He launched after the thief, pushing through the crowd. Years of hauling barrels up and down the hills of his vineyard had given him well-developed muscles in his legs. If he could do one thing, he could run.
The thief bolted in between the columns, trying to lose him in the shadows. Michelangelo cut across the square, predicting the thief would head for the streets. He was small, maybe only a teenager, with oily brown hair stuck to the side of his head. A little young for a criminal mastermind. A pang of guilt passed through Michelangelo’s gut before he remembered this teenage hoodlum had stolen sweet little old Bertha’s purse.
Michelangelo closed in, reaching out for the coat just as the boy zigzagged into the oncoming traffic. His fingernails grazed the leather as the boy ducked and rolled between tires.
Michelangelo winced as drivers honked and veered to avoid hitting him. The boy stood and threw himself across the hood of a car.
Michelangelo rounded the bumper and reached out as the boy rolled back onto his feet. His fingers closed on thin air. Merda!
The boy dashed into the alley on the other side of the street. Michelangelo raised his hands against the beeping cars and followed.
The alley reeked of old trash and decay. Michelangelo stumbled over a crumpled cardboard box. A brick wall blocked the end of the alley, so either the boy was hiding, or he’d found an unlocked back door.
In this city, everyone locked their doors.
‘You’re cornered, son. Come on out and give back the purse, and I won’t press charges.’ Michelangelo’s voice reverberated on the high brick walls. He passed a dumpster and lifted the lid. Bags of trash and old food sat in heaps inside. The smell choked him and he dropped the lid.
Before Michelangelo could react, a fist came out of nowhere, hitting him square in the jaw. He stumbled backward, losing his balance as the boy jumped over him.
Nimble little stinker.
Reaching up, Michelangelo grabbed the boy’s rolled-up jeans cuff and yanked him down. The boy fell beside him on his stomach.
He scrambled up, but Michelangelo moved quickly, pinning him with both his arms. The purse was strapped to the boy’s shoulder. He’d have to let go of one hand to get it off.
The boy spat in his face, muttering profanities.
Michelangelo blinked as he saw the broken nose, chipped front tooth and freckled face.
So much like…
He loosened his grip and swung off the purse before the boy could fight back. He had what he came for. But, he didn’t let go.
‘You gonna turn me in?’ The boy’s eyes narrowed in a mean glare, but underneath, Michelangelo could see the desperation and the pain.
‘No. I want you to get out there, find a job, and stop stealing. Do something with your life.’
The boy sneered. ‘Why do you care?’
Of course. Just like him…
What could he do? Even if the boy promised him to stop stealing, he could go back on the streets and do it again tomorrow. Sixty-one million people lived in Italy. He’d never see Michelangelo again.
Instead, he let him up. With one hand he held onto the boy’s shirt, and with the other Michelangelo dug out his wallet. The little street urchin squirmed in his grasp as he offered him a business card and his last ten euros. ‘Here. You want a real job? Tell Isabella that Michelangelo sent you. Now, go get yourself something to eat.’
The boy with the freckled face gave him a suspicious glare but swiped the bill and the card. In ten seconds he’d disappeared back into the street.
Michelangelo stood and brushed off his pants. His jaw ached, and he rubbed his chin. The little bugger had a pretty strong left hook. Michelangelo hoped he had proven to the boy that somebody did care.
Emerging back on the bustling streets, Michelangelo clutched Bertha’s purse to his side in a death grip just in case someone else got the same idea. He scanned the streets, but there was no sign of the boy. As he walked across the street, he brought out his phone.
‘Ricci Vineyards, how may I help you?’
‘Hey Isabella. How are things?’
She sighed. ‘The same as always. We managed to sell thirty crates yesterday, which will keep us going for another week. But our stock is low.’
‘I know. Last year’s drought really took a toll on production. Just hang in there. This crop will be the best yield yet.’
‘I hope so.’ She sounded wistful, like she didn’t believe him.
‘Hey, Isabella?’
‘Si?’
‘If a scraggly boy with freckles and a chipped tooth comes in looking for work, just put him out in the fields and pay him like the others, okay?’ It was a long shot, but he’d told the boy to go, and he was going to keep his word.
‘Still picking up strays, huh?’ Amusement tinged her voice.
‘Yeah.’ Sure, some of them would find their way back to the streets, but even if he saved one, then it was worth it. If only he had the euros to offer more jobs.
‘You’re a kind-hearted man, and good things will come.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Michelangelo sighed, wishing Carly could see him the same way.
He ended his conversation with Isabella and walked across the square. The entire orchestra had collected on the steps to the Basilica, sitting in rows just like they did in concert.
‘There he is!’ One of the violists shouted, pointing across the square.
Michelangelo waved. Had they all been waiting for him?
Bertha stood and shouted. ‘My purse! He found my purse.’
Everyone cheered and clapped, and some people chanted his name. Ms. Maxhammer stood off to the side, giving him a nod of approval. He hadn’t done it for her. He’d done it for Bertha.
Michelangelo never blushed, but slight warmth burned in his cheeks. He gave Bertha her purse back, and she hugged it to her chest. ‘Thank you, hon.’
‘Not a problem, signora.’
Her friend, Trudy, narrowed her eyes. ‘Did you catch the thief?’
Michelangelo glanced away, still thinking of the poor boy’s chipped tooth. ‘No, he got away.’
Chapter Nine
The Best of the Best
Carly couldn’t believe her eyes. The same man she’d seen romancing Alaina right after hitting on her had run across the square for Bertha’s purse like a bona fide hero.
Boy, he must have wanted to impress Ms. Maxhammer, or Alaina, or herself—or all three of us. There was no other possible motivation. She couldn’t believe someone that self-centered would ever put himself out like that. Not only did he look as though he’d crawled through the dump, but the right side of his face was red and bruised. That would hurt in the morning.
Still, she needed him. Carly checked her watch. Eleven thirty. She should start walking to the café now so no one saw them walk off in the same direction. Ducking out behind the orchestra’s cheers, she made her way across the square.
She walked until she found a painted sign swinging on a lamp post with warped letters that read Caffè Picasso. Yellow and green striped awnings spread over window boxes of bluebells and violets. Cast-iron chairs and small round tables covered with bright umbrellas sprawled into the street. A woman sipped a latte with a little fluffy white dog that barked as Carly entered.
A tiny bell tinkled as she closed the door behind her. Carly stared at the chalkboard full of Italian writing in all colors of the rainbow. The attendant behind the register glanced up with a smile. ‘Posso aiutarla?’
‘Um…’ Carly thought back to her studies last night. ‘Lei parla inglese?’
‘Si. What can I get for you?’ The cashier smiled and Carly breathed with relief. Thank goodness Michelangelo had agreed to help. She couldn’t even figure out how to order with the translation apps on her phone.
After ordering a pastrami panini and a chai latte, Carly settled into a seat inside the café at a booth. Even though she’d love to enjoy the nice summer weather and watch the passersby, she didn’t want Alaina, or anyone else from
the orchestra, spotting her alone with Michelangelo.
Even though her logical mind warned her she was playing with fire, struggling to understand that chalkboard had confirmed her need for his help.
A server came by with her food and drink.
‘Grazie.’ She took a sip, savoring the spicy taste on her tongue.
The bell tinkled, and Carly’s heart sped. She peered around the booth.
Michelangelo met her gaze and gave her a heart-melting smile. He walked to the cashier, who gave him a long, wistful look up and down. Michelangelo placed his order in smooth, flowing Italian.
After paying with a credit card, he filed into the booth across from Carly. ‘Enjoying your lunch?’
Her turkey sandwich had sat uneaten. When her nerves acted up, she was never hungry. ‘The latte is delicious.’
‘Too bad.’ He pouted his gorgeous, kissable lips. ‘I ordered a tea.’
‘I’m sure that’s good, too.’
The server came by with Michelangelo’s food and drink. Giving him one last, longing look, she walked away.
‘So, you’ve had an exciting day.’ Carly addressed one of the elephants in the room. Even if he had done it to impress all the ladies, not mentioning his single act of heroism would make her look like the self-centered one.
‘You could say that.’ Michelangelo took a bite of his sandwich.
She resisted the urge to stroke his sore cheek. ‘I hope you didn’t hurt yourself too badly.’
‘Naw. It was more careless than anything.’ He sipped his tea.
‘Too bad you didn’t catch the lowlife responsible.’ Carly tried a bite of her sandwich.
‘I let him go.’
She almost choked on the wheat bread. ‘You what?’
Michelangelo shrugged. ‘He was just a boy, and he reminded me so much of someone from my childhood.’ He shook his head, his eyes, which were amber-blue depths of compassion. ‘I couldn’t do it.’
Carly knew she had to get started on learning Italian, but he’d piqued her curiosity. ‘Who did he remind you of?’
‘Ricco Pinasco.’ His eyes turned dark, like the ocean in a storm. ‘My father found him hiding in one of the unused wine barrels on a cold, rainy night when I was a small boy. We were about the same age, although he was shorter than me.’ He laughed. ‘And tougher. My family took him in and he became a brother to me. We grew up together, playing in the grapevines, attending the local school. He was smarter than some of the teachers, but he couldn’t seem to shake his past.’
Carly just stared, wondering why Michelangelo was telling her so much. She didn’t interrupt him because she wanted to know more.
‘He got into drugs and started stealing wine to sell on the streets. I pleaded with my father to give him another chance, but he threw Ricco out. I never saw him again.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Carly shook her head. She had a sister who’d become a teacher back in Massachusetts. Even though they didn’t always see each other because of their busy schedules, she couldn’t imagine losing her to some addiction.
‘It’s okay. It happened a long time ago.’ Michelangelo glanced up at the ceiling. ‘If he’s not dead, then he’s in a prison somewhere.’
‘Have you tried to look for him?’
‘Of course I have. Part of me is afraid of what I’ll find, if he’ll remember me, or if he does, if he’ll hate me.’
‘Sounds like you did all you could.’
Michelangelo leaned back. ‘I wonder if I’d done something different, maybe he’d still be around. You know, visiting at the holidays, or working on the vineyard.’
‘You can’t change the past. All you can do is try to make a better future.’
Michelangelo pointed a finger at her as if she had the answer he wanted. ‘That’s what I intend to do. When I saw the boy with Bertha’s purse, I wanted to end the cycle. I wanted to try to save him. So I gave him my card and some money and offered him a job at my vineyard.’
‘You did?’ Was this the same man who’d kissed Alaina? Was there such a thing as a compassionate, kind-hearted playboy? Something didn’t add up, and Carly intended to get to the bottom of it.
Michelangelo sipped his tea, totally unaware of her microscopic observations of his character. ‘Who knows if he’ll ever show. But at least I tried my best.’
‘And what if he does?’ Carly leaned across the table. Would he really go through with it and hire him as a worker?
He winked, unconcerned. ‘I’ll have my secretary keep her eye on him. She’s got a little boy of her own, so she knows how to keep them in line.’
Carly sipped her latte. So, he’s got a secretary. Must be quite some winery his family owns.
Michelangelo finished his panini. ‘So! Cominciamo.’
‘What?’ Carly didn’t know if it was a question, a statement, or an offer. If the latter, she was not going to accept.
Michelangelo spread his hands out and smiled. ‘Let’s begin.’
‘Okay.’ Carly had no idea what he had in store for her, but she had to admit she was intrigued. ‘What are you going to teach me first?’
His lips curled and she couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a smirk. ‘É un piacere conoscerla.’
She shifted uncomfortably. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Say it.’ He teased her with his eyes.
She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Not if you don’t tell me what it means. I could be swearing profanities for all I know, or…professing my love.’ Carly blushed. She wasn’t about to admit to something she didn’t—or did—feel. ‘What kind of a teacher doesn’t teach what the words mean?’
The kind who wants to flirt.
Michelangelo raised his hand. ‘I’m only trying to start with the pronunciation first, and then the syntax. Do you want to learn or should I assign the luggage boy to watch your room?’
Okay, maybe he didn’t want to flirt. She sighed, stifling a rebellious current of disappointment. ‘What was it again?’
He repeated the phrase, the consonants and vowels slipping by her ear in a jumble.
‘Eh unnn piachay conosarla.’ Carly felt like her tongue was a brick in her mouth.
Michelangelo chuckled and covered his mouth with his hand.
Embarrassment crawled up her spine. It’s not like language was her specialty. She wasn’t a trained, bilingual tour guide. ‘Hey, that’s not fair. Let’s put an oboe in your hands and see how you do.’
‘Very badly, I would assume.’ Michelangelo reached across the table and touched her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll speak slower. Watch my lips.’ He repeated the phrase.
Carly could watch his lips all day, but she wasn’t there to flirt, she was there to learn Italian for her gig. She paid closer attention and repeated the phrase.
Michelangelo’s eyes brightened. ‘Eccellente!’ He took both her hands in his and squeezed.
Her heart raced as blood pumped into her cheeks. How could one man have such a mind-numbing effect on her? She pulled away, wondering if this was such a good idea. Could she really trust him to teach her what she needed to learn for this gig or was she wasting her time? ‘What did I just say?’
‘Nice to meet you.’ He placed his hands in his lap as if trying to restrain them. ‘You’re going to need to say something when you meet the other musicians, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’ That was the perfect thing to learn. She said it again, committing it to memory. Thank goodness she had a knack for remembering sounds. ‘Tell me more about common sayings.’
Michelangelo smiled and spouted another phrase. They went back and forth repeating sayings until the waitress came back with an annoyed look.
‘Will there be anything else?’ She’d cleared their plates a long time ago, so she just wiped off the countertop with a rag.
Michelangelo checked his watch. ‘Mio dio! We’ve been sitting here for almost two hours.’
Had it been that long? Time seemed to fly. Carly didn’t want their conversation to e
nd. She still had a lot to learn.
Michelangelo leaned over and whispered. ‘Now’s the chance to try your Italian.’
Carly shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He gave her a covert wink. ‘Order one dessert. Tell her we’ll share it.’
Sharing a dessert? Wasn’t that a little too familiar? Carly balked. ‘I don’t know.’
He leaned back. ‘Go on. I’ll have anything you want.’
The waitress tapped her pen on her pad. ‘Yes?’
Carly had better come up with something. They had already overstayed their welcome, and they really should order an additional item and leave a tip. If she didn’t order anything else, they’d be expected to leave, and she had more Italian to learn.
‘Okay.’ She thought back to everything he’d gone over so far and gave it her best shot.
The waitress jotted something down on her pad and left. Carly turned to Michelangelo. ‘Well?’
Michelangelo smiled and slipped into the booth beside her, picking up his fork. ‘Looks like we’ll be having some chocolate cake.’
*****
Michelangelo exited the café, wondering why he’d spoken so candidly to Carly. He’d given her way too much information about his vineyard, practically telling her he was the one in charge. Not only that, but he’d brought up his father. If she’d asked about him, then she’d know Michelangelo had inherited the vineyard only a few years ago and he wasn’t in the tour business at all.
Mio Dio. What was I thinking?
After seeing how quickly Carly picked up Italian, he knew he was dealing with a clever mind, someone who could break down his façade with only a few more facts.
But for some reason, on top of all that, he’d volunteered to drive her to the gig.
Might as well demolish my vineyard right now.
Her sheer determination and vulnerability touched him, making him believe he could tell her anything. He’d have to watch his mouth around her, because who knew what she’d report back to Ms. Maxhammer if she learned the truth.
From his own personal experience, Americans were not to be trusted. They were all in it for their own good, and had no respect for things like vineyards, or ancient cathedrals, or tour guides.
An American Girl in Italy Page 7