I ran the orange microfiber cloth over the furniture, not wanting to linger too long, yet my hands slowed over the glass top of a sort of dresser in the center of the room. I pressed my lips together and paused for a moment. On the glass top were Camillo’s perfume bottles. Some were ordinary, though the brands they bore whispered to me that they must be worth two months’ salary for an average person, others were small works of art. There was one bottle resting on a bed of ruby-red satin, itsbox wide open to reveal the golden liquid and its cap mimicking what looked like a diamond, or an English crown. I couldn’t say for sure.
I leaned closer to the box.Clive Christian No. 1 Imperial Majesty Perfume. I didn’t recognize the brand, but it must be expensive.
Yet, among so many beautiful bottles, only one seemed to be used. Of all of them, it was the simplest bottle. A faceted glass cylinder with amber liquid inside. I picked it up, not quite sure why I was doing it.Angels' Share by Kilian. I carefully removed the cap and brought it close to my nose, instantly closing my eyes.
It was wonderful. It smelled of caramel, vanilla, cinnamon, but also chocolate and almond, and there was a hint of some kind of alcoholic drink that overpowered the rest. On Camillo, it smelled even better. The intensity faded, leaving only the sweet and alcoholic notes.
The man looked like dessert and smelled like one.
Seriously, Daisy? ‘Dessert’?
I quickly covered up the scent and bolted out of that place. If he’d been home, I wouldn’t have dared touch his personal belongings. Something I discovered three days after arriving there was that my dear soon-to-be murderer harbored the paranoia that everyone was conspiring against him.
On the morning of my third day, after making his bed, I’d let curiosity get the better of me and he’d caught me flipping through one of the wildlife books on his bedroom shelf—a bookon European birds— and he grilled me for two hours about what had led me to flip through it. Although I told him a thousand times that I was just looking at the pictures, he didn’t seem the least bit convinced and warned me not to touch anything unless absolutely necessary.
Did I intend to obey? Of course not. But I also had no intention of taking risks while he was around.
I was already in the kitchen, finishing off a chocolate cornetto—which was nothing more than an Italian croissant, even though Camillo insisted they had nothing to do with each other—when Luca showed up. He was sweating profusely and wiping his bald head with a handkerchief.
“Shall we go, Signorina Parker?” he asked me with a smile that was a novelty.
I tried to return his expression as best I could, my cheeks puffed out with food. “Of course!”
Minutes later, we were driving down the road toward the town in Luca’s car. Like all the vehicles parked there, it was a tinted-window SUV. The only thing that gave away that they were a bunch of mobsters.
It didn’t make much sense for us to drive into a tiny village in a car like that, but something told me it would be pointless to protest. Before we got into the vehicle, Luca checked all the tires, even opened the hood, and something told me that he and his boss shared a common paranoia.
He parked the SUV in front of a white-walled building, with a pergola at the entrance covered in passionflower vines ladenwith beautiful flowers. We got out of the vehicle and he stopped beside me, pointing proudly at the building.
“This is my cousin Maurizio Condello’sristorante. It’s the onlyristorantein Castello dell’Fiero.”
I smiled, amused by the pride with which he was telling me this, but I barely had time to appreciate the place. Luca motioned to me, and we began to wander through the narrow streets and their sidewalks paved with yellow slabs. We passed an unimaginable number of small cafés, all with elderly people sitting at the door, and I realized, amused, that old people were the same in every country. In Silver River, it was also customary for them to show up early at dinner for a little chat, a hot drink, and perhaps a pancake. I wondered if Italians would do the same thing, especially knowing how much they loved a good cake.
When we reached the end of a tiny street, where a car couldn’t fit and we could barely walk side by side, Luca invited me into what looked like a little house. The façade was a charming mustard-yellow, and as soon as we walked through the door, the scent of lemon hit my nose, and before long I found myself standing in front of a glass counter. The interior was lined with tiles covered peppered with little red flowers, and the floor was made of orange-colored mosaic. In the display case behind the counter, I could see what looked to me like trays of…cannoli?
I pursed my lips and puckered them forward, leaning in to peek at what was there.My Gawd. Dozens of little tubes of fried pastry filled with cream of every color and shape were arranged on trays. Some had fruit mixed into the cream, others chocolate, others nuts. And I understood in that moment why there weremafias on the planet, because I felt capable of killing someone just to get my hands on one of those cannoli.
“AMORE!” I jumped as soon as Luca yelled beside me and my eyes widened when, moments later, a woman dash through a door behind the counter.
Speechless, I watched her as if I’d just spotted a celebrity.
Her hair was gray from root to tip, but extremely long and curly, beautiful like a silver veil. She circled the counter, allowing me to see beneath a graceful orange summer dress a tiny waist forming a valley between generous breasts and hips that would leave anyone breathless. Her face wasn’t much different. Her dark skin was marked by age, that was true, but her full lips and long-lashed black eyes made her a vision no twenty-year-old woman could compete with.
What was I saying? Few women, no matter their age, could compete with a beauty like that. The Lord had his favorites, and that Italian woman was proof of it.
As soon as she greeted Luca with a lingering kiss, I turned away slightly, feeling even my ears flush. The lady was much taller than her husband, but, damn it, that didn’t stop him from holding her with the intimacy of a passionate lover, and if I could, I would have run away to bury myself in a hole.
In America, we weren’t used to that kind of public display of affection.
“Amore, this is Signorina Daisy Parker. The Vicari’s new housekeeper, the one I told you about,” he announced, andI turned awkwardly, smiling and waving a hello to the lady. “Signorina Parker, this is my wife. Donatella Condello.”
Before I could even blink, I was caught in a tight embrace and received an effusive greeting. “Welcome to Castello dell’Fiero, Signorina!” the woman told me, as she suffocated me between her ample breasts, and I realized that if I were executed that way, it would be a rather comfortable way to go.
My God, I’m no better than a man.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Condello… And please, call me Daisy.” I replied with a nervous smile as she stepped back.
“And you call me Donatella,per favore!” she asked me, before darting back behind the counter. “Would you two like to eat a cannolo? I just made some with lemon cream!”
