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There’s a man sitting with a newspaper at a table under the portico.
He’s lowered the paper and is staring at us.
My pulse rate skyrockets.
Camila’s eyes snap to where my gaze has landed. She shudders and links her arm through mine. “Let’s get outta here.” Her voice trembles.
Our security detail closes ranks, one on each side of us, and, hearts racing, we hurry back to the hotel.
Up in her room, I give Camila the blouse I bought on Burano, which I asked Marco to pick up from the apartment. “Oh, my God. I love it.” She holds it up, admiring the intricate lacework. “I so wish you’d reconsider and come home with me, lil’ sis.”
I pull her in for a hug. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’ll be fine…”
And I will be. I hope. Alessio, on the other hand, is even more pig-headed than Camila and me. He hasn’t stopped talking about taking Framassi down.
I’m so scared he’ll end up getting hurt again.
Sis and I chat while she finishes her packing. I thank her for being here for me while I was going through the nightmare of Alessio nearly dying, and for not minding me spending hours with him in the hospital every day for the past two weeks.
She sits on the lid of her suitcase to close it. While I’ve been with Alessio, she’s indulged her love of fashion by visiting factory outlets and maxing out her credit card, always accompanied by a bodyguard… Marco insisted.
“Your filthy Italians are awesome, by the way,” she smirks. “I was regretting advising you to hook up with them when the shit hit the fan, but sometimes when life hands you lemons, you’ve gotta make lemonade, I guess.”
Her analogy makes me smile. Not quite sure if she’s gotten that right, but I’ll take it as a positive. I give her a big hug and ping Marco that we’re ready to leave for the airport.* * *Surrounded by fields of freshly tilled brown earth prepared for spring planting, the so-called safe house is about an hour’s drive from Treviso. I gasp as Marco rolls his Beamer to a stop in front of the wrought-iron gates late the following morning. “Wow. This place is amazing.”
I stare at the imposing façade of a villa. In the center is a portico crowned by a gable that reminds me of a Greek temple. Marco already mentioned the property belongs to wealthy friends of his who have loaned it to us for a month while they’re on a Caribbean cruise, but he didn’t go into details about the size and beauty of the place.
Surveillance cameras angle from the roof of a gatehouse, and an armed guard comes up to the car. Alessio rolls down his window, speaks to him, and the dude waves us through.
Gravel crunches under the wheels as Marco parks up. My eyes pop. A man dressed like a butler from one of those British TV series is coming down a wide ramp leading up to the main floor of the villa. He even talks with a plummy British accent when he introduces himself as Fraser. “Welcome to Villa Rinaldi,” he beams a broad smile. “I’ll organize your luggage to be taken to the guest suite.”
Our accommodation is in the right-hand wing. Furnished in what I guess to be Italian country antiques, it’s not as swanky as the main part of the building, which Fraser showed us before leading us here. I prefer it, though… I’d have felt way out of my comfort zone staying in those museum-like rooms with their lavish decorations.
The suite turns out to be more like an apartment. We have a large bedroom overlooking the garden, and there’s a marble bathroom, a comfortable-looking living room and a kitchenette. “Lunch will be served at one o’clock in the main dining room,” Fraser announces. “I’ll leave you to freshen up.”
We stand and stare at each other, suddenly a tad awkward. So much has gone down since the masquerade ball and we haven’t been together like this since we declared our love. I go up to Alessio, place my hand on his arm. “How are you feeling, amore?”
He slept for most of the ride here, and Marco and I kept quiet so as not to wake him. “I’ll be a lot better when I’m off these fucking meds,” he shrugs. “They make me feel groggy, not like the old Alessio. I’m going to wean myself off them asap.”
“But what about pain relief?” Marco fixes him with a concerned look.
Alessio waggles his eyebrows. “I’m sure I’ll find a shitload of things to do that will take my mind off it.”
I laugh. “I think you are well on the way to becoming the old Alessio…”
“I fucking hope so,” he chuckles, then winces.
After using the bathroom, we make our way to the dining room. A Rubenesque young maid, Maria, has prepared our meal and serves us at the table. I’m glad it’s not Fraser—I’d have felt even more out of my comfort zone than I do now— but I can’t wait to tell Camila about him when I call her later.
