Page 68 of Angel

‘Esattamente, Signor Angel!’ Carlo nodded. ‘During the 1962 filming of Cleopatra in Rome, those two began a very infamous affair. The problem was, both of them were spoken for; married to other people at the time. The scandal made headlines worldwide and met with moral outrage from the public.’

‘So they needed a hiding spot,’ I guessed, taking a sip of the delicious vintage.

‘Sì, Signora Roxy. They brought the circus here to Capri. To the home of Dame Gracie Fields at her exclusive hotel, La Canzone Del Mare.’

‘What does the name mean?’ I asked, fascinated by the history.

‘It translates to ‘Singer of the Sea,’’ Carlo murmured. ‘It’s a direct reference to the incredible view over the boulders below. Where mythological sirens are said to have lured unsuspecting sailors to their tragic deaths.’

I shivered.

‘Remind me never to go swimming near those rocks if I hear a melody floating over the waves.’

Angel let out a soft rumble of laughter, nudging his broad shoulder against mine.

‘Relax, Rox. I’m pretty sure the only thing luring anyone to their doom around here is Mrs. Campanelli’s cooking. My waist is expanding from her food.’

‘Please, you have a black hole for a stomach,’ I scoffed. ‘But to be real? If I’m going out, death by Mrs. C’s eggplant parmigiana is the best way to go.’

‘Fair point,’ Angel admitted, a rare, genuine smile breaking across his face. ‘The woman cooks like she’s trying to secure our spots in heaven, pronto.’

After we cleared the porcelain plates, Angel retreated to his quarters.

‘I’ll be back,’ he promised.

He emerged a minute later, carrying his scuffed guitar case.

I arched a brow.

‘Playing for us, Forrest?’

Our eyes met, and my heart jolted as he rasped, ‘In the mood, babe.’

He pulled up a wooden stool on the covered patio, checked the acoustics with a few string plucks using a worn pick, then invited Mrs. C. and Carlo to join us.

He began with a series of evocative chords that echoed into the night air.

When he started singing, his timbre was raspy, deep, and devastating.

He played a raw acoustic arrangement so haunting and beautiful it brought tears to my eyes.

His voice, which often serenaded millions with slow-burning ballads, now sang for us three in close intimacy.

His vocals were a gravelly vibrato that brought out my goosies.

He had this amazing capacity to shift from a vulnerable, throaty whisper to a desperate, full-chested growl, unfiltered and moving.

I reclined into the outdoor lounge, entranced by the poetry of his lyrics.

He sang about the brutal reality of letting go of someone who never loved you back, of torching your own heart and sending it out to sea.

Gazing at his profile in the dim light, a painful truth hit me: we were both stuck in the same sinking boat of unrequited devotion.

I sensed the agony of rejection in him, which made me want to reach out and hold him.

When he finished, I reeled from my whirling thoughts as Carlo whistled in appreciation while Mrs. Campanelli clapped, wiping her eyes with her linen apron.

Angel gave a humble nod, setting his instrument back into his case.