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Amber
I didn’t realize I had kissed him until he began kissing me back, folding his arms around me, palms against my shoulder blades and lower back like I was meant to be within his embrace. His kiss was warm and passionate and loving, every emotion I felt all at once mirrored back at me, and for a few moments it felt like fireworks were going off in my body and above the ancient Italian town.
But Furio pulled away from me, and gazed down with concern. “It was not my intention for this to take place when I brought you here.”
“I know.”
“I want to ensure this is not inappropriate,” he insisted. “You do not work for me, not directly, but I own a significant portion of the company at which you work.”
It wouldn’t matter even if I did work for you, I thought, picturing Owen and Jude back home.
“It’s not inappropriate,” I said, pushing my body against his. “And even if it was? I don’t care.”
Furio grinned with relief, and then kissed me with twice as much desire as before. I felt bricks pressing into my back as he kissed me up against the wall of a building next to the church, hands sliding up into my shirt to touch the bare skin of my back. My own hands explored Furio’s body, lean and hard and whip-strong, and his nose nuzzled against mine as our kiss deepened.
I’ve wanted this for a long time,I thought.I wish I hadn’t waited so long.
I heard snickering, and then a taunting whistle. Two teenagers were walking by, leering at us. One of them said something in Italian, and Furio flicked his fingers underneath his chin in a vulgar gesture. But he laughed as he did it, and the youths laughed too while walking on.
“We have a long drive home,” Furio said while cupping my cheek. “We should depart.”
I wanted to say fuck the drive, I don’t want to leave this small town yet, I want to be withyou. But I was still in a fragile state from the events of the church, and I knew that taking some time to process everything was the right idea.
We returned to the car and left the quiet mountain town as the moon rose over the distant hills. We were silent for a while, a contemplative mood falling over both of us. I looked at the photo in my pocket, the picture of my father when he was a boy. I didn’t have many photos of him at home, so this one meant more to me than Furio could ever understand.
My father wasn’t gone. His memory still rang out in the world, even if it was in a distant church.
Furio reached over and took my hand, squeezing it and giving me a comforting smile. I smiled back at him, and we didn’t let go of one another the entire ride.
Despite returning to his estate after ten o’clock at night, one of Furio’s assistants informed us that dinner would be ready shortly. I retreated to my quarters and freshened up with a short shower and a change of clothes, then returned to the massive dining room. Furio was opening a bottle of wine from his cellar, something old and dusty and delicious.
“To your father, Marco Moltisanti,” he toasted. “May his name live on forevermore.”
We ate pasta in red sauce and drank wine and spent the evening talking about our families. Furio’s mother died when he was young, and his father had only just passed away from a heart attack earlier this year.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know those words mean nothing, but I really am sorry.”
He shrugged as if it were inconsequential. “Such things cannot be helped. I was fortunate enough to know him for as long as I did.”
Furio told me about his father: how he was a huge soccer fan and had been to every World Cup since the sixties, how he ate anchovies every morning for breakfast, to the disgust of Furio, and how he was kind, but not an affectionate father.
“When I have children,” Furio said, “I will not be so distant to them. I will be warm and loving and give them kisses every day.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have kids already,” I said. “You’re pretty much Italian royalty, which means extending your bloodline.”
“My father was intensely insistent,” Furio admitted. “But I have been waiting for the right woman.”
I felt my cheeks blush. Furio put down his wine glass, leaned over, and gently stroked my cheek with a thumb. Then he kissed me, soft and testing. My chest felt lighter and I thought I might rise up out of my seat.
“Do you want dessert?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
His grin deepened.
Furio grabbed the wine bottle in one hand, and took my free hand in the other. He hurriedly led me through the manor home as if there was no time to waste. We passed ornate tapestries and countless alcoves displaying antique busts, and artwork framed in gold and silver. I admired all of it while drinking wine, old andexpensivewine, straight from the bottle. Into Furio’s quarters we burst, shoving the door open like it was an intrusive barrier, and then slamming it behind us with a deep boom that echoed through the halls.
Furio’s chambers were similarly sized and furnished as mine. A fire roared in a hearth next to a massive four-post bed piled high with pillows and blankets.
