“Your mother?”
She flinched at Ekene’s question, eyes going wide. Silence asked the question for her.
“Lips.” He gestured at his own full mouth. “Yours get thin when thinking about her.”
“How do you know that? You don’t know me well enough to know that.” Rosamma tried to keep the waspish snap from her voice, but the extra bite leaked in anyway. Ekene’s response was an understanding smile.
“I can appreciate how upsetting parents are.”
The admittance relaxed shoulders Rosamma didn’t realize were tensed. Before she could respond the driver climbed into his seat. A few quick directions in Italian and they were off. She’d already told Ekene about the small cafe she met her Mama at during any visit to Rome.
On the jet he asked to borrow the phone to make a few arrangements before they arrived. She wondered at the time what he could be doing, but decided it was boring guard things. Now she hoped it was an air strike. Anything to keep her from visiting that woman, who somehow still had her claws in a daughter she abused for her entire adolescence.
“Miss. Rosamma?” Ekene touched her knee to offer comfort, but there was no way she could accept the intimacy, not about Vittoria. After five years of freedom, the wounds were still fresh. And freedom relative.
“Will you be listening to our conversation?” Mama didn’t understand discretion. In fact she abhorred the very notion of silence, and would speak in English just to include Ekene in their drama. That much Rosamma was certain of.
“I have to follow close enough to keep you safe.”
When he spoke, Rosamma shifted to stare out the window.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why visit if it bothers you this much?” It sounded like more than just a question. It sounded as if he were looking for the answer to a similar question.
“The same reason she took care of me for seventeen years.” Rosamma answered, lips twisting into a rueful grimace. She said the same thing Vittoria had when Rosamma asked why she bothered to raise a daughter she hated so much. “I don’t know.”
Capitolo Quattro
Humid air wafted through the limo’s open window to allow in the roar of Italian murmurs and the sight of Rosamma’s home country. The streets of Italy crowded together, squished by hundreds if not thousands of year old architecture. Buildings were short compared to New York, reaching no more than six stories high unless it was an older structure - often complete with a dome cap. Pillars and veranda’s signified many lived above their stores which made it homey in all the right ways.
It would’ve been quicker getting through the city on a scooter or a biker for this exact reason. Ekene scowled at the imagery of him on a pink motor scooter and matching helmet. But when she suggested the idea, beneath the grimace Rosamma saw amusement.
When they pulled up to the cafe that mirth faded from his face before the driver could get to the door. As if he were meeting his own disappointment of a parent. Rosamma wondered if he had a bad mother like her. It couldn’t be Uday he hated, the man was large and terrifying but softer than the bunny plush hidden in her luggage.
A few whispers wafted through the window crack from the patrons eating outside, tearing Rosamma from her thoughts. Even the best places for coffee usually weren’t graced by the presence of a limo, and they’d caused a stir. Despite the window tint, her mother’s icy glare pierced the vehicle. Large black glasses sat on the same pointed nose Violetta passed on to Rosamma.
Ekene reached across Rosamma’s lap and flung open the door. Mama wore black in mourning. Because Vittoria died when Rosamma chose her disgusting billionaire father over the prostitute mother he knocked up.
No child support, she’d often say. Even before Saverio confirmed it with his own mouth, Rosamma guessed Mama never told him of her existence.
Blood was blood, Saverio seethed. Real men take care of their secret families if they can afford to have them. And he could. But that would be the scandal of a lifetime, and Saverio had people who got rid of scandals before they ever reached him. She was just garbage to sweep under the rug to them. And so he went seventeen years without realizing he had a daughter.
To Violetta, Rosamma was a lump of coal she thought would turn into a diamond. And she did. The only problem was that Violetta didn’t own the sparkle that made Rosamma a hardened gem. When she took a deep breath and swung her legs outside, a warm hand rubbed a discrete circle across her back.
“Thank you.” Seconds after she spoke, the soothing sensation stopped. Another lungful of air and she was striding towards her Mama. The world was her runway, which meant this cafe was her runway. With the same confidence she used on the catwalk, Rosamma stood before Vittoria.
Mama had the grace to stand and embrace her daughter, while murmuring a single affection. “It’s good to see you, Rosamama.” Her childhood nickname. When little, she’d run around yelling about how she’d be just like her Mama. She be Rosamama.
Despite her maturity, Vittoria’s beauty never faded, even if her daughter’s adoration did. Most people would be overjoyed to stop aging at thirty, but thirty wasn’t twenty. So it, like everything else, wasn’t good enough for Vittoria. Rosamma guessed she didn’t care for the top of the line cellphone perched on the corner of the table either. She probably thought the espresso was too weak, and the croissant not fluffy.
“So.” Mama’s scarlet clad lips puckered as Ekene sat next to Rosamma, “How long has it been since you’ve been to see your poor mother this time.”
Over the phone it was easier to be cold and harsh. In front of her mother Rosamma reverted back to a scolded child. A six-year-old who’s guilt gnawed on her insides until she was a hollow shell piped full of her mother’s disappointment. “A few months, Mama.” Her voice sounded so meek.
“With the work your daughter does I can’t imagine she has much time to send postcards,” Ekene’s tone is conversational, but a hidden bite warns of the teeth underneath, “let alone fly back home.”
“And what do you know about the life of a model?” Vittoria fumed, voice reaching a high pitch of fury. “Who is this?” she demanded of Rosamma.
“He’s my bodyguard Mama, which means he knows a lot about the fashion industry.” It was a little white lie, but since Vittoria would be the first to say those aren’t harmful, her daughter didn’t feel much guilt.
Her Mama’s sneer said it all - she wasn’t impressed. With the pointed huff of a spoiled child, Vittoria snatched up her phone. Red began to spread up Rosamma’s neck the longer her mother played the silent game and tapped tapped tapped pointedly on her phone.
“If you can’t be civil in front of company, then I’ll leave, Mama.” Rosamma blurted. The tapping stopped. With a deep sigh as if the effort it took to try was physically painful, Vittoria removed her glasses, folded her arms, and crossed her legs.
“Tell me what you’re in town for then. Is it something I can brag about to all the hags in my apartment?” The one Rosamma paid for with her own money, and the modeling career Vittoria couldn’t care less about? But Rosamma had thirteen years of rent to catch up on, and Saverio refused to provide one penny to Vittoria, which was no surprise. Rosamma began working and paying her way at thirteen so Mama didn’t have to spend her nights on a mattress unless she was sleeping. A few more years, and Vittoria’s well would run dry.
“Yes, Mama. I’m doing my own fashion show and walking for Rome’s fashion week.”
“And that’s big?”
From the corner of her eye Rosamma saw Ekene’s fist curl on his knee. She could only imagine what he was thinking about this exchange. But she was glad to see he was angry at her mother’s belittlement, and grateful that he didn’t say anything.
“A career maker.” If she didn’t already have one. “I won’t be able to visit much because of it.” She tried to gentle the news, too bad guilt was Vittoria’s forte. A gloved hand clutched her mother’s chest as if Rosamma’s words were knives stabbing into her non existent heart.
>
“I won’t even get a full day will I? You’ve already resolved to abandon me after a pity visit like you always do.” A pang zipped through Rosamma’s chest at the truth behind her mother’s words. She wanted to scream that plenty of people would’ve run away and never looked back, but silence choked her declaration.
“It’s a couple more years, Mama. Models retire early, remember?” For her career twenty five was old, and she was already twenty two.
Vittoria sniffed and hid behind her phone again. This time Rosamma allowed it, somehow feeling more sane in her aggravation when Ekene’s lips dipped into a full blown frown.
Soon enough Mama failed her silent game when everyone at the table played too. Peering over the rim of her glasses, cold onyx eyes locked with Rosamma’s.
“So where are you gallivanting off to today that’s so much more important than spending time with your mother?”
Rosamma’s brow furrowed, her lips thinning into a thin line of silence. The one time she’d told her mother - well she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“I won’t crash the party.” Vittoria’s high-pitched whine stabbed a headache behind her eyes. “Can’t a mother check on her daughter’s safety?”
A tug on her skirt and she met Ekene’s eyes. He gave the smallest of nods making Rosamma sigh. Fine. “I’ll be doing a photoshoot on a boat.”
Vittoria’s brows raised for more information, and Ekene’s foot nudge convinced Rosamma to spill the information her mother was looking for. Locations (she approved that the ship they were shooting on was a replica), themes (she thought gladiators in Rome was tacky), and plenty of other things.
In the end it was one of Rosamma’s better visits home. Vittoria behaved herself in the company of others, which could have been much worse. Often it was. The headspace she came into the photoshoot with wasn’t ideal. Even though Ekene tried to lighten the mood on the drive over, a fog seemed to strangle her brain.
When she walked on the beach, a smile plastered into place, a few of the more adept photographers narrowed their eyes. Their skilled observation could catch a muscle out of place. A muscle out of place meant she was being unprofessional by allowing her emotions to show. “It’s a beautiful day.” She reminded herself, trudging to wardrobe.
A little ways out on the crystal clear sea was the trireme replica she mentioned to Mama. From this distance she could see the three galley ship, its rowers skimming water. In the middle of the vessel stood a large white mast. Another accompanied it, only two thirds of its size at the front of the boat.
Then she strode into a yellow tent marked ‘wardrobe’ and it was gone. Rosamma had to place a hand on Ekene’s chest to keep him from accompanying her into the changing room. No doubt a few of the other models wouldn’t appreciate his invading their privacy.
By the time professionals finished with her makeup and clothing, dressing her like the doll they expected her to be, Rosamma felt more like herself. Outside of her visit with Vittoria this could be any other day. Well, almost. Ekene still waited outside, the silhouette of his large body dark on the tent wall.
“You look like a club bouncer.” She teased, coming out of the tent.
“And how do you know what a bouncer looks like?” he play scolded, “You’re barely old enough to drink.”
“Actually, in Italy you only need to be the ripe old age of sixteen to partake in general sin and debauchery.” At her saucy quip a slight grin began to spread across Ekene’s face.
“And did you?” he asked, while someone ushered them towards a small rowboat meant to take them to the trireme.
“Did I what?” She mused, stepping into the miniature ship and allowing enough room on her bench for him to sit. It forced their thighs to press together no matter how they shifted. Neither of them tried to separate from the shared touch very hard.
“Partake in sin and debauchery?” The soft whisper brushed against her ear. It would appear like a private conversation to the others in the rowboat, but to Rosamma it was a finger trailing goosebumps along the arch of her spine.
“Of sin?” When she turned her face towards Ekene’s, they were so close together their noses almost brushed. Which didn’t leave much space between their lips. “Never.” She breathed. Which left debauchery open to interpretation.
The rowboat bumped against the trireme, jostling more than just Rosamma and Ekene together. A bout of laughter rose as everyone fell on everyone. When Ekene fell forward, he turned his face just in time to avoid a kiss, full lips brushing her cheek. Rippled muscles pressed against her body to keep from crushing her, earning a mewl.
Heat blazed an ache between Rosamma’s thighs dampening thin panties with arousal. Curiosity drove her gaze downwards to the slight bulge in Ekene’s pants. When he cleared his throat, she knew he had caught her leer.
“Shall we?” he grunted, offering a hand up as someone tossed a rope ladder off the side of the large ship. Sea mist made the rungs slippery, and to ensure she didn’t fall Ekene held her hips. By adding the slightest amount of pressure he kept her upright during the climb.
Plenty of models and photographers were aboard the trireme already. There was enough clothing in Rosamma’s new line to take up the whole day shooting and reshooting. Ads would scatter worldwide in high fashion magazines to show a mixture of modern clothing combined with an ancient twist.
“We’ve run into delays.” Were the first words to greet Rosamma on the boat. As Ekene lumbered over the ships edge to stand next to her, his arms crossed as if to intimidate the delays away. It made her want to giggle - if not for the professional setting, she would have.
“What’s the hold up?” he demanded, as if it were terrorists creating their problems.
“Damn helicopter tour groups. They’ve been coming around every thirty minutes and ruining our shots.” The woman speaking was the main photographer used by Saverio. She made magic with her pictures, but it required absolute control of the scene.
“Can’t you shoot from a different angle?” Ekene scoffed, with a roll of the eyes that made Rosamma flinch. Contrary to popular belief, back talk and a snooty behavior were frowned upon in the industry. Yes, you may find a self centered model here and there, but nothing killed a career in fashion faster than opening your mouth when you’re meant to stand, be pretty, and keep silent. Kind of like a bodyguard.
“If it were that simple. After you’ve studied lighting and shadows on three-dimensional objects, learn to map the planes of the face, body, and outfit, through years of rigorous training - then ask me why I can’t ‘just shoot from another angle’.” The photographer snapped.
“We simply must make do with what we have.” Rosamma said, shifting to stand in front of Ekene before a fight could break out. “Let’s show the difference between world renowned fashion and a cheap shopping catalog.”
That sentence lit a fire behind the photographer’s eyes, making her nod in determination. “Take your place in the scene, we’re losing daylight.” She barked.
Despite the harsh tone Rosamma’s face lit up in a bright smile. In the middle of the trireme stood male models dressed as ancient warriors. Not even a few minutes in and a shrill “Cut!” split the air, fury making the photographers hair stand on end. “That damn helicopter is back. Has it already been thirty minutes, damn it, five minute break everyone.”
Capitolo Cinque
A headache split Ekene’s temple when he washed up on shore. Events of the last few hours swam just out of reach behind a window of black glass. If he focused hard enough, he could make out bits and pieces. Gun shots. Wind, a lot of wind, then a slow motion fall with the most heartbreaking scream reaching out to him.
The sputtering cough expelling water from his lungs caught the attention of paramedics on the beach, creating a cacophony of noise. “We got a live one!”
Sand flew into Ekene’s face as a man crashed to his knees beside him. “It’s gonna be all right, sir.” Not if this kid was the one helping him. His reaction time sai
d the kid had enough spunk to make it in the medical world. From the baby fat on his cheeks however, he’d need a few more years.
“Where’s your-” Another gasp of water drenched the sand, “phone?” Ekene gasped, clutching at the boy’s shirt.
“You’ve suffered an immense shock and trauma sir, nod if you understand me.” This was why the kid would need a few years to make a name for himself - he was still stuck in the procedures. Guidelines help newbies gain their footing, but it can get men like Ekene killed.
Sorry about this kid, he thought, before grabbing the paramedic by the throat and dragging the boy down to the ground next to himself. “Nod if you understand this, give me your fucking phone.” The rasp of his oxygen starved voice worked the intimidation better than any growl.
Paramedic boy scrambled for his pant leg before ripping out the latest smartphone. “Finger print.” Ekene demanded when the kid forked over the device. He was given access, a dull ache of relief settling in Ekene’s bones.
With a connection to his family in hand, he agreed to let the medics see him in the ambulance while making his call. Faraji picked up on the third ring, voice a shriek of panic. “What the fuck happened? The explosion is all over the news, they’re saying terrorists attacked a fashion shoot on the coast of Rome!”
“No.” Ekene grunted, his gaze flicking towards the medics milling about. All of them were pretending to be deaf and mute, but he knew the truth. Their ears were open and ready to collect any information they could spread. Malicious or not, if one wrong person caught on to what really happened, that could mean…
“That package dad gave me, I lost it. Flew up in the explosion.” No he didn’t mean ‘blew’ up. Ekene hoped no one noticed the weird sentence, or at the very least thought he had a concussion jumbling his words. His brother would understand the coded message.
Whoever attacked the trireme in that last helicopter sweep was after Rosamma. And they’d gotten her. There was never any tour group flying over the photo shoot. When they made the grab, it was from convenience; they knew where she’d be, not when she’d be there. That kind of insider knowledge made things tricky.
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