by Gina Azzi
I’m tempted to say “it’s real,” but then Sandro shoots me a look. I reluctantly switch gears, assuming my usual role as the charmer.
“Where are you ladies from?” I ask, furrowing my brow. Even though their British accents are a dead fucking giveaway.
“The UK,” Anna replies, stepping even closer. “We’re here on holiday.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. It’s really just too easy. “How are you finding Rome?”
“Better now that I found you.” She smiles, trailing a finger along my chest, down my stomach, her hand settling on my belt.
I smirk. Why even bother with the banter? Let’s just cut to the chase. “Want to get out of here?”
She nods, letting me place my hand on the swell of her ass as I steer us toward the exit.
I can feel Sandro’s eyes on my back, laughing.
Oh well, it’s a quick fix for my shit mood anyway.
* * *
The next morning, the shrill ring of my phone wakes me early. Fuck. I roll over in bed, picking up the phone and blinking at the screen. Matteo. From the vineyards. That’s strange. Why the hell is he calling so early? And on a Sunday?
I sit up in bed and cough, trying to clear the sleep from my throat. “Pronto,” I answer right before voicemail picks up.
“Lorenzo. It’s Matteo.”
“How are you?”
“Good, thanks. How are you? How are Elenora and Claudia?” He asks about my mama and sister politely.
“Everyone’s doing well, thanks. All okay by you?” I rub my hand over my face, a slight sting pricking my neck. Craning my head, I glance in the mirror. A hickey. That fucking bitch gave me a hickey. What am I, twelve? I roll my eyes. “Matteo?” I prompt after a long stretch of silence.
“Ah, we need to talk Lorenzo. Something’s not adding up,” he answers.
Again? First Giuseppe, now Matteo. What the fuck is going on? “What do you mean?”
“The budget. Everything seems out of whack. The numbers aren’t adding up,” he clarifies.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You think someone’s skimming off the top or it’s too big of a discrepancy?”
Matteo sighs. “I’m not sure. But it is a pretty big difference.”
“Get Giuseppe to look into it and get back to me.”
“Okay,” he agrees.
“Thanks for letting me know, Matteo. Just see what you can uncover. I’ll head over to you guys sometime next week if necessary.”
“Thanks, Enzo.”
“Give me a call back when you know something.”
“Will do.” He clicks off.
I toss the phone down and lie back in bed. What a shit way to start a Sunday.
A fucking hickey.
Chapter Twelve
Mia
Even though I hardly moved for the remainder of the weekend, I’m still mildly hungover for my first day of Italian Literature. All of my other courses began last week, but Italian Literature was postponed as our professor was still on holiday. Luckily, today will be a syllabus day, so I’ll still have a light workload this week. Sitting in class, waiting for the professor to arrive, I send a quick text to the girls.
Me: Tequila is no joke.
For good measure, I include the emoji of the little monkey covering his eyes. And the pukey face.
Moments later, Lila texts back the smiley face that’s laughing so hard it’s crying. In fact, she sends three of them. Emma responds with five thumbs-up emojis. I’m sure they’re proud.
I smile, tucking my phone back into my backpack. I’m excited about this class. It’s in Italian, but unlike the previous language courses I’ve taken, this one is on an actual subject, not just grammar and conversation. This semester, we will be reading and discussing the great literary works of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. In Italian. Although I’ve already read Dante’s Il Inferno in English, I haven’t read it in Italian. And I haven’t studied Petrarch or Boccaccio at all. I’m delighted at the opportunity, especially after I read several Petrarch quotes in my mom’s old journals. Her favorite one was part of a sonnet from Petrarch’s Canzoniere. It was written on the inside cover of several leather-clad notebooks.
A rain of flowers descended
(sweet in the memory)
from the beautiful branches into her lap,
and she sat there
humble amongst such glory,
covered now by the loving shower.
A flower fell on her hem,
one in her braided blonde hair,
that was seen on that day to be
like chased gold and pearl:
one rested on the ground, and one in the water,
and one, in wandering vagary,
twirling, seemed to say: ‘Here Love rules’.
-Petrarch, Canzoniere Sonnet 126
She wrote it down when she was still in college, doodling hearts and flowers around the quote. During her senior year of college, she fell in love with my dad. They married immediately following graduation, and within a year I was born, effectively halting her wanderlust and dreams of a life abroad. But to read her journals, her words, the quotes she connected with, it’s like exploring a piece of her soul, allowing her spirit to live on.
I sigh, unpacking my notebook and a pen for the first class. I naturally took a seat in the front row. Leaning back in my chair, I try to scan the unfamiliar faces around me without actually having to turn around and draw attention to myself. A guy with sandy brown hair and an open smile takes the desk next to me.
“Hey,” he says, nodding in my direction.
“Hi.”
“This is my first class like this. Literature in Italian instead of English. Don’t know how it’s going to go reading the classics but I figure, when in Rome …” He grins, resting his elbows on the desk and leaning forward. “I’m Peter Buchanan. Call me Pete.”
“Nice to meet you. Mia.” I offer an awkward wave.
“Have you studied Italian long?”
“Just the past two years in college. Not in high school or anything. You?”
“Both. High school and college. I always wanted to study abroad, and I love Italian food so …” He shrugs.
“Makes sense.” I smile politely.
“Are your family roots Italian?”
I nod. “Yep. From Bari. You?”
“Calabria. On my Mom’s side. My dad’s side is Scottish.”
“That’s cool. Have you been to Scotland?”
“Not yet. It’s definitely part of my plan while I’m in Europe this semester. Where are you from in the US?”
“New York. The city. You?”
He whistles. “That’s sweet. I want to move to the city after graduation. I’m from Connecticut.”
“So practically neighbors.” I smile.
“Yup.” He nods, smiling back.
Our professor enters a moment later, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Her hair is dark, neatly pulled back in a severe bun. Professoressa Giuliana, her face impassive, her eyes sharp. She looks around the room, making eye contact with each student individually. Then she smiles and her face warms, breaking the seriousness of her arrival.
“Buon giorno.”
“Buon giorno,” the class echoes.
Professoressa introduces herself, hands out the course syllabus, and discusses the course objectives and assignments for the semester. I scan the requirements quickly. Two papers, four essays, two reflections, one partner project, one final exam. Hundreds of pages of reading. I hear the groans of a few students sitting around me as they take in the heavy workload, but I smile. This class is going to be really interesting.
At the end of class, Professoressa dismisses us with a clap of her hands. “Don’t forget to introduce yourselves and make some friends. You will all be working closely together this semester, and you don’t want to wait too long to decide on the topic for your partner project,” she reminds us as students shuffle out the door.
“He
y, want to partner up?” Pete asks me, shoving his notebook into his navy backpack.
“Uh, sure.” I answer. Already? Maybe Pete is as serious about this class as I am. “That’d be cool.”
“Great. Let me give you my number.” He reaches over and scribbles his number into the corner of my notebook page. “Maybe we can get together after class next week?”
“Yeah. Great.”
“Okay. See ya.” He smiles good-naturedly and lopes out of the classroom.
I sit stunned for a moment. No one has ever asked me to partner on a project so quickly before. I’m usually the last one left, asked by the group who needs one more person in order to fulfill the requirement. I was always so busy, so consumed with dance, that a lot of my classmates pegged me as unreliable. The ones who actually worked with me on projects labeled me as a control freak; they were too scared to partner up a second time in case I tried to dictate the entire project. Which, in hindsight, was fairly accurate.
I shake my head. This is a fresh start. A new beginning. I’m already making friends, going out to clubs, drinking. I laugh to myself. Maybe the hangover made me more approachable to Pete? And Dad always said drinking would get me into trouble! I’m going to work on this project with Pete and learn, have interesting conversations and enjoy it. I’m not going to obsess, or stress, or take it too seriously. Right?
After all, like Pete said, when in Rome and all that.
* * *
After class I stop by the restaurant that is quickly becoming my go-to spot. I’ve never had time to have a real study place before, unless you count the hallway of the dance studio, and I love that I have a “spot” like a real local. There is a slight breeze and it feels good to sit outside. The sun warms my face. It’s not quite autumn but the humidity of summer is subsiding with the start of September. I sit at the same café table, pull out my copy of Dante’s Il Inferno with my notebook and syllabus, and flip through the menu already placed there.
I smile when I see the same waiter ... Lorenzo? The hot one. Even in an apron he emits masculinity and machismo. He’s so unlike the male dancers I befriended or shared a stolen kiss with back home. He’s so different from the guys in my classes. There isn’t anything artsy about him. He lacks the creative flair that clings to the guys I know from the drama and dance departments. He doesn’t float when he walks, he swaggers, his body exuding a different type of confidence. He walks with purpose, direction. When he sees me sitting at the table, he smiles slowly, a small grin spreading across his lips, his dimple deepening, as he casually winks. It’s seductive yet familiar, and I can’t figure out how he manages to be simultaneously intimate and aloof.
“Ciao, bellezza. Come stai oggi?” His Italian rolls off his tongue smoothly as he asks how I am today.
I feel my cheeks redden at his compliment, although I’m sure he says it to hundreds of girls who pass through the restaurant each week.
“Ciao. I’m well thanks. And you?” I ask, my Italian faltering.
“Very well. Excellent really. It’s a beautiful day, no?” He looks around, closing his eyes briefly as he raises his face to the sun. He inhales deeply and for a moment, his face relaxes, the tension in his neck shifts, and he looks beautiful, peaceful.
“Yeah,” I agree, blushing again.
He opens his eyes and turns toward me. “What can I get for you today?”
“The artichoke and roasted pepper salad please. And a water.” I close the menu shut.
“Anything else?”
“No grazie.”
“Are you reading Il Inferno?” he asks suddenly, nodding toward my book.
“Yes. Have you read Dante?”
“In that book which is my memory / On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you / Appear the words, ‘Here begins a new life,’” he quotes slowly and winks again before adding, “I’ll be right back with your water.”
As soon as he is back in the restaurant, I thumb through my paperback copy of Il Inferno looking for the quote.
Lorenzo sets down a water glass moments later and smiles at me. “You won’t find it in there.”
I look up at him, confused, my finger bookmarking my page. “What do you mean? I thought it was Dante.”
His eyes brighten, a deep azure. “It is.” He laughs lightly, sitting down across from me and pulling Il Inferno from my hand, effectively losing my page. “It’s from an earlier work, La Vita Nuova. You should read that first. It’s a beautiful collection of poetry, all love and romance, for his muse Beatrice.”
“And you’ve read it?” I can’t keep the edge of sarcasm from my voice as I study him carefully. He seems sincere enough, but the small dimple winking from his cheek makes me feel like he’s somehow teasing me.
“I’ve read all the classics.”
I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously.
“You know, ‘books have led some to learning and others to madness.’” He smiles broadly.
“That’s not Dante.” I guess, even though I’m not sure.
He shakes his head. “It’s not.”
Several seconds pass. “Well…” I dip my head toward him “…are you going to tell me who said it?”
He points to my syllabus, lying on top of my notebook. “Petrarca,” he says, pronouncing the poet’s name in Italian.
“Petrarch said that? Are you sure? Doesn’t he only write about love?”
He shakes his head. “If that’s what you think, then I really better leave you to study.” He laughs softly, low and husky. “Of course, I could always help you. I’m Lorenzo,” he adds, leaning forward and taking my hand in his.
Lorenzo. Of course Lexi was right.
“Mia,” I say, squeezing back. “Amelia Petrella, but my friends call me Mia.”
“So we will be friends then?” he asks, continuing before I can respond. “Good, I was hoping you would say that.”
I blush, averting my gaze, my hand still trapped in his.
His eyes scan over my syllabus. “I see you also have readings by Boccaccio.” He looks up and smiles. “It will be a busy semester for you.”
I nod.
“You will enjoy it. Girls always love the Petrarca readings best and his unyielding love and passion for Laura.”
I smile. “I haven’t read much by him, but I saw several of his quotes in my mom’s journal. My favorite was ‘To be able to say how much you love is to love but little.’”
Lorenzo pauses for a moment, holding my gaze, his eyes searing into mine. I shift uncomfortably, feeling as though he’s seeing straight through me, right to my core. Is he picturing me naked? “Si, I’d have to agree with him.” He blinks, breaking the moment. “And did you get caught reading her journal?” he whispers, leaning closer to me conspiratorially, his hand dropping my fingers to rest on my notebook.
I laugh, shaking my head. “No. My mom passed away when I was nine.”
A shadow falls over his face as he quickly averts his gaze. “I’m sorry. Excuse me for joking around.”
I reach out and place my hand on his forearm. His skin is hot against my hand, and I can feel the thick cords of muscle in his forearm. He doesn’t pull away and for a moment I stare at my hand on his arm, my pale skin contrasting against his warm olive tones. “It’s okay. Really. It’s nice to talk about her sometimes.” He looks up, and I smile when he meets my eyes to reassure him.
He sighs heavily. “My papa passed about six months back. Pulmonary Fibrosis.” He rubs a hand over his forehead, momentarily shielding his eyes from view.
“Oh, Lorenzo, I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head slightly. “No, it’s okay. You are right. Sometimes it is nice to talk about him, to still have him as part of my normal day, a part of my life.”
I nod, understanding his desire to share details about his father but at the same time keeping them all for himself. “Was this his restaurant?” I ask lightly, nodding toward the open restaurant door behind him.
He turns and takes in
Angelina’s Ristorante for a moment. “No…” he shakes his head turning back to me “…this was my great-grandfather’s restaurant. He started it in 1907. Then it passed to my grandfather who didn’t have any sons. So now, it belongs to Mama.” He smiles suddenly. “And she loves this place. Especially since my papa’s passing, the restaurant has become like a sanctuary of sorts for her.”
“Oh. Is that why you work here?”
He shrugs. “I guess so. I’m not exactly sure why I’m spending so much time here lately. It just seems important to my mama that my sister Claudia and I help out at the restaurant right now. She asked and …” He shakes his head, trailing off.
“You can’t say no.” I finish.
“Exactly. Although, it’s not too bad.” He smirks at me, a hidden meaning in his words.
A couple walks onto the patio and takes a seat a few tables over from me.
Lorenzo stands and indicates that he will be with them in a moment. “It was a pleasure discussing Dante with you Mia.” He smiles again. “And you did great carrying our conversation in Italian. You’ll be fluent before you leave Rome.” He turns to greet the couple.
I stare at his back and watch his hands gesture with the different dishes he describes. The woman at the table stares at him, enthralled. Her husband chuckles suddenly at something Lorenzo says. Then I realize what he said to me and touch my fingers to my lips. I talked. To an Italian. In Italian. I laugh to myself. I’m such a local. I have a spot and I’ll be fluent in no time.
* * *
The rest of the week passes quickly as I start to settle into a routine. Although I emailed the girls my first week here, I finally get around to writing follow up emails, letting them know more about Gianluca and Paola, Lexi, my classes, and sightseeing in Rome. Later in the week, I mail off the postcards I purchased. I send Dad one of the Colosseum—one of his favorite sights in Rome.
On Friday, even though I don’t have any classes, I debate whether or not I should message Pete about our partner project. I mean, it’s still way too early to be so invested in a project, isn’t it? But I hate the uncertainty of not knowing what our topic will be, how we will deliver our project, when we will meet, etc. I’d rather just start nipping the different aspects in the bud now instead of waiting for the semester to be half over and having an anxiety attack. Because that would be the worst.