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He unlocks the car with a brusque nod, handing me my suit jacket from where it’s draped over the passenger seat.
I’ll apologize for my rudeness later. I don’t have time to explain now.
There’s a wayward angel waiting for me.
Diego slips into a loading zone as I don the jacket and cross the desolate street. It’s a little after one and there’s not a soul in sight, which is why I can’t fathom the reality of this beautiful woman on the steps of my church. The top of her thin white dress clings to her frame, while the hem is whipped around by the harsh wind.
I stop a few feet away, afraid if I get too close, my angel will disappear.
She doesn’t notice me as her eyes search the vast sky for life’s answers, her delicate fingers absently tracing the space between her full breasts. I memorize every dip and curve I can lay my eyes on before I have to break the silence.
I take in her sultry lips and wide hips, so at odds with her narrow wrists and fragile collarbones. Her dainty toes peek out the top of her fluffy slippers—the blood red of her nail polish like a siren’s call. Long dark hair flows to her waist, and I’m desperate to dive into the wild tresses and haul her right into my space.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
I’m about to speak when I catch sight of the angry red mark on her cheek. The minor swelling tells me it’s a new bruise, and a weight crushes my chest as she tilts her head, the light from a nearby streetlamp revealing the silent tears streaming down her face. A few more steps and I’m kneeling at her feet.
Her gaze snaps to mine from her spot on the third step, a furrowed brow framing her glossy hazel eyes.
I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.
“Tutto ciò di cui ho bisogno è un nome,” I say. Just a name and I can end whoever dared lay a hand on her.
“I’m sorry,” she replies huskily.
Suddenly I wish I could show her a world, my world, where she would never have to apologize.
She sniffs softly. “I don’t speak Italian.”
“That’s for me to apologize for, little one.”
I reach for my pocket square, thanking the Devil it’s still clean, and offer it up to her.
“I just assumed since you were sitting here”—I gesture with the silky fabric to the ancient building at her back—“that you were part of our church.”
On second thought, that seems ridiculous. There is no earthly way I could have missed her in Sunday Mass.
She glances behind her at the looming house of God. “I don’t even know where here is.” Her eyes find mine again. “I just saw the cross and…”
“We’re outside Basilica di Santa Romana,” I fill in, giving her a reprieve from her tumultuous thoughts.
I nod at my outstretched hand. “Your tears are breaking my heart, dolcezza. Please,” I nudge, leaning in, “it’s yours.”
She hesitates for a moment but then reaches for it. “Thank you,” she says, surprising me with a gentle squeeze as she takes the handkerchief from me.
Her shudder has me inching closer, dying to wrap my arms around this beautiful, broken stranger.
She wipes her tears, carefully moving over her swollen cheek once, and then again when a fresh tear slips free.
The cobblestones dig into my knee but I’m frozen in place until I can right the wrongs done to her.
I clasp my wrist and rest my forearm on my thigh. “If not for God,” I say, craving to know more, “why are you here? It’s not safe to be alone at this hour.”
At my reproachful tone, I expect her to cower, but her spine only straightens.
“I am here for God. No, well”—her breath falters, her lip trembling as she looks up to avoid my eyes and hold onto that moment of strength. “I was.”
She looses a sigh, angrily wiping a rogue tear and wincing when she brushes her injured cheek.
