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I receive my juice and decide to drink it at the bar. It's tasty enough for me to order another before heading back to where Vittorio left me. I tap my unvarnished nails on the mirrored counter, and, over the rim of the glass, I look at a part of the room that I hadn't seen before.
There are some huge paintings hanging on the wall and I wonder where the works of art in this museum are. They emptied the space to hold this party and where did the objects that use to be here went?
A tall, bald man snaps me out of my ramblings when he stops next to me at the bar. With a rude tone, he calls the bartender, who was busy on the other side, but the attendant turns to him and serves him cordially. I put my glass down on the counter and furrow my eyebrows.
As if drawn by my silent judgment, the newcomer looks at me and I prepare to turn and leave, even without finishing my juice, before I find myself in a mess I have no place in being. However, the man's face becomes void of expression the instant his eyes lands on me. He blinks, before widening his eyes.
“My goodness!” He exclaims in a serious and startled tone of voice.
“Excuse me,” I ask in Italian, just like the exclamation I just heard, already taking a step back, but the man grabs my arm, and now my eyes are widening.
This is the third time in less than twenty-four hours that my personal space has been horribly invaded. Really? I tell myself that I don't need to be nervous, if Vittorio is here for a meeting, that means someone knows who he is. I'm safe, I repeat in my head, even though the sudden crazy beats of my heart don't seem to agree with that.
“My goodness! You're...” He starts to speak, and just like last night, relief floods my body when a voice sounds louder, interrupting the one that terrifies me and, this time, it's not theconsigliere's.
“I would advise you to take your hands off what belongs to me, Massimo. And you can consider these words in the broadest sense possible,” Vittorio says and puts his arm around my waist. Everything about me relaxes immediately.
Massimo lets the hand that was holding me fall to his side, and his look goes from surprise, or whatever he was feeling to thinking he had the right to touch me without my permission, to pure boiling hatred. The way he looks at my companion makes it seem like he would murder Vittorio with just his thoughts if he were capable.
“Don Vittorio,” he says finally.
“Massimo Coppeline,” the Don replies, and the rude and scary old man just gives a nod before turning his back and walking away.
I watch his steps away until the man I can't decide if he's my tormentor or savior stands in front of me. He glances at the presence behind me, and I imagine it's one of his men, but Vittorio doesn't take long to focus all his attention on my face.
“I thought I told you not to move,” he says, now in Portuguese, and I swallow hard. I think this time it will be tormentor, then. Shit!
CHAPTER 26
________
Vittorio Cataneo
The mischievous look on the girl's face makes me wish I could read her thoughts. First, she says I calm her down and now this. There is something very wrong with this girl's head and, against all expectations, against everything I know about myself, instead of irritating me, this has made me curious to discover how far her lack of sense of self-preservation is capable of going.
It was the one which brought Gabriella to Italy, after all. Her absolute lack of it. More and more, Cesare's comment about me getting a new pet makes sense.
I never considered myself a hunter. Controlling, for sure, but stalking isn't something I have the patience for. However, I don't know if it can still be called that when the prey willingly walks straight into the claws of the predator. Maybe the name is just observation.
She has so many different facets that it is impossible not to feel drawn to observing it. The tired girl, the resigned one, the fragile one, the submissive one and, apparently, the funny one too. Not to mention, of course, the girl strong enough to relinquish control with ease. After last night, I thought that today I would need to deal with a withdrawn, still sensitive woman. However, until Don Felippo's approach, Gabriellaseemed to be feeling perfectly safe, as if yesterday's incident simply hadn't affected her ability to trust. So, when the Don of Cosa Nostra turned his back on us, she told me I was calming her down. There were many sensations that I was accused of awakening, soothing, has certainly never been one of them.
“I'm sorry.” The already known words leap out of her mouth with unparalleled ease. I start to wonder if they even mean anything.
“We're going,” I say, waving for her to go ahead. Gabriella looks at the glass of orange juice on the counter and then at me. She does this twice more before letting out a long sigh. Are there no oranges in the Cantina? “Finish your juice, Gabriella.”
The smile that lights up her face doesn't make any sense. The girl who came to meet me yesterday, completely shaken, is the same woman who walks beside me as if she were in the safest place in the world, and then trembles under the lascivious gaze of a stranger. This is also the same girl whose entire face lights up because she was given permission to finish a glass of juice. No sense at all.
Gabriella drinks the juice and turns around, taking just one step before stopping and looking at me over her shoulder. The vision is interesting, I admit, I know this is just one of the reasons why I'm going to hell.
The red dress has a deep neckline in the back, twin to the front. Her loose hair falls over her shoulders and the submissive look on her face, waiting for guidance, makes me scratch my throat. I reach her in a single stride and hook my arm through hers.
It's not until I sit in the backseat of the limo and Dario gives me an affirmative nod that I remember that Gabriella's curvesand curious attitudes aren't the most important events of the night.
Massimo Coppeline's presence and his barely concealed interest in my company are. Not to mention the meeting that brought me to this event. Gabriella distracts me, I realize with surprise, because this is not a merit that many things or people can be proud of. No thing or anyone else that I remember, actually.
I narrow my eyes at the girl who, like every time she's been in a car with me, has her attention glued to the windows, observing every inch of road and lights that we leave behind as we advance through the Roman streets.
“Are we going back to the Cantina?” she asks in Italian as we drive past the hotel, and while I'm admitting things, the way her lips lift into a pout when she speaks my language is definitely distracting.
