Tonight, I have to end things with Alessia. She knows it’s coming, she’d be crazy or deluded not to see the writing on the wall.
I think I’ll stay at my condo here in Florence for the night. I’m craving the solitude. I rarely stay here. Babbo put it in my name when I turned eighteen, but I went off to college shortly after that. He told Mom he just bought it, but I suspect he had it for years and he might have had a mistress or two over the years.
20
Juliet
Iwatch TV with Enzo in the room. He alternates pacing back and forth with moving in and out of the room, checking in with others via the earpiece and the mic on his shirt. He means serious business and I wonder if he’s the head of the guards.
Once again, I’m struck by how elegant the men all look when they are assigned to be with me or Dante, even if they have guns strapped into holsters under their jackets.
Some women might be afraid of the guns, but not me. Dad used to take me hunting on Christmas Day in the country, and I’m a pretty good shot, if I do say so myself.
I don’t know where the man of the house is tonight. Odd, he’s been here every night up till now. I ask Enzo if he’s okay.
“He’s fine,” he assures me. I resign myself to the fact that he must be out on business and I return to my room to sketch a scene I begged the guys to let me take a picture of in Milan. It’s such a beautiful city, I just had to draw something to capture the moment in my sketchpad as well as my mind.
I go to the dresser I keep my art supplies in, and when I get closer, I see a small box on top of it. The blue is unmistakable.
Curious, I pick up the rectangular iconic blue box with ‘Tiffany’ stamped on the top. I pry the box open carefully with all the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning and clap my hand over my mouth when I see the watch, with the classic blue face, silver hands, and black leather band.
How did he know I wanted to know the time? Without my phone on me, I’m at the mercy of using the sun and buildings as a makeshift sundial.
I eagerly fasten it around my slender wrist, and it crosses my mind that he might be trying to buy my submission. But if submission feels like it did when he slammed me up against the kitchen wall, I’d be absolutely okay with that.
***
Just as I’m descending the elegant steps in the morning light, the front door opens and Dante breezes in, oblivious to the fact that I’ve been worried sick that he’s been out all night. I approach him, and as I do, I can’t ignore the overpowering perfume on his suit jacket. It’s so strong I’m about to choke on it. It’s not just the odor, it’s the fact that he was with someone else and that our trysts in the kitchen and in Milan obviously meant nothing to him when they meant something, no— everything, to me. Apparently, he’s content to move from one conquest to another.
“Did you fall into a pool full of rose water?” I glare at him.
“Ciao,” he greets me, impervious to my furrowed eyebrows and judging gaze, and brushes past me.
“Ciao,” I fling at his back. I’m sure it falls on deaf ears. He’s already on the second floor. I’m assuming he needs a shower to rinse off that stink.
I shrug my shoulders and head to the kitchen see what Rosario is up to. She’s heating an espresso as I sail into the room and plop at the table.
“Long night?” she asks, perhaps noticing my sour look, so at odds with the cheery pink pantsuit I’m wearing.
“No longer than usual.” We chat and I ask her how she’s doing and if I can help her cook today, as I’m bored. This waiting around is growing old.
Today is the day we’re to meet my biological father and I have no details yet, nothing about time, place, or how long we’ll meet.
Flavio should be here any minute, if the usual routine is being followed, so maybe I can ask him if he knows anything. I find that even though Flavio is very tall and intimidating, I feel like I can ask him for help, within reason. Enzo, on the other hand, reminds me of a Mexican cartel soldier. Too militant for my taste.
“What’s the matter?” Rosario asks as I sulk into my palm with my elbow on the table.
“Niente.”
“Ah, boy problems.” She gives me an all-knowing smile.
“No, no boy.” I’m not lying.
“Boy problems, I can see it all over your face. My dear girl, Italian men are never faithful, you know that,” she says, not unkindly.
“Sì,” I agree tiredly. It’s common for men to have mistresses, so why would Dante not have many? He’s an eligible bachelor and he probably has women all over the world.
Today, I meet my dad, a man who I know nothing about except, according to Dante, he’s the worst kind of criminal there is. I should look him up on the internet. Why didn’t I think of that before?