Savio and I exchange looks. We know we didn’t do it, so what the fuck is going on?
“Call Giovi again and let her know you are with me.”
Valentina breaks down and cries. Samira shows up with tissues and after Valentina regains her composure, she calls her brother again.
It appears her mother just got the call from Ridolfo, who waited at the hospital, and Giovi has more men at the house for protection.
Her voice ripples with sadness as she hangs up with her brother.
“I can’t believe Papa is gone,” she muses, sipping her tea trying to process everything. Then the fog lifts and she turns to me. “What am I doing here with you? Who are you? I know I know you. Rome?”
Oh, boy. Here we go.
“I’m Massimo, I had to get you out of there.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Complicated answer.”
“Uncomplicate it. How do I know you are the good guy? And not holding me for ransom?” She sits taller on the sofa, as if she might need to make an escape.
“Hmm, your guard let you leave with me, surely that means something?”
“Ridolfo has been with me forever.”
“Exactly, he’s trusted by your father and you.”
“Which means I’m a hostage?”
“Not exactly. I’m your fiancé.”
18
Valentina
Dazed over the loss of Papa and the fact that him walking me so proudly into the reception this afternoon was the last time I’ll ever feel his presence is tragic. I never got to say “I love you Papa” one last time. I can’t remember the last time I said those words. In hindsight, I was selfish and behaved like a spoiled brat.
His marriage was for the good of the family business and it’s one that gave me private schools, jets and luxuries most people never experience.
Now I find myself in the home of a stranger who Ridolfo is fine with and. . .
“How did you know Ridolfo’s name?”
“We’ve met.”
“You’re leaving out details,” I say as my mind struggles to put the together details.
“Not important.” Massimo smiles at me and takes my hand into his own. “You’re safe, we’re not the bad guys.”
My eyes connect with him and suck me in. I’m falling for him, like a bowl of my favorite gelato. I can’t get enough.
“Wait. The reception of a couple I don’t know, Papa is murdered and you’re there to save the day? I don’t think so.”
“Timing, that’s all.”
His hands warm mine and the heat travels up my arm. I can’t deny the tingles that go with it. His hands are surprisingly soft, not a paper pusher, but not manual labor either. He has no calluses.
Uncomfortable with his hands on mine, I immediately pull mine free. I cover my mouth to keep from shrieking and leap to my feet. My teacup flies across the room, landing on an oriental rug that must be irreplaceable if the pattern is authentic. Judging from the ornate items in the room and the lighted works of art adorning the walls, everything in the room must be collectible antiques.