4. Georgia
4
GEORGIA
Then
“ M ake me something,” Tommaso pleaded, holding up a pink sequined bolt of fabric in front of the mirror.
I shook my head and tapped the ash off the end of my illicit cigarette.
“Your father would shoot you if he saw you in that,” I pointed out.
Tommaso pouted. “I would hardly show him. It would just be for me… and whatever in-the-closet rando I invited into my boudoir.”
“And yet, you’d still get shot at the end of the day. Babe, wait until you move to America, and I’ll make you whatever you want for Pride.” I held my pinkie up. “I promise.”
Tommaso sat and set aside the fabric. “I suppose you’re right. God, I can’t wait. Promise you’ll join me next year. You’ll get into design school, and I’ll be a hotshot businessman of some kind, and we’ll live together in a fabulous loft, drink margaritas for breakfast, and just be ourselves for once.”
I took Tommaso’s hand. Sure, it was the twenty-first century, but being the only son of a local businessman and pillar of the church, Tommaso had as much chance of being accepted as a gay man in our backward, uber religious little town as a devil worshipper had. “Sure. I can’t wait.” I gave him a wan smile. Would I really get into Parsons one day? I had no idea. Would my father let me leave Castel Amaro? Again, I had no idea, but I doubted it. Since my mother died, he liked to keep me close.
Just the idea of being left alone in the suffocating town I’d been born in was enough to make me scream. I couldn’t stand any of it. The gossiping nonnas watching from their doorsteps, or the nuns from the convent on the hill. The local school system, whose books were as antiquated as their beliefs, or the fact that anything that wasn’t church, cooking, or farming was frowned upon. If it wasn’t for the internet, people like me and Tommaso would have perished of boredom long ago.
I lay back on my bed and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. Okay, it was supposed to be a smoke ring, but in reality, it was a puff of smoke that brought on a cough.
“I don’t know why you’re bothering learning to smoke. It’s gross.”
“Because my dad wouldn’t like it. I just need to push through… It has to get good at some point, otherwise, why would everyone be so obsessed with it?”
Tommaso peered out the window and down to the garden. At the end, there were stables where a procession of stable hands came and went each day, to his delight.
“You should ask the new boy to show you how to do it.” Tom turned a wicked smile my way. “He seems like he knows all about the kinds of things that would make your daddy angry.”
I sat up and followed his gaze.
Striding out of the barn, a pitchfork balanced on his shoulder, was the new boy. Elio Santori. The cittaiolo . City Boy. He approached a pile of hay like it was trying to start a fight with him, stabbing it violently with the pitchfork.
“What do you mean?” I wondered idly.
He’d taken his shirt off and only had low-slung, ripped jeans on. His body was something else. He was nice to look at, I’d give him that. He even had some ink. I’d never seen a real tattoo before. In Castel Amaro, tattoos were akin to the Devil’s mark.
“I mean, that kid’s been through some shit, you can just tell. He’s trouble… a bad boy.” Tommaso wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I bet he’s a wild ride.”
“If you think so, go and try your luck.”
“I’m not the one he stares at like a juicy steak. He eye-fucks you every single time you walk past him.”
Heat flushed through me. “He does not.”
“He does. I bet my right hand you in your skimpy shorts, or that yellow bikini you wear to swim in out back, are what he pictures when he’s sleeping in the stables … jerking it hard and imagining it was you.”
I threw a pillow in Tommaso’s direction. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Why? Does it turn you on to think about it?” Tom grinned.
Yes .
“I’m sure I’m just a spoiled little daddy’s girl to a guy like him. A guy with real problems.” I watched Elio Santori work in the late afternoon sun. It was my latest hobby.
Elio had set his pitchfork down and was heading toward the house.
I stood and smoothed my romper. It had polka dots on it, and I’d made it myself. I was happiest behind my sewing machine.
“Do you want another soda? I’m going to get one,” I murmured.
Tom laughed. “You do that, you thirsty bitch. Say hi to the cittaiolo for me.”
I gave him the finger and left the room, skipping downstairs to find Elio’s boots already off at the door. I wandered through the house, wondering if he’d gone to the bathroom, and arrived at the kitchen.
The fridge door was ajar, and Elio Santori, in all his sweaty, bare-chested glory, was standing in the gap. He straightened up when I approached, a glass bottle of lemonade in hand.
He put the bottle to his lips and tilted his head back, taking long gulps of the juice. I watched, transfixed. I was so lost in the vision of him drinking, I jumped when he spoke.
“Can I help you? Don’t tell me you’re here to get me in trouble for touching something in the fridge?”
I wandered farther into the kitchen, pasting nonchalance across my face.
“I’m not the boss of the refrigerator. Do what you want,” I murmured.
He watched me impassively and then took another drink.
I let my gaze slide down his torso. He was twenty, only a few months older than me, but he felt so much older. It was his worldliness. I had none, and he had it all. He’d lived a thousand lives in the city, dangerous, difficult lives, while I’d been here, playing with dresses and dolls and being spoiled by my dad.
“How’s your face?” Elio suddenly asked. He shut the refrigerator and set the lemonade bottle on the counter. He turned, and the movement brought him close to me.
“Fine. You barely brushed me.” For some reason, being seen as weak in front of this man felt unbearable. Also, it had been more than a week since he’d accidentally hit me. What kind of damage did he think he’d done?
He brought a hand up and gently cupped my cheek. Heat ripped me through me like nothing I’d ever felt before.
“You lied for me,” he said, his tone suspicious. “Why would you do that?”
I swallowed the hard knot in my throat. “Why not? It didn’t cost me anything, and like I said, you barely brushed me.”
He tilted his head. “So, it wasn’t pity? You didn’t feel sorry for the broke pickpocket who hadn’t eaten in a week?”
I scoffed. “Feel sorry for you? Why should I? Boo-hoo, the bad-boy gangster was hungry… cry me a river.”
“Gangster?” he repeated, dropping his hand from my cheek.
“I heard your dad was Mafia.”
Elio snorted. “He wished. He was a bottom-feeding wannabe. If Renato De Sanctis is a white whale, my father was krill. I don’t aspire to that kind of life.”
“You don’t? Then what do you aspire to?” I asked.
He was still standing so damn close.
Elio leaned in. Was he going to kiss me? He was so near.
“I don’t have a fucking clue, but I know it won’t be here in this shithole town. I’m getting out of here, as soon as I can. If you’re as smart as I think you are, topolina , you’ll do the same.”
“ Topolina ?” I parroted the nickname, unsure whether to be offended or not. Topolina . Little mouse.
“Haven’t you heard the story ? Il topo di città e il topo di campagna. I’m the city mouse, you’re the country mouse.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Wasn’t the city mouse rich?”
Elio regarded me and then chuckled. His wide, full lips drew back in a heart-stopping grin. It was the first smile of his I’d ever seen.
“ Vero . Still, the nickname suits you.”
He pulled back, the bottle in his hand. He’d been reaching for the bottle, not getting close enough to kiss me.
Heat washed into my cheeks.
He drank steadily, looking me in the eye the entire time. His strong throat bobbed, glistening with sweat from his outdoor work. I tore my eyes away with great effort.
“So, what’s your plan for getting out of here, then? Share with the class,” I challenged him.
He just shook his head. “It’s not time yet.” He set the empty bottle on the counter and stepped around me. “Ask me again later.” When he was level with my side, he touched my ear, making me jump. “I saw this in the garden.” It was all he said.
“How will I know when it’s time?” I called to him, gingerly touching my hair. He’d tucked a little flower behind my ear.
He paused in the doorway. “You’ll know, because I’ll be gone. See you around, topolina ,” he said, winking at me and sauntering away. I went into the hall after him, and caught sight of myself in the mirror on the wall. A dark purple flower with neat little petals sat behind my ear. A heliotrope. I turned to thank him for the pretty little present, but he’d already gone.
Elio
I’d never been religious, but since moving to Castel Amaro, I never missed church.
The reason for that was far from good and pure. I didn’t give a shit about the sermon, or the blessings. I wasn’t going there to save my stained soul… I was there for one reason, and one reason alone.
Her.
As soon as I’d moved into the stables of the terra-cotta villa at the edge of the town square, I’d realized that Alfredo Bellisario had been more cunning than I’d imagined in keeping his daughter out of my way. Unless Georgia sought me out, I was powerless to see her.
She was either at school, being tutored, or with her boyfriend. Tommaso Conti. I’d never hated another man as much as I did that fucker. He spent endless hours with Georgia up in her bedroom, with the door closed, I was furious to note. Once, I’d snuck up there to check, only to hear the soft murmur of their voices through the wood.
The fact that Alfredo Bellisario let Conti, the rich, stuck-up cunt, be in Georgia’s bedroom, alone, with his precious daughter, while he went out of his way to make sure her path never crossed mine, pissed me off.
Sure, I knew I was nothing more than a homeless gutter rat to the Bellisarios, but I wasn’t dangerous. I’d never hurt Georgia. I just wanted to see her.
And so, I’d started coming to church.
She always stood at the front with her father. The place was always packed on Sundays.
There wasn’t much going on in a town like Castel Amaro. Good, honest farmers did their work out in the fields, mothers stayed at home with their children, the local priest held his Sunday services, and Georgia’s father, the upstanding citizen, waged a one-man war against the local Mafia. Except he didn’t; he bent over for Salvatore De Sanctis and took all the bribes he liked. Of course, what went on behind closed doors wasn’t anybody’s business but their own. Castel Amaro liked to pretend to be squeaky-clean and godly on the outside, but it had its secrets, just like anywhere else.
Castel Amaro was the kind of place where people liked to think that they knew where their children were, even if that wasn’t quite true. Boys should be strong and silent; girls should be quiet and obedient. The younger generations should respect the old, never raise their voices, wash their hands before dinner, and keep their thoughts and opinions to themselves.
But not Georgia Bellisario. She was an exotic bird, fluttering around that old villa. She laughed loudly, and no one shushed her. She spoke her mind, and the staff just nodded along. Her father indulgently listened to her opinions on topics and kissed her on the head afterward. Georgia wasn’t like any other girl in the village.
She was magic.
They say there are turning points in life you can only see when you look back.
For me, there was the day my sister was born, mine to protect and look after for all time. There was the day my father was arrested, the last day I’d ever seen him. There was the day I’d stolen the wallet from Renato De Sanctis.
Then, there was the day I’d caught Georgia staring at me across the aisle in church, dust motes floating in the strands of sunlight between us. Another turning point.
A life-changing event.
An awakening.
She met my bored gaze, her big brown eyes full of amusement and teasing, unlike any I’d seen before, especially in church. Of course, I’d peeked before. A man could hardly avoid staring at such beauty. She wandered around her house in all types of skimpy clothing and half-sewn designs. I stole glances and guarded those illicit memories carefully. But a woman like that didn’t need anything from a thug like me. We both knew what I was. We both knew our value in this world was wildly different. I was a hustler, a wannabe gangster’s son. Someone going nowhere fast. She was a different breed altogether. She was going somewhere. The world was at her feet. And she deserved all of it.
But that afternoon in church, something had changed. A turning point I’d never forget.
She’d held my gaze while the priest intoned his sacraments. The rest of the church lowered their heads obediently to pray and left us alone, in a room full of people. We were the only two people in the world for that stolen moment.
Then she stuck out her pointy pink tongue, rolled her eyes back like she was dying along to the words of the Lord’s Prayer, and pulled a rusty laugh from my lonely chest.
And just like that, I’d fallen.