“Here, catch!” I throw out the window my Gucci handbag. Rocco just barely catches it. Placing my bag down on the ground beside him, he implores me with his hands to begin my descent. Mentally shaking my head, I turn around so that I can begin descending. This feels like a scene from a movie.
“Careful, Francesca!”
My precarious position stops me from correcting him. Suddenly, I realize my derrière is on full display as I carefully begin climbing down the ladder. Cursing myself for wearing the slinky pants, I focus on not killing myself.
“Brava! Brava! Vai piano! Piano!”
I do not know why Rocco has resorted to talking in Italian. I did not even know he could speak the language.
Once I reach the third step from the bottom, Rocco comes over and swoops me into his arms and then lowers me to the ground. He is quite the gentleman!
“Thank you, but I could have managed the last few steps.”
“I know, but I love chivalry.” He winks.
I shake my head. Rocco takes my hand and tiptoes toward the neighbor’s fence.
“What about the ladder?” I ask.
“There’s no way for me to unhook it from the ground. We’ll just have to leave it. Besides, we’ll need it for you to get back up.”
For some reason, the thought of climbing the ladder terrifies me. I had no fear of descending it. I will have to deal with that later.
“Are you strong enough to get over the fence? I can help lift you.”
“I should be fine. I am not that old!”
I scowl, but I see Rocco is quietly laughing. He loves teasing me. At least he has a thick skin and can take my barbs.
I begin climbing the fence and immediately realize what Rocco meant. My abdomen is killing me as I climb higher. Seeing me struggle, Rocco pushes my derrière up without warning so that I can easily drape my leg over the top of the fence. He does not even wait for me to jump down before he begins climbing up himself. Swinging my other leg over the fence, I take a look below before I jump. It is only about a five-foot jump.
“Wait for me before you jump,” Rocco whispers.
Ignoring him, I jump down and lose my balance as I fall onto my knees.
“Ai!”
“Francesca!” Rocco is now at the top of the fence as he looks down at me with concern written all over his face.
“I am fine! I am fine!” Holding up my hands to calm him down and then motioning for him to keep his voice down, I slowly get up.
Rocco jumps expertly down onto the ground.
“Why didn’t you wait for me? I would’ve helped you down.”
“I am fine, Rocco.” I bend over and beat out the dust from the knees of my pants.
“Finally!” Rocco looks victorious.
“Finally, what?”
“Finally, you are calling me ‘Rocco’!”
Shrugging my shoulders, I say, “It is quicker to say than Mr. Vecchio. Fewer syllables. We have to hurry. There is no time for formalities.”
Rocco nods his head, but he appears unconvinced by my pathetic excuse.
We walk over to his car, which is in the driveway as he said it would be. I am surprised that the neighbor who lives here has not noticed it. Then again, it is past midnight. Rocco opens the passenger door and quietly shuts the door once I am in. The car is a beautiful luxury sedan. The exterior is black, which definitely came in handy tonight since the color only further concealed it in the dark. And the interior has cream-colored leather seats and thick, plush carpeting on the floor.
“Ready for the night of your life?” Rocco smiles like a mischievous boy who knows he is getting away with murder.
“Ha! You are quite confident of yourself! You are well aware that as a movie star, I have had plenty of ‘nights of my life,’ as you put it.”
“Of course. But you have never had any like the night you are about to have.”
Rocco places his key in the ignition and starts the car. Slowly, he backs the car out of the narrow driveway. Shutting my eyes, I cannot bear to look, certain he will hit the walls on either side.
I can feel the glare of the streetlamp on my face and open my eyes. We drive slowly, not wanting to make it seem like we are escaping. I see the crowd in front of Giuliana’s house turn their heads in our direction, but then they look away.
“Thank God you have tinted windows!”
“They’re also not expecting to see you in a Lexus. They know you always arrive and depart in the Maserati.”
“You sound like you have been stalking me, too.”
I stare at Rocco intensely, but he does not flinch under the weight of my gaze.
“So where are we going, Mr. Vecchio?”
“Oh, so now it’s back to the formalities, I see.”
“As I told you earlier, it was quicker to say your first name when we were making our grand escape.”
“Yes, quicker, Francesca.”
I begin opening my mouth to correct him, but suddenly feel foolish—and uptight. He is right. How can I insist we continue calling each other by our surnames when we are about to share an intimate night? Well, not intimate in that regard.
“You still have not answered my question.”
“All I’ll tell you is that we’re going to Manhattan.”
I am so thrilled that I want to cry, but I do not let him see my excitement. It has been over a month now since I arrived in Astoria, and I cannot believe I still have not ventured to one of my favorite cities in the world.
Rocco leans over and presses one of the buttons on his CD player. Classical music comes on. Again, I am pleasantly surprised by his good taste. Sinking back into my luxurious seat, I sigh deeply, letting myself fully relax as I take in the sights outside. I am horrified to see we are in what looks to be a very bad neighborhood with its dilapidated buildings, shops that have gone out of business, and groups of teenagers hanging out at street corners.
“Are we safe driving through here? Could you not have taken another route?”
“You’re fine, darling. You’re with me. There’s one other route to get to the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, or rather, the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge, as it’s now called, and that only looks marginally better than this neighborhood. Trust me, it’s not as bad as it looks.”
Now he is calling me “darling.” I do not like that, but again, I dare not protest. I do not want him thinking I am so rigid.
We drive up the ramp leading us to the upper level of the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge. I gasp at the gorgeous Manhattan skyline, all lit up with its multitude of twinkling lights.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I never tire of this view when I drive into Manhattan at night.”
“I have never seen the view from one of Manhattan’s bridges at night. It is truly astounding.”
We continue in silence over the bridge. I am so enthralled by the glittering city landscape that I have not even noticed Rocco has draped his arm behind my seat’s headrest until we are exiting the bridge. He keeps his arm draped behind my seat as we drive through Manhattan’s streets.
“Even this late, there is traffic.”
“Well, it is Saturday night.”
I blush, realizing my error. Each day has blurred into the other during my stay here so that I cannot distinguish the weekend from the rest of the week. I have been cooped up too long in that house.
We arrive at Little West 12th Street. I have never ventured lower than midtown when I have come to Manhattan. Rocco finds parking at the corner. I take out of my purse my sunglasses and scarf. I begin wrapping my hair turban style in the scarf.
“What are you doing?”
“Disguising myself.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Rocco, I do not want people bombarding us.”
“I have already thought of everything. A friend of mine owns this restaurant. He’s expecting us. We’ll enter through the kitchen in the back of the restaurant. They have a private room reserved for us. He’s also made other arrangements
to ensure your privacy.”
I am taken aback by Rocco’s thoughtfulness.
“I should still wear the scarf and sunglasses while I am outside. You did not find parking after all near the restaurant.”
“Francesca, you’ll only draw more attention to yourself in that getup, especially with the sunglasses. Only celebrities wear sunglasses at night.”
He is absolutely right. But my nature refuses to surrender so easily.
“I will just wear the scarf—at least until I am indoors.”
“I give up.” Rocco holds his hands up in resignation.
I quickly wrap my hair and step out of the car. We walk briskly, keeping our gazes to the ground so as not to attract attention. However, no one takes a second look, and many of the other pedestrians are walking just as quickly and looking down at the sidewalk as well. It has been years since I have been in Manhattan. I had forgotten that New Yorkers are not as starstruck as residents from other cities, and even when they see someone famous, they tend to leave the person alone.
We approach a restaurant called Revel. We pass the restaurant and go around to the side street that takes us to the back of the restaurants that line Little West 12th Street. A door is propped open behind the building that belongs to Revel. Rocco takes out his cell phone and dials.
“Yup, we’re here. I know. I know. We had a bit of a delay. Okay.”
Rocco ends the call and shoves his cell back into the pocket of the sports jacket he is wearing. He looks debonair as usual. He is decked out in black once again, but this time, he wears a midnight-blue button-down silk shirt. There is no one in this alleyway, and I suddenly feel self-conscious wearing the turban. I pull it off and shake my hair out. Rocco is staring at me.
“Gorgeous as always.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb.
I feel my cheeks begin to warm. I quicken my step so that I am ahead of him, not wanting my brief flustered moment to show. A man dressed in a black suit greets us at the door.
“Rocco! It’s been ages.” He steps out and hugs Rocco, patting him on the back.
“Franco. Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”
“Anything for a friend, and anything for Miss Donata.” He bows deeply toward me and then takes my hand in his and plants a light kiss.
“Thank you. Please, call me Francesca.”
Rocco’s eyes shoot daggers at me, but he quickly conceals his anger as Franco turns toward him.
“She is even more beautiful than the photos or the images on screen. It truly is an honor to meet you, Miss Donata.”
“Francesca!”
“I’m sorry. As you wish, Francesca.”
I can feel Rocco’s scorching gaze on me. This is the first time I have felt like I have really angered him. He has always taken my sarcastic comments and harsh words with such grace.
“Follow me. You can rest assured, Francesca, no one will bother you here.”
“Thank you. I hope we are not inconveniencing you. I would imagine that you would be getting ready to close the restaurant this late.”
“Yes, Francesca, the restaurant does close at midnight on Saturdays, but I am making an exception for my good friend Rocco. You and he have the entire restaurant to yourselves tonight. We knew if he had brought you earlier in the night, you would not have much privacy with the restaurant’s patrons dining. He was also worried about making your great escape if you had left home much earlier. Now if you would please follow me.” Franco leads us through the kitchen, where all of the workers freeze the moment they see me enter. I nod my head in greeting toward them. They nod back and continue to gawk until Franco barks, “Back to work!” Like robots, they immediately return to their tasks and do not risk another glance in my direction.
We exit the kitchen, and Franco descends a narrow spiral staircase. I cannot help but wonder if we are being relegated to a shabby basement, and this is Rocco’s idea of a “private room.” But once downstairs, I see that Rocco’s good taste does not disappoint yet again. The basement is completely finished and is almost as lavish as the main dining room. The space is cavernous, and as we follow Franco, we pass barrels upon barrels. Soon, I see bottles of wine on shelves from floor to ceiling—a wine cellar! How charming! Finally, we arrive at a spacious room that is decorated beautifully. Vines snake their way around marble columns and along the beams running across the ceiling. Huge vats of rhododendrons and geraniums are placed around the room. The walls feature exposed brick.
“We reserve this room for large parties or for guests who want privacy such as you and Rocco want tonight.” Franco makes eye contact with Rocco, then pats him on the shoulder as he passes him.
“Francesca, please.”
Franco holds a chair out and gestures for me to take my seat. With the flash of one hand he unfolds my napkin and drapes it over my lap. He then opens the menu and hands it to me.
Rocco takes his seat. When Franco attempts to unfold his napkin, Rocco grabs it and says curtly, “I can manage, Franco. Thanks!”
Franco looks at him, a bit surprised, and then shrugs his shoulders.
Rocco seems upset still that I let Franco call me “Francesca” immediately. He is being silly. Yet a part of me is pleased by his jealousy.
Franco takes our drink orders and says he will return shortly to take our appetizer order.
“If it’s too late for you to eat a full meal, we can just stick to the appetizers.”
“No, no. I would love to sample their cuisine. I am accustomed to these late suppers from Italy.”
“That’s true. I forget that Europe has an active nightlife and eats late just like we do in New York City. Would you mind if I took the liberty of ordering for us?”
I am immediately pleased by his assertiveness.
“I would like that very much. Grazie, Rocco.”
I flash him my most seductive smile. It does the trick. The tense muscles in his jaw visibly relax, and the lines in his forehead have eased, too. His eyes crinkle slightly as he returns my smile. It does not take much to please this man or to erase his anger. The waiter arrives with our cocktails. I have ordered a Campari. Rocco ordered a martini.
He raises his glass in salute to me. “To the beginning of a long friendship and to the best night of your life.”
I laugh as our glasses clink.
“To the best night of our lives. You are after all in the company of Francesca Donata.”
17
Pia
Making my way through the crowd in front of the Mussolini Mansion, I’m still amazed by their tenacity. It’s seven a.m., and though it’s obvious many of them spent the night here, they don’t give up in their quest to spot the star again.
“Good morning, Miss Santore.” Angelica can barely be heard above the cries of the paparazzi and neighbors behind me as they shout to her, “Any chance of Francesca’s coming out today? Please, tell Francesca we just want to say hello.”
One of Francesca’s bodyguards quickly pushes me through the door as another bodyguard warns the crowd to stay back. I don’t see Edgardo, who is usually guarding the front of the house.
“What kind of a mood is she in today, Angelica?”
“I haven’t seen her yet, Miss Santore.”
“Please, Angelica, call me ‘Pia.’ ”
Angelica nods her head and gives me a shy smile as she leads me into the library.
“Can I get you coffee? Something to eat?”
“Just a glass of water. Thank you, Angelica.”
Angelica hurries off. I can’t help but wonder what kind of a life she has as a servant. It’s a shame. She must not be more than in her mid-twenties. If she wore a little bit of makeup and let her hair down, she would be a very pretty girl. Ugghhh! I sound like my aunt, who’s still getting on my case to stop wearing my glasses. She offered to take me to the optical store the other day and buy me contacts. I made the mistake of telling Zia that Gregory thinks my glasses are sexy, and she went ballistic.
“Sexy
? Is that how he sees you? Maybe you should stop seeing that boy!”
Zia loves Gregory, but of course, the thought that we might be having sex is too much for her to bear. Thankfully, she didn’t ask me if we were.
Angelica brings my glass of water in record time.
“I’ll go check on Signorina Donata. It’s odd that she isn’t down yet. She wakes up quite early and is often down here in the library reading her newspaper when I start working.”
Angelica turns to go, but a thought comes to my mind.
“Wait! Angelica, please come back.”
“Can I get you something, Miss Santore?”
“Please, Pia.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that Signorina Donata is quite adamant about me not calling her by her first name.”
“I know. She took my head off the first time I met her and made the mistake of calling her ‘signora’ instead of ‘signorina.’ ”
“That happened to you, too?”
“I think it happens to everyone.” I roll my eyes, at which Angelica laughs. Finally, she relaxes. It must be stressful anticipating Francesca’s mercurial moods.
“I wanted to ask you a question if you don’t mind, Angelica.”
Angelica shrugs her shoulders. “Okay. If I can answer it, that is.”
“Where is Signora Tesca? This is my third visit to the house, and I still have not seen her.”
Angelica’s face reddens.
“Ahhh. She’s around.”
“Be honest with me, Angelica. Why does there seem to be all this secrecy regarding Signora Tesca?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Pia. I’m sorry.”
Angelica looks away. She cannot lie to save herself. I see I’m making her very uncomfortable. Unlike Francesca, I don’t take pleasure in seeing others suffer.
“Thank you, Angelica. That was all I wanted.”
Angelica nods her head and practically runs off.
Ten minutes later, Francesca has still not come down. It’s deathly still in the house with the exception of Carlo’s passing through the outer corridor on his way back and forth to the kitchen. I can smell eggs and coffee. My stomach growls even though I had a couple of biscotti for breakfast. I really need to cut the sweets out. My pants are getting tighter.
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