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“Yes.”
“I like to fuck and be fucked. Does that help?”
His feet stumbled slightly before he righted himself. I smothered a satisfied grin. He wasn’t as immune to me as he pretended.
Did he often think about that night in Málaga, too?
We didn’t speak for a long time, our feet climbing higher on the path, his breath growing labored. I liked watching his muscles shift under his clothing as he ran. The way the sweat gathered between his shoulder blades. This view made up for the slow pace.
“When did you know . . . you were bi?” he panted.
I sighed. He had a one-track mind, apparently. “Around nine or ten, I suppose. My nonna watched a lot of football. I didn’t care much about the ball. I was fascinated by the players.”
“Was it hard in the military? To find men to sleep with?”
I chuckled. “No, not at all. It was easy, but it had to be quick.”
He didn’t say anything more. Was he thinking about his upbringing? His lover who’d been killed in Belgium? I found myself curious about him. “And you? When did you know?”
“Always.”
“How did you hide it from your father?”
“Looking back, I can’t believe Fausto didn’t figure it out. I had posters of Gianluigi Buffon all over my bedroom walls.”
My eyebrows lifted. Buffon and I were the same height and similar features, both with dark hair. Had Giulio recognized the resemblance? “A fantastic goalkeeper.”
“I was obsessed with him. Never even considered a woman in the same way.”
“Have you ever slept with a woman?”
“No, never. Paolo and I found each other when I was sixteen. He was my first.”
“You must miss him.”
He shrugged, as if to say what-can-you-do. “Yes, but I’ve had a long time to come to terms with the guilt. I had no idea someone would try to kill me. I thought I was free from all that. That we would be—”
Safe.
How could he have been so naive? “Your father has made many enemies.”
“This isn’t about my father. I’m the embarrassment, the gay man who left after pledging my life to them. They can’t let me go.”
I had no idea who was responsible for the car bomb, but I seriously doubted it was the ’Ndrangheta. “What does your father say?”
“That the man responsible is dead. But I can’t take that chance until I know for certain.”
“Car bombs haven’t been used since the Camorra or the Cosa Nostra in the eighties. I don’t think it’s the ’Ndrangheta.”
“Then who was it? You’re an assassin. Who still uses car bombs?”
“A few groups.” Factions of al Qaeda and ISIS. The PKK. Russians. “None that would care about you.”
“So you think it was, what? Coincidence?” His voice rose in anger. “I’ve seen the CCTV footage leading up to the blast. There was no hesitation which car was their target.”
This surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. “You’ve been investigating the bombing.”
“Sì, certo. Did you think I have been sitting on my ass for four years?”
