by Gina Azzi
Well that was a colossal fuckup. I don’t know what I expected or what I was even trying to achieve. But not whatever that was. Mia gave nothing away. She didn’t let me in, not even one fucking inch. How am I supposed to help her when she doesn’t even want help? And now, now that I’m the only person who knows that she’s hurting herself (and for how long has that been going on?) what am I supposed to do?
I almost sideswipe Lexi as I barrel down the street toward my car.
“Whoa there, sailor.” Lexi giggles as her hand comes up and settles on my arm as she steadies herself. “Where’s the fire?”
I turn toward her and her expression falls when she sees my face. “What’s wrong? Is Mia okay?” she asks, concerned. And yet that concern is somehow so misplaced. She doesn’t even know the real Mia. My God, Mia is a master of deception.
I laugh in response, the sound harsh to my own ears. “Yeah.” I nod. “She’s great.” And then I keep walking, yanking my arm out of Lexi’s grasp. I can feel her eyes staring at my back in confusion, but I don’t turn around. I slide into my GranTurismo and pull out into the midday traffic.
When I hit the freeway, I open her up, weaving in and out of cars, passing by the blaring horns and rude gestures. I open the windows, letting the cold air hit me in the face. It’s like a sheet of ice water to my system, instantly cooling my temper, allowing reason to return. But I don’t want to be reasonable right now. I don’t want to think about Mia, the hurt she’s causing herself, the pain she’s wallowing in. I don’t want to remember her stricken expression when I walked into the bathroom and flicked on the light. I don’t want to feel the anger and frustration. I especially don’t want to feel the choking sensation that creeps up my throat. Because the truth is I’m fucking scared. I have no clue what she needs, no idea how to even begin helping her. I just know that I want to. I want to be her everything. I wasn’t fucking around when I told her I wanted it all.
I still do.
I just have no idea how to go about it.
And now isn’t the time for me to figure all that shit out.
So I press the pedal hard and shoot down the highway like a comet, with no destination in mind.
* * *
It’s late when I pull into Sandro’s driveway. His place is an actual mansion. I park in the curve of the horseshoe driveway, clicking the lock button on my key fob as I stroll up to the front door.
Grazia opens it before I can knock. “Buona sera.” She smiles, her dress pressed and her hair pulled back in a neat bun.
“Buona sera, Grazia. Sandro here?”
“Si, upstairs.” She holds the door open wide for me to pass through.
Grazia has been the Pinicchis housekeeper since we were kids. She’s pretty much a permanent fixture in their household. Lord, the secrets that lady must keep.
I knock twice on Sandro’s bedroom door.
“Yeah,” his gruff voice calls out.
I push the door open and walk in, immediately greeted by the smell of tobacco and mint.
“Hey.” I nod at Sandro and kick the door closed behind me, taking a seat on one of the two leather armchairs in front of his desk. Sandro’s bedroom is more of a suite. Hell, it’s like his own private apartment. It takes up an entire wing of the house.
“You look like shit,” he comments. “Want some tea?” He holds up his own mug in invitation.
“No thanks.”
“You sure? It’s calming as hell.”
I snort. “Yeah, I’m good thanks.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t stopped by earlier. Claudia told me things went down with Benito,” he says, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a set of keys. He tosses them to me.
I catch the keys. Shit. I forgot all about Benito while trying to process all this stuff with Mia.
“Kind of,” I say, filling Sandro in on Benito’s visit. He was still sleeping off his hangover when Claudia and I left Liguria. “Thanks for locking the house up,” I add, holding up the ring of keys. I was in such a hurry to go after Mia that I just left a set of keys on the table with a note.
“No problem.” Sandro waves a hand at me. “I’m glad you confronted Benito. My papa is looking to dig into him as well. Enzo, Benito is going to fight you tooth and nail to ensure you don’t contest your papa’s will.”
“I know.”
Sandro smirks at me. “Still … shit with Benito is solvable. It’s not bad enough for you to look like someone just keyed your ride.”
I laugh. “Yeah,” I agree, rubbing my hand over my face. “Got some other shit going on.”
“With the girl?” He raises his eyebrows.
I stare at him for a long minute. How does he know about Mia? I haven’t really been that forthcoming with my friends about her. I didn’t want to make a big deal about anything, especially since I don’t really know where we stand. One minute she’s with me, the next she’s hanging out with Pete. She’s leaving in a few weeks for New York. She’s hurting herself and shutting me out.
I sigh. “Yeah … with the girl. Her name is Mia.”
Sandro laughs. “I know who she is.”
My eyes snap to his. “How?”
“Oh, come on, Enzo. That night at the club? I’ve never seen you act like that toward any girl. Ever. Giulietta was green with jealousy. And then this past weekend at your place in Liguria.” His eyes widen. “Claudia told me she’s your girlfriend.”
I hadn’t thought that anyone noticed me with Mia that night at the club. Once again, I was wrong. And last weekend, well … I was just too swept up in Mia to realize what we must have looked like to other people, to my friends. I completely lose my head when I’m around her.
“So what gives?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. My head is all over the place.”
He fixes me with a stare, taking a small sip of his tea. “Well, you better get it screwed on right because now isn’t the time to lose your shit over some girl when you got this Benito thing going on.”
I nod curtly. Don’t I fucking know it.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Mia
When I open the heavy green door and step outside, the chilly air bites at my cheeks, forcing me to pull my scarf up higher. Thick clouds hang heavy over the city, casting a solemn feel amid the cobblestone streets and old-fashioned shutters. It’s officially winter.
I hoist my backpack up higher on my shoulders, frustrated by its weight yet grateful for the extra warmth. Popping in my earbuds, I select a random playlist and the throaty voices of The Avett Brothers pours through. The low heels of my boots scrape against the slick cobblestones as I walk toward campus. Every now and then, I step straight into a puddle and curse myself for not wearing my Hunter rain boots this morning.
Walking over to Castel Sant’Angelo, I pause on the bridge, enjoying the series of bridges that cross back and forth over the Tiber River. How many times have I walked this route? Maybe one hundred? When did I stop pausing to enjoy the view, to drink in the surrounding sights, to close my eyes and commit this scene to memory? When did I start taking it for granted?
I kick at a stray pebble on the sidewalk. I’m leaving soon. Heading back to my dad’s in New York, then back to McShain, back to my old, familiar life. I’ve been in Rome for mere moments compared to how long Rome has been here, evolving, changing, growing. And yet, Rome has changed me.
Raindrops fall lightly from the sky, tiny, cold droplets of water dotting my hair and disappearing into my scarf. I have an umbrella in my backpack, but I’d rather just stand in the rain, looking at bridges, being present in this moment. Because this moment is a part of my own transformation.
I’d like to say I don’t notice him. Or his car.
But come on, who could miss a fire engine red Maserati on a cloudy, somber day in Rome?
When Lorenzo’s car glides up next to me, I tug an earbud out of my ear and let it dangle from my shoulder. “I and Love and You” plays softly.
I sta
re as Lorenzo rolls down the window. “Get in.” His guttural voice is sharp. His blue eyes are serious, intense without his signature wink.
The rain picks up speed, pelting me with cold and wind and ice. I shiver and tuck my chin deeper into my scarf, pulling my fingertips up into the thick folds of my coat.
“I’m serious, Mia.” He doesn’t smile.
Seconds tick by. Strands of wet hair stick to my cheeks. Rainwater seeps past my scarf, down my neck, into my shirt.
The bright color of his car is out of place in this scene. The water below me flows quickly under the bridge. The traffic around us ceases to exist. Lorenzo’s four-way flashers blink steadily through the rain. The car’s wipers rhythmically swipe over the windshield.
“God damn it, Mia. Get in the car.” He steps out. A dark five o’clock shadow covers the lower half of his face, hiding his dimple. He’s wearing dark jeans that sit low on his hips and an olive green sweater that hugs his biceps and emphasizes his broad shoulders.
He walks toward me, and still I stare, mesmerized. His eyes flash up to mine in a warning, a threat, a promise. He reaches out, wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulls me aggressively toward him, envelopes me in his arms, his warmth, in him. When I breathe in, his scent—a delicious mixture of leather and espresso and a hint of basil—washes over me.
“Mia.” It’s a statement. He always says my name like it’s the answer to a question instead of the question itself. His fingers weave through my hair, pushing the damp strands away from my face. “Look at me.”
Of course I do. I look right up at him and am momentarily lost in him.
When he leans down, my breath hitches, but he doesn’t pause. He never pauses. He’s probably never even looked at these bridges before.
His mouth captures mine. His lips move over mine slowly, molding my mouth to his. He pulls back slightly and angles his head, really looks at me. A growl escapes through his full lips, and he tugs me up on my toes. This time his lips lock with mine hungrily, greedily. He devours the last of my resolve, and I finally admit to myself what I’ve been suppressing all these weeks.
I love him.
And everything is a complete disaster.
Laughter bubbles up in my throat, and I try to break our kiss. Lorenzo’s hands tighten in my hair, his fingertips pressing into the nape of my neck. He pours more heat, more intensity into the kiss, and my laughter, my realization, my own name are pushed from my mind. I kiss him back, running my fingertips along his stubble, clasping my hands around the back of his neck. I pull myself closer to him and feel him lift me gently. The toes of my boots scrape along the sidewalk. I tilt my head back farther, giving him more access to my mouth.
His hands lock over my shoulders and he pulls back. “Get in my car, Mia.”
And this time, trembling slightly and a bit out of breath, I listen and let him close the passenger door behind me.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Lorenzo
I swear this girl is going to be the end of me. The end of one-night stands and meaningless sex. The end of late nights at the club with Sandro scoring women and the occasional line of coke. The end of blowing off Sunday dinners with Mama and Claudia. Because when I see her standing on the Sant’Angelo Bridge, staring pensively out across the Tiber, in the pouring rain, I can’t tell if I want to laugh and hug her, yell and shake her, or just kiss her senseless.
Her hair is wet, matted to her forehead, and she’s visibly shaking from the cold. Yet she doesn’t seem to notice any of this, lost in her own thoughts, her own memories. Her big brown eyes watch me, drink in every move I make. They never leave my face and still, she says nothing. The rain keeps falling, cars drive by, and Mia stands before me. Her cheeks are red, her lips quiver, her eyes are simultaneously earnest and lively. Just seeing her causes my heart rate to excel and slow down all at once. So I do the only thing I can in the moment: I kiss her senseless.
* * *
We don’t say anything on the drive to my house. I can feel Mia’s eyes on me the entire ride, but I don’t turn my head, don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that I know she’s studying me. When I pull through the gates to our home, her breath catches. I look up at our villa and see it for the first time as an outsider would. I take in the brick and turrets, the old stone foundation, the expanse of lawn. I reach over and link my fingers with hers.
I park and squeeze Mia’s hand before letting her go. I walk around the front of the car quickly so I can open her car door and pull her out, pull her closer to me. She’s cold now, her teeth chattering from sitting in her wet clothes, and I hate the thought of her getting sick. We walk into the house and are immediately greeted by the warmth of the fireplace. Although most of the paintings have been sold and the sculptures auctioned off, the stateliness of the home, the grandeur of the design, the painstaking attention to details is still impressive. Maybe even more so now without artwork to distract the viewer from appreciating the natural beauty carved into the stone and etched into the hardwood floors of our home.
With Mia’s hand in my own, I guide her up the stairs to my bedroom. I kick the door closed behind me and give her a moment to take in my bedroom. The four-poster bed, the deep leather couch, the mahogany writing desk and chair. The bookshelves that house all the classics in both Italian and English. The model cars enclosed in a glass case. Trophies I’ve won and ribbons I’ve accumulated over the years.
After she looks around, I take her in my arms. Running my hands up her back and beneath the heavy silk of her hair, I tug down gently so she’s forced to look at me.
“Mia.”
A smile twitches over her lips.
“You’re freezing.”
She laughs low and husky. “So warm me up, Lorenzo.” She says it confidently, like a woman knowing what she’s asking for, a woman who knows what she wants. But I notice the slight tremor in her hands as she places them on my biceps. I detect the tiny hitch in her breath. I note the way her eyes can’t willingly meet mine.
God, she contradicts herself at every turn. It’s infuriating. And mesmerizing.
“How about we just take it slow.” I tug gently on the ends of her hair, hoping her gaze will meet mine.
She looks up, her chocolate eyes shiny with gratitude, excitement, and a bit of uncertainty. “Okay.”
I lean down and kiss her, cover her lips with mine.
At my touch, she opens up like a flower in spring. She blossoms before me, under me, her cheeks warming, her eyes widening. I run my nose along her jawline, hear her breath catch, and plant kisses down the side of her neck.
“Why do you do it?” I ask quietly.
She inhales sharply and tries to pull back, but I keep her tucked next to me.
“Tell me,” I prod again.
She burrows closer into my chest, her face pressed against me. Her voice is muffled when she speaks.
“Can’t hear you.” I kiss the spot just below her ear.
She sighs and steps back, looking up at me. “I can’t help it anymore. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t know what to do.” Her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
I hug her close, crushing her against my chest. Lifting her lightly, I walk her over to the couch in my room and deposit her in the corner. I sit next to her, taking her hand in my own.
“You can talk to me, Mia, but I don’t know how to help you if you’re not going to be honest. I need you to be straight with me. I don’t…” I sigh, looking up at the ceiling to collect my thoughts “…I don’t know anything about this. But I know you need help. And I’m here for you.”
She nods, her fingers picking at the hem of her sweater.
“How long?”
She looks up sharply. “What do you mean?”
I laugh to myself. She’s going to fight me on every question. I take a deep breath. I understand that this is hard for her to talk about. I know I have to handle it delicately. I wish I possessed patience, but fuck, there isn’t a Barca on the planet with that type o
f understanding. “How long have you been starving yourself, or making yourself throw up, or just hating on food in general?”
She winces at the questions. I should probably tone down the hostility in my voice, but it pisses me off that she’s hurting herself. That she doesn’t realize she’s already perfect regardless of her weight; she couldn’t be more beautiful.
“A long time.”
“I need answers, cara. I can’t help you if you’re going to push me away.” I lean closer, my fingers raising her chin so I can see her eyes. They’re full of fear, brimming with shame. And guilt.
“It started when I was eleven.”
Fucking hell! Eleven? I clench my hand into a fist and try to check my anger. Mia needs you to be strong. Do not overreact or she will shut down and you will learn nothing.
“Why?”
Mia shakes her head sadly. “After my mom died, I really threw myself into dance. Every part of my life revolved around it. I practiced constantly; I was committed, dedicated, and determined. I always knew I wanted to be a ballerina. I used to watch the older girls, you know?” She smiles slightly, a faraway look in her eyes, remembering moments from her childhood. “I used to love watching their practices. There was one girl, Amy. She was perfect. When she danced, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. It was as if she was a part of the music. It just flowed through her.” She looks at me. “She was like magic. And to me, a young girl, I couldn’t think of anything I would want more than to be just like Amy, to dance like her. Until one day, the director of our program cut her. Apparently, she didn’t have the right figure anymore. She was too curvy, too busty. Too big. I guess it had been going on for a while, her body changing, her gaining weight. I never noticed. But I did notice when she wasn’t there anymore. And I knew, I never wanted that to happen to me.” She smiles sadly. “I vowed to control my body so it wouldn’t control my life, which was essentially dance. I started watching everything I ate, counting calories. And when it was too much, I would throw it back up, cleanse my system. After a while, I just felt better empty.” She shrugs.
