He was totally captivating last night, with his cognac in his hand and so smug when he told me what really went down at the museum gala. I believe Papa had to be desperate to do what he did, and I hope to find answers to my questions knowing it might not happen as quickly as I want.
I pull the shirt on and roll up the sleeves. I need an espresso and I head down a marble staircase that never seems to end.
I find Massimo and he shows me the kitchen and the espresso machine. Before heading out, he tells me Samira will be here shortly with new clothes, toiletries, and a phone charger.
He breezes out and the scent of warm pineapple greets my nose. His cologne. Oh, God. It is him. The man from the garden, it’s not a dream.
I wonder what his story is. He seems a bit sketchy, but as I watch him leave, I can’t stop myself from checking out his ass as he walks away in his fitted suit. His Italian loafers make no sound on the floor as he walks to the door.
I stand in the doorway with the cup of espresso in my hands while the lips between my thighs become slick with desire.
Who am I kidding? There is no way a man like him would want to be with a principessa. Other than kissing me in the garden, and some flirting, he’s avoided me at every turn.
Massimo opens the door and Savio rushed in.
“Buongiorno,” I greet him. At least he smiles when he returns a greeting. I assume he’s my new babysitter.
“Ah, espresso, I can use another.” He helps himself to the kitchen.
“Let me guess, Massimo asked you to sit with me while he’s gone.”
“We help each other out, I can think of things that are worse.” I notice he doesn’t keep his back to me for long.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t take any knives.” I roll my eyes and finish my drink. “Any food around here? We never ate last night, I’m starving.”
“I’m sure there’s food here that isn’t stamped with an expiration date from two years ago.”
“So, what exactly do you and Massimo do?”
“That depends. We do what we need to. You know our world, we know yours. We are just a different nationality. That’s all.”
“You both look pretty Italian-ish to me.” He’s wearing fitted jeans, Italian loafers. He takes off his coat, putting it on the back of a chair before pushing up the sleeves of his black sweater.
He chuckles, drinks his espresso in one gulp and opens the fridge.
“Albanian. Well, we’re half Italian, but Albanian mafia.”
“So, you were at the gala. Any idea who wanted to kill me that night?”
“None.” He turns around with eggs in his hand and asks how I like them.
“Scrambled, please.”
He pulls a skillet off the overhead hooks that holds a number of pots and pans before he begins to crack eggs.
Samira lets herself in, carrying numerous bags, and I look at the digital clock on the wall. Shit, it’s noon. I really did sleep.
“Where did Massimo go?”
“He has tons to do today. I’m arranging for an attorney to go to the police station with you.” He cooks the eggs in under three minutes and serves them to me on a plate. “Sit.”
I take the plate and sit at the long wooden table.
He sits across from me. “It’s important that you don’t mention anything that’s gone on, the museum, the men, none of it. You know how it goes.”
“Yeah, I know.” I’m ravenous and inhale the eggs like a hungry wolf. Isn’t that a Duran Duran song?
“There are things going on and until we know more, we need to be careful.”