” Giovanni interjects haughtily.
Every dayseems like an unnecessary piece of information.
“Uh, yeah,” I begrudgingly admit. “He’s Haus of Lamont’s embroidery specialist.”
“Thisis Giovanni?” Daniel’s grinning now. Asshole.
“You talk about me? With your… boyfriend?” Our party of perplexity changes from a reservation of two to three as Giovanni joins us in confusion.
“Brother,” Daniel interrupts, raising his index finger. “I’m herbro-ther,” he joyfully corrects, slowly emphasizing the word “brother” like Giovanni is Elmo and it is a Big Word.
Why are these men acting so messy? On the Lord’s Day, no less? This is Friday night behavior.
“Okay,” Giovanni barks awkwardly, still far too loud for the minuscule space between us. I watch his chest slowly rise and fall as he seems to settle himself. “Okay then. It’s nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand to my big brother, whose smile appears to be permanently glued to his face.
Giovanni glances back at the fans. Most of them scattered, but a few appear to be heading our way. “Would you like to come into my shop?” He gestures to his door, now only a few businesses down from where we fled to just a handful of minutes ago. “To, ah, get away from the people.” Is he… nervous?Whyis he nervous? Maybe he’s a fan, after all.
The three of us walk at a brisk pace until we reach his shop. We enter in silence as the bell rings above the door. Giovanni immediately turns the lock, then leads us to the back.He ushers us into his office, and I take it in, admiring a photo of a beautiful sea-scape hanging on his wall. It must be from Italy.
I’ve never been in his office long enough to appreciate the decor.
“Please take a seat,” Giovanni announces in a ceremonial way. Standing behind his mahogany desk as if it were an altar, I suppose the tone is fitting. He certainly acts like his shop is holier than church.
And like members of his weird congregation, we both obey and slowly ease into the two leather chairs on the opposite side of his desk.
“Would you like some…” Giovanni trails off as he looks around his office for something. “Water, maybe. Or perhaps a hard candy,” he offers, nodding at the bowl of foil wrapped candies that lives on his desk.
Who is this polite imposter? Just two weeks ago, he was telling me I needed to come back to the shop because I didn’t articulate all of my “silly demands” properly the first time. I eye him suspiciously, wondering if his shift in attitude is due to my brother’s fame.
Giovanni fiddles with his sewing glasses. “Are you in town visiting Tessa, then?”
