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“He said to tell you to ring him when you’re back in Málaga.”
Strange. “He wasn’t angry about Alessio?”
“I told you, he’ll respect whatever you decide. It’s your life, and he knows the blame for the shooting lies with Enzo. Not Alessio.”
I wasn’t so sure. But Fausto rarely said anything he didn’t mean. “He actually said this?”
“Not in so many words,” she hedged. “Anyway, we both just want you to be happy. And I want you to come visit more often.”
“That I can do, matrigna. That I can do.”
“Ti voglio bene, G. Be happy. And forgive him.”
Shaking my head, I said, “Ti voglio bene. I’ll ring you later.”
“You better. I’m dying to know what happens.”
Me too. We disconnected and I went back to making the pasta and sauce. I put a pot of water to boil on the stove. Salted it. The dough was ready to cut, so I sliced the noodles and let them sit. I poured some anchovies and oil into a pan with butter and let it cook on a low heat.
I heard the front door open and close. Heavy boots hit the floor. He was back already?
He strode into the kitchen, a bottle of wine in each hand. His face was flushed. When he set the wine on the island, I asked, “Did you run the entire way there and back?”
“Of course.” He said it was no big deal. “You wanted wine, so . . . .”
I didn’t want him to see how pleased I felt, so I grabbed the opener out of the drawer and tossed it to him. “Pour us two glasses.”
“Oh!” He fished into his pocket and rolled a head of garlic over to me. “From Mrs. Campbell. She says hello.”
“Perfect timing.” Using the zester, I added two garlic cloves into my anchovy sauce. Zia said this was the best way to put a hint of garlic to a dish. Next were the cooked noodles, then some lemon zest. I tossed it all together then plated it up with more zest and parmesan.
Alessio had two glasses of chianti waiting. I sat on the stool next to him and we started eating.
“È delizioso, principe,” Alessio said after a big bite. “Grazie.”
I lifted my glass, drank my wine and watched him eat. I wasn’t terribly hungry, and he seemed ravenous. How long had he been out there chopping wood today? His hands looked like raw ground meat.
When he finished he checked out my plate. “You are not eating?”
I slid my plate over to him. “I ate a big lunch,” I lied. “You take it.”
He didn’t argue. I refilled our wine and focused on the moment. I didn’t want to think about the past or the future. I concentrated on right now, how I felt sitting next to him in this cozy little farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.
I didn’t hate it.
I could relax with Alessio. He didn’t judge and he was easy to be around. No forced conversation, no awkward silences. I also felt safe, as if nothing bad would happen when he was in the vicinity.
After the last few weeks in Málaga without him, I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed this. How much I’d missed his steadiness, his quiet fortitude. Being in a room with him felt familiar and right. Like home.
I lit a cigarette, needing something to do with my hands. I was suddenly nervous, but I couldn’t say why. My skin hummed, an electric charge building in my blood. I could count my heartbeats. Each inhale and exhale echoed in my ears. In and out. In and out. The sound of Alessio’s fork on the plate wasn’t half as loud as the riot inside my body.
There was no use denying it. I wanted him. My dick no longer cared about anything other than getting close to this man. And I was losing the battle to resist.
Alessio groaned as he pushed his empty plate away, and the sound was so sexual, so primal that my groin tightened. Had he even realized? Doubtful. As far as he knew, I still hated him.
But I didn’t. I was hurt, but the animosity was gone. Left in its place was an ache, a weariness from missing him.
“You are determined to hold onto your anger like a badge of honor. Too proud to forgive because of how it might look to your stupid mafia and precious father.”
