by Amy Harmon
Eva had made use of the tub. The bathroom still smelled of steam and soap and jasmine, though he didn’t know how she managed to still carry that scent with her. The bathtub had an irresistible lure, he had to admit. He pulled off his cassock and dropped it to the floor, and immediately shed the rest of his clothes. The stench of sweat and fear was heavy on his skin, and he was desperate to remove it.
He climbed into the tub, hoping he wouldn’t wake Eva, and made the water as hot as he could, which wasn’t nearly hot enough. He scrubbed at his skin and washed his hair with the little perfumed bar of soap Eva had used and set to the side. There was a tiny tin of tooth powder and a toothbrush on the vanity, along with a shower cap and a comb, the amenities of a luxury hotel. Angelo rinsed his mouth and scrubbed at his teeth with the brush Eva must have already used, and tried not to dwell on the intimacy of the act or think about her mouth for too long. He pulled his prosthetic and his trousers back on but couldn’t stand to don his shirt or the cassock. He shook them briskly and hung them over the door instead, hoping to air them out a bit. Then he went back to watch Eva sleep.
Her position made her look like she’d collapsed, her legs hanging off the bed the way they were. She lay on her side, facing him, the white sheet draped loosely around her, but her face was turned down, baring her slim throat and shadowing her face, so still and so lovely. It made him think of the sculpture of Cecilia, the martyred saint, and he crossed the distance to the bed and knelt beside it, suddenly lightheaded with an irrational dread. He lifted her legs onto the bed, making her roll to her back. She was so limp and lifeless. Before he could stop himself, he was pressing his face to her chest, listening for her heart and running his fingertips over her mouth, feeling for her breath. For several torturous seconds he couldn’t find any signs of life. Nothing.
Terror roared and his own heart galloped so loudly that he realized it was no wonder he couldn’t hear hers. He was overreacting. He knew he was. He took several deep breaths and exhaled, calming himself. As he did, air whispered past her parted lips and over his fingers, and her heartbeat quickened against his cheek, as if she knew he was there.
Relief washed through him, and he swung her up against his chest, the sheet trailing behind her. He sank into the high wingback chair that sat near the bed, his arms wrapped around her slim frame, and he waited for her to wake up. He didn’t let himself stroke the dark chocolate hair that fell down her back and across her shoulders. He didn’t let himself gaze into her upturned face only inches from his own. Instead, he stared out the bedroom window into the night and waited, pushing down the tumult and the noise, the clamoring in his chest and the clanging in his temples, internal voices that warned him to release her and run from the temptation that kept him rooted to that chair.
He would just hold her, he told himself. But he couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t do it.
“Angelo?” The word was a breath, and he shut his eyes, warring with relief and despair. He was embarrassed. He was desperate. He didn’t know what he was going to say to her, and he was afraid he’d say too much. So he kept his eyes closed and his lips silent.
“Angelo?” Her voice was stronger and the question more pronounced. He tried to pray but found he didn’t want God to help him. He didn’t want divine intervention. With that thought he gave in, opened his eyes, and looked down into her face. Her eyes were so dark that he could see himself reflected in them, twin points, his face pale, swimming in the inky depths.
“You were sleeping so deeply it scared me. You must have been dreaming. Where did you go?” he whispered.
“To find you,” she whispered back.
“And here I am.”
She lifted a hand and laid it against the side of his face, as if testing the veracity of his claim. Her touch—so reverent, so tender—broke him. How could something so gentle cause him to crumble? But shatter he did, and God knows a broken man is a vulnerable man. She didn’t pull him to her with the hand that rested on his cheek, or lift her head from where it lay cradled in the crook of his arm. It was all Angelo. He could not make excuses for the action he was about to take.
He bent his head and found her mouth with his own.
He would have liked to think he didn’t consciously choose to cross the distance between their mouths, but that would have been a lie. He chose. It wasn’t like the kisses in the fisherman’s shack or even the kiss in the alcove on the day of the first raid, the kiss that had been without thought or premeditation, the kiss he could blame on circumstance, on a desperate moment. This was a kiss filled with intention.
They were his lips that parted against hers as they found purchase. It was his breath that hitched as the contact, both purposeful and timid, stunned him and scorched him simultaneously. It was all Angelo. No one made him do it.
But once he arrived, Eva welcomed him there. Her hand slid from his cheek to the back of his head, her fingers molding to the shape of his skull as the other rose to his neck, anchoring him where he hovered over her. She tasted him as he tasted her, each of them pressing into the swell of pillowed lips and seeking beyond them to the hot silk of mating mouths and dancing tongues.
For a man who had so little experience with the art of sensuality, there were no tentative brushstrokes or shy imitations. Neither thought about the craft at all. Neither thought about technique or tempo. If there were thoughts, they were reduced to whirling patterns behind closed lids, to curling colors in the bottom of their bellies, to the wash of sensation that built until Eva was pressed against Angelo’s chest, her legs straddling his hips. Her arms circled his neck as his arms braced her back, and their hearts created a drumbeat so intoxicating and so demanding, neither of them could do anything but move to its rhythm. Then Angelo stood, one arm anchoring Eva’s hips to keep her against him, one arm bracing their fall as they tumbled across the moonlit bed. Eva moaned against his lips and he stilled, instantly contrite, holding himself above her as if he’d broken her in truth, completely different from the way she’d broken him.
He pulled away slightly and looked down into her face. The room was dark, but streetlight and moonlight filtered through the sheer drapes, casting them both in soft black, pearly white, and varying shades of gray.
For a moment they stared at each other in stunned, ardor-filled hesitation, Angelo waiting for permission to proceed, Eva holding her breath, wondering if he would. She didn’t urge him, didn’t plead, didn’t say, “Again, Angelo,” the way she’d done in the fisherman’s shack a lifetime ago. She waited for him to decide. She wanted him to choose. He could see it all over her face.
Slowly, his eyes holding hers, he raised a hand and touched her cheek, marveling at the silk of her skin, before he pulled the pad of his thumb across her lips, parting them gently. Then he leaned down, his mouth hovering above hers, and whispered, “Again, Eva. Again.”
Then he was kissing her once more, drinking from her mouth like a man dying of thirst. It eased the ache in his chest yet intensified it at the same time. He couldn’t tear his lips away, but he needed to touch her, to slide his palms against her skin and memorize the valleys and the swells, to make her a part of him and himself a part of her. Finally.
He was so lost in surrender and so desperate to know every part of her that he was unable to slow down, to breathe, to pace himself. He was like a child in a candy store, rushing from one display to the next. If being with Eva meant his life was measured in minutes and hours instead of months and years, so be it.
“I love you, Eva,” he whispered, needing to explain his sudden fervor. “I love you so much. And I’ve wasted so much time.” He suddenly felt close to tears, as if the admission had unlocked something inside of him, letting it free. The ache was suddenly gone, and in its place was a swollen heart.
“And when the war is over, will you still love me?” she whispered in his ear, her voice thick with passion, heavy with need.
He knew what she was asking, and his mind tripped and went down, unable to move beyon
d the moment, this second, where he had her in his arms, the only thing in the whole world that he really wanted.
He closed his eyes, trying to find an answer, trying to make sense of it all, trying to hear God’s voice. Instead, he felt Eva’s fingers tracing his lips, his closed lids, the line of his cheekbone, the point of his chin. Instead of God’s voice, he heard Eva’s.
When the war is over, will you still love me?
In that moment, the realization crystallized, and his focus narrowed to the one truth that had come so plainly to his mind. She was the only thing in the world he really wanted. And not in the way most men want women. He didn’t want to assuage a need. He didn’t want to lose himself temporarily in her body. He wanted to live for her. Beyond the moment, beyond the war. Always.
He’d entered a place, or maybe he’d been walking toward it, or around it, all his life, but the dragons he’d once sought to slay were not the same. The dragons of lust and vanity and greed. The dragons of selfishness and ambition. The dragons of mortality and the need for power. Those dragons were gone, and in their place was unconditional love and a desire to sacrifice and submit, to lay down every need and ambition, for someone else. For Eva. The gospel of love and peace he’d suffered to impart and the God he’d struggled to serve were still the same. The difference was in Angelo.
He didn’t have to be immortal. He didn’t need to be a hero. He didn’t even want to be a saint. He simply wanted to be a good man worthy of Eva Rosselli. He just wanted Eva. He wanted her kisses and her eyes, her smiles and her laughter. He wanted his children in her womb and his mouth on her breasts. He wanted her legs wrapped around his hips and her arms cradling his head as he made love to her. He wanted her promises, her affection and her trust, her years and her secrets. He wanted her prayers and her pride, her tears and her troubles. He wanted Eva. And that was all.
He opened his eyes, and for a moment he could only breathe, sucking in the certainty that no longer eluded him.
Some things didn’t have to be hard.
“When this war is over, I will be yours, first, last, and always. And you will be mine.”
“Eva Bianco?” She smiled with trembling lips.
“Eva Bianco. In truth.”
“Are you awake?” Eva whispered.
Angelo’s eyes were closed, his breathing deep, and he didn’t answer. He was lying on his stomach, and Eva traced the line of his back but made herself stop at the dip of his waist. If she kept touching him, he would wake up, and he needed to sleep. The sheet clung to his hips and his arms were folded beneath his head in place of a pillow. His skin was dark against the white sheet, making her think of the pale sand and warm days on Maremma when he used to sleep on the beach in exactly the same way. She kissed his shoulder and laid her head against his back.
She was too happy to sleep. Too full. Too alive. Had she ever felt this alive? It was like a humming beneath her skin. Angelo had made love to her. Angelo loved her.
“Angelo loves me,” she said softly, wanting to hear the words, to make them known, if only to the silent walls. There were no sweeter words in the whole wide world.
“Yes. He does,” a groggy voice answered from above her head.
“Eva loves Angelo too,” she added, her lips curving around the words. She pressed another kiss to his skin.
“You should sleep a little. It will be morning soon,” he said gently.
The thought was like a pinprick to her balloon of joy. She closed her eyes and tried to push reality away, but it penetrated the cracks between her lids and found its way to her mouth, and before she knew it, she was giving voice to the sad truth.
“It will. And life will go on. We will have to leave this room. And we will be afraid again.”
Angelo rolled to his side carefully, and her head slid from his back to the bed. He pulled her up and into him, skin against skin, chest against chest, and Eva’s breath hitched in time with his.
“Are you afraid right now? Right this minute?” he asked.
“No.”
“Are you hurting?” His eyes clung to hers, light eyes heavy with fatigue.
“No. My body is fine.” That wasn’t quite what he’d asked, but she knew what he meant. She was not in any physical pain.
“Are you warm?” His voice was soft.
She nodded. She was deliciously warm.
“Are you alone?”
“No. Are you . . . scolding me, Angelo?” she asked faintly.
“No.” He shook his head, eyes still searching hers. “No,” he repeated softly. “I just want, more than anything, to give you peace. To give you rest. To keep you safe.” He hadn’t told her if Santa Cecilia was safe or if his refugees had survived the night, but she knew he wouldn’t be with her now if they hadn’t.
“Will there ever be a time when people aren’t afraid? The whole world is groaning in agony, Angelo. Can you hear it? I can hear it. I can’t stop hearing it, and I’m so afraid. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
He touched his lips to hers, softly first, the only answer he had. And then he kissed her again, more insistently. He could not stop the world from trembling or people from hating. He couldn’t make any of it go away—she knew that—but with his kiss, her happiness returned like a waterfall, rushing from her head to her toes, washing the fear away, and she wrapped herself around him, returning the kiss, and finding safety in his hands.
The day dawned cold and clear, a sliver of pale light that grew and grew above the dark horizon and covered the sky above Rome. The war to the south continued. The death in the north raged on. The sorrow in the east was unrelenting. The struggle in the west never ceased. But in a room in an occupied city, with nothing left but love itself, Angelo and Eva held on to each other, and found peace, rest, happiness, and safety. If only for a while.
Monday morning Eva pulled on the red skirt and white blouse she’d worn on the train to Rome—she’d left Florence with four dresses, two skirts, and three blouses. She knew she had more than most, but they were growing dingy from being washed by hand. She’d brought a change of clothes to wear home from the gala so she wasn’t riding a streetcar in an evening gown, but she daydreamed about donning the black dress again, just so Angelo could look at her like he’d looked at her on Saturday night. Just thinking about it made her skin feel hot and her breaths grow shallow.
She and Angelo had spent the last twenty-four hours holed up in the Villa Medici, using her payment from the gala to stay another night. They’d eaten well for the first time in forever—fruit and chicken and pasta in a cream sauce—and they pretended the world was only as big as four walls and the two of them.
“I don’t want you going to work,” he stewed, biting his lip as he lingered at the door. Angelo had washed his shirt and his cassock in the sink and hung them over the rack to dry. He now wore his trousers and the shirt, but his cassock was folded over his arm. Eva didn’t know what that meant, but maybe he didn’t want to be seen in a cassock and a cross in the luxury hotel. At least not in the early-morning hours.
“I have to. It will be okay. There were no Jews found at Santa Cecilia. Von Essen has no reason to suspect me.”
Angelo bowed his head, his chin resting on his chest, and he exhaled heavily. She could feel the tension coming off him in waves, and she hated to part that way. She pressed her body against his and lifted his face until he returned her gaze, his dark brows furrowed over sky-blue eyes, and she kissed his mouth, keeping her eyes open so he would stay with her in the moment.
He responded immediately, wrapping his arms around her fiercely and pulling her off her feet. He’d taken quite well to kissing. He kissed like he prayed, tender and passionate and completely committed to the task. When they parted they were both breathless, and he said no more about her returning to work at Via Tasso.
Angelo needn’t have worried. Captain von Essen was in meetings all day. Other than delivering coffee to a room full of uniformed Germans, Eva had no interaction with him at all and we
nt home almost as giddy as she’d arrived that morning.
Tuesday was no different. Captain von Essen stayed closeted in his office. His mood was dark, but even his sneering and his terse commands couldn’t penetrate the bubble she’d been floating in. She’d agreed to meet Angelo at the Church of the Sacred Heart, and she ran most of the way because she was too impatient to wait for a streetcar. She didn’t care what people thought as she sprinted through the streets with a smile on her face.
He was waiting by the altar, his eyes on the cross. She drew up short, suddenly nervous that he was suffering pangs of guilt and remorse. When he heard her, his head swung around.
He smiled.
It was a blinding, beautiful grin that hit Eva between the eyes. Her relief was so great she felt dizzy and weak, and she sank into a nearby pew. But Angelo had other ideas. He strode toward her, his cane clicking, his smile wide, and he took her by the hand, pulling her down the stairs to the little room where she’d known such sadness and fear. Once there, his arms went around her and his lips found hers. He tasted like apples—which meant he’d been bartering with black marketeers—and she licked into his mouth appreciatively, sharing the sweetness, thankful he was safe. He put himself at huge risk every time he ventured to the banks of the Tiber for things he couldn’t otherwise provide to those depending on him.
Eventually, he pulled his mouth away. “I was afraid of this,” he groaned into her hair.
“Of what?” she panted, not ready to stop kissing.
“Of not being able to control myself. I knew the moment I gave in I would be useless. I would think of nothing else but you. I thought of you constantly before, I confess. But now I have intimate knowledge. I don’t just love you; I want to make love to you. Every time I close my eyes to pray I can only see you.” He groaned again and squeezed his eyes shut as if in real pain. Eva giggled at his theatrics, and she kissed along the hard line of his clenched jaw.
“If I know you, you have not been useless. I’m guessing you have worked nonstop from the moment your knees hit the floor for your morning prayers. You did pray today, didn’t you?”