A small crowd on the sidewalk parts with loud stares and hushed whispers about the woman in green Buffalo check pajama shorts teasing her thighs and a cream sleep shirt with a teddy bear in the middle. My hot pink bonnet and pocketbook don’t match a thing, but at least I threw on a bra.
Sunlight catches on the pasticceria, bathing the small pastry shop in golden ribbons. Clouds part and angels sing in Tamela Mann-like harmony in reverence for the greatest place in Naples.
Mr. Giuseppe waves from the sole window, a smile stretching his snow-white mustache and a hand coaxing me to enter hisshop of pastry pleasure. He lifts a plate of sfogliatella, which is all it takes for me to click my heels in the air and sashay into the rich aroma of freshly baked dough and confectioner’s sugar.
A tear slips at the layered pastry fluffed with cream filling waiting for me. This is what it’s like to be God’s favorite.
“Uè! Tutto appost?“ Mr. Giuseppe asks with a cheerful melody.
“I’m good,” I answer in Italian. “Overslept.”
“Ah!”
He speaks a mile a minute, shifting between pinched fingers and pressed palms about saving my pastries during the morning rush. They go fast, which usually has me out of bed to beat the line before the shop opens at eight. Mr. Giuseppe makes every pastry with love. Dough rolled with skilled hands, a smile for every customer that comes with a life lesson they didn’t ask for, topped with fresh raspberries.
I hug the carb connoisseur, promising to come the day after tomorrow. While I’ll miss my daily morning sfogliatella, my body needs a different pleasure that I’ve postponed for too long. I want my toes cracked like fingers and a gallon of electrolytes with an Advil after being tossed and turned every which way but loose.
Men in Naples look nice and smile, but I need more than a kind ciao. I need someone who can fuck me through pleasantries and sweat my hair out. I’m trying to ride someone’s son’s chin in the most disrespectful way. My spennanight bag is already packed and ready to go.
Cold air presses into my skin once I reach my building. The apartment lobby is an air-conditioned chessboard of granite and elevators. The front desk separates the residences from the business suites and the daily shuffle of people. Clients heading to appointments and neighbors off to work.
I usually run into Ms. Iliana and her mean-ass chihuahua at this hour. She moved to a lower floor years ago after her husband passed away. Every morning, she walks her demon to the florist. There’s nothing loving about her dog, but she’s a kind elder with an eye for vibrant fabrics.
Wonder where she is.
Lots of characters live here. A few assholes, but mostly nice people. Mama Vee always said I have the gift of gab. I enjoy chatting, hence my gravitation towards human resources. I’m an excellent judge of character. Like right now, the silent alarm in my head is banging pots and pans about the man following me to the elevator.
Where is Luca?
He works the front desk in the mornings and never misses the chance to tell me a random American fact he found online. Yesterday, it was that the average American eats about forty-two pounds of cheese a year. His comb-over and proud smile are always on display when he walks me to the elevator from his station.
Weird.
Bane steps in behind me. The veins in his forearms bulge beneath his crossed arms, the black vest suspended over his gigantic frame. Tactical gear is a choice for a Thursday morning. Maybe he’s security?
“Penthouse B?” I ask the wall of stony expression in Italian. The small hairs on the back of my neck raise under his shadow.
I don’t know Bane’s name, but if the bald head and stunted neck fit, so be it. He’s at least six feet with all kinds of muscles digging into his black vest and tight, long-sleeved shirt. It’s clear he guzzles protein shakes and lifts gym equipment for exercise.
“I ran out of my apartment for a pastry. It was an emergency.” I motion toward the hot pink bonnet on my head and shift to the side of the car. “Do you live here, or are you visiting?”
Silence.
Okay.
I clear my throat. “It’s nice, the building. The penthouse too.”
Bane’s dark eyes narrow. “Which one?” he asks in Italian.
“Penthouse A,” I say, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. “Do you live in Penthouse B?”
Something flashes in his gaze.
Shit, does management know about my housesitting? Is this a personal escort to kick me off the premises?
“Your name.” Bane’s voice is cold.
“Diana Peretti,” rolls off my tongue faster than I process the implication of lying. This man triggers my flight response, which is screaming for me to run.
