Chapter 11
VALENTINA
Ican’t believe how easily I fell for Giovanni’s tricks.
I was so foolish. Am I that desperate for a fairy tale that I let myself believe I was in one?
Giovanni didn’t want me because he found my double-digit dress size sexy or my sass endearing.
He needed someone who was unaware he’s mere months from marriage.
Anger envelops me as the crumpled newspaper on the kitchen table mocks me. It’s the same newspaper I casually opened while filling a mug with coffee this morning, hopeful a quick dose of caffeine would remind me of my responsibilities.
A naked-head-to-toe Giovanni standing on the balcony of his penthouse made my obligations seem inconsequential. My only wish was to wrap myself in his arms again.
Then it all came tumbling down.
The headline screamed my stupidity at me on repeat. Giovanni and Valeria looked every bit the power couple the city needs them to be, and I felt the size of an ant.
I don’t recall getting dressed or how I was greeted by name when rushing out of the hotel foyer Giovanni took me to last night. I just wanted to go home and bury my head in shame.
My guilt worsened the further the taxi traveled. News of Giovanni’s engagement was featured on every newspaper in the newsstands my taxi rushed past during my journey home. If that isn’t bad enough, the commute stole the last of my funds and left me with only the bitter taste of regret.
I feel sick and used. And stupid. So very stupid. I’m not solely angry that I believed him. I’m furious I allowed myself to become the other woman.
It’s my fault. I loved the way he looked at me and how he made me feel special. But countless orgasms and a night beyond comprehension can’t displace morals.
I should have pushed harder for the truth. Then maybe I wouldn’t feel like I’m walking around this city with ADULTEROUS written in thick black ink across my forehead.
During the first hour home, I was worried Giovanni would track me down. He’s relentless, and I learned firsthand last night that he doesn’t take no for an answer.
He raced a high-speed train to catch me, and the remembrance had me terrified he’d do it again.
I was so worried he’d show up at my door and cloud my head with so much lust again that I’d find it impossible to push him away.
Then I remembered that although I’d left my purse in his car, I couldn’t afford to update my details when we moved to Sicily, so my license still has my US address on it.
Thank goodness for small mercies, like my phone slipping out of Giovanni’s pocket during our foray on his living room floor. It’s financially impossible for me to get a new one. All my salary goes toward my mother’s medication. I can’t spare a single cent.
Even though I’d prefer to hide my shameful face for a little longer, I can’t. My shift at the pub starts in an hour. I’m getting dressed in my uniform with hands that won’t quit shaking when my phone trills. The sound startles me, and I jump.
When the caller ID flashes across the screen, the dinner I scarfed down with my mom and aunt sinks to my stomach like a rock. The IVF clinic I attended yesterday is calling.
I consider letting it ring out, preferring to pretend yesterday never occurred, but I can’t. I need this.
No. Correction. My mother needs this.
“Hello?”
“Valentina Raimondi?” The voice on the other end isn’t as devastated since she’s close to clocking out for the weekend. “This is Guilia from the Palermo IVF Clinic. I’m calling with the results of yesterday’s procedure.”
For how often she swallows, anyone would swear her life was precariously dangling on the wire, and not my mother’s. I could kill her for the delay.
I gasp in disbelief when she says, “It was a success.”
I can’t breathe or move. All I can do is cry. Overwhelmed with relief, I grip the dresser to keep from collapsing.
“Thank you,” I whisper as fresh tears sting my eyes. “Thank you so much.”
My relief is short-lived. “There’s just one minor issue.” Guilia’s tone shifts from friendly to anxious. “We’ve had trouble processing your payment. The bank details you provided aren’t working.”
I laugh like my anguish over the previous twenty-four hours has left town. “I lost my purse yesterday, so I had to put a freeze on my account.” After lowering my eyes to the floor, I endeavor to lie my way out of being stamped as a homewrecker. “I was issued new account details today.”
“Okay. Great. If you could bring them with you to the clinic, we will process your payment immediately.”
I hesitate. Returning to the clinic and risking another encounter with Giovanni fills me with dread. I can’t trust myself around him when I’m this vulnerable. But I really need the money. My mother’s life hinges on this.
“What time?” I ask, forcing the words out.
“Now would be great.”
“Now?” I check my watch. I’ll never make it to Palermo before the clinic closes.
The train takes an hour, and it’s nearly six.
Not to mention I’d have to stay in the city overnight since the train I’d catch would be the last train to Carlisle for the evening.
Some lines run well into the evening, but Carlisle bucks the trend with advancements that would bring it into the twenty-first century.
When I explain my concerns to Guilia, she replies, “That’s fine. We’re happy to wait for you to arrive before locking up.” When I remain quiet, still hesitant, and if I’m honest, a little perplexed, she adds, “Unless you want to wait to process your payment until next month?”
“Next month?”
I gasp in a quick breath when she hums in agreement. “We only process payments on the fifteenth of each month. If we miss today’s cycle, it will have to wait until next month.”
“I can come today. That won’t be a problem.” My words are crystal clear since my mind is made up. I’m sure I can find a quiet corner of a shelter in Palermo to rest my head.
“Great.” I can’t tell if her sigh is in relief or panic. “We will see you soon.”
When she disconnects our call, I stare at my phone, hands shaking, before dialing the landline number of the pub.
Calling in sick isn’t something I do—ever—so I’m half expecting the owner to sound worried, maybe even a little suspicious.
Instead, when I tell Alessandro I’m not feeling well, there’s a pause, a faint sigh, and then he says, “Yeah, all right.”
With that done, I walk into the living room to break the news to my mom and aunt. Mom is sitting in her new favorite chair, wrapped in a blanket, and her eyes are close to closing as she fakes interest in the show Aunt Maria is watching.
“Mom?” I whisper, not wanting to scare her.
She opens her eyes fully and smiles at me. “Tesoro… You look lovely. Glowing, even. Doesn’t she, Maria?”
I brush off their praise like I did their disapproval this morning when no amount of scalding could remove the heat from my cheeks from more orgasms under my belt than I’ve achieved my entire life.
“I got a call.” I almost go the honesty route, but I’m too choked up to do it.
God, I wish I could tell her everything, but I’m unsure how to initiate a conversation like that.
Furthermore, everything is still so fragile right now.
It feels seconds from snapping. “Alessandro needs me to come in early. The pub is overrun with soccer fanatics. Something about possible World Cup contention.”
“That would be Palermo FC,” my aunt chimes in. “They’re in with a real shot this year.”
Her tone is friendly, but the suspicious glare she shoots me makes me worry she’s about to call me out as a liar. “I’ll have to sleep on the cot in the office tonight. I’m closing and don’t want to walk home at three a.m.”
Mom squeezes my hand in support. “I doubt it will be any worse than the cot you’ve been using here.” When I groan, agreeing with her, she smiles for real. “Don’t worry about me. Your aunt is here, so go do what needs to be done.”
I hug her before pulling away and mustering a smile. “I’ll text you when I get there.”
“At the pub?” She laughs, hiding the suspicion growing in her eyes. “It’s only three blocks down.” As fast as her curiosity grew, worry replaces it. “But best to be safe. These streets aren’t as safe as they once were.”
Before retreating to my room to pack a bag with essentials, I return my eyes to my aunt’s and wordlessly ask if I can speak with her in private.
“Oh… I think the tomatoes in the pasta were a little too ripe. I have horrible heartburn.” Aunt Maria asks my mom if she’d like anything from the kitchen while she fetches heartburn medication.
When my mom shakes her head, I follow my aunt into the kitchen.
“Before you say anything,” she jumps in, freezing my words, “are you okay?”
Incapable of expressing with words how much I appreciate her concern, I hug her. “I’m fine. I promise.”
She hugs me back. “Then what is this about, tesoro? You look like you just found out your mother’s condition is terminal.” She hits me with a stern glare. “It isn’t. We still have plenty of options.”
I nod, agreeing with her. The payment I’m about to receive could be instrumental in my mother’s recovery.
I just wish the knowledge would ease the delivery of my next set of words. I hate asking for anything, but I don’t have a choice.
“Could I borrow a couple of dollars?” Not wanting my aunt to think I’m mooching off her more than I already am, I quickly add, “I’ll pay you back the instant the bank opens tomorrow. I lost my purse, and I had to get a new account, so I have—”
“It’s fine, tesoro.” She moves for her purse to collect a handful of notes and coins. “I know you wouldn’t ask unless it was urgent.” She presses the last of her funds into my hand before her eyes meet mine. “Just promise me you will be careful.”
She doesn’t announce she knows I’m skipping work. She doesn’t need to. The worry in her eyes paints the picture.
“I will. I promise.”
After packing my toothbrush, spare panties, and a hairbrush, I leave the apartment.
It’s different witnessing the city at this time of night. It is already buzzing with life, but in a playful, poetic way instead of the dark columns of a back-alley pub.
I keep my head down, avoiding the eyes of my neighbors and the curious glances of strangers as I proceed to the station. The last thing I want is for Alessandro to find out I’m not sick. I can’t risk getting fired. I need my job.
The train to Palermo is crowded, and the air smells of salt-slicked skin and too many bodies packed into too small a space. Carlisle’s coastline is one of the best in Sicily, and people often flock here for day trips when they want to escape the hustle and bustle of the city.
As I seek a seat in the packed carriage, the photo of Giovanni and Valeria haunts me at every turn. Locals and tourists are equally invested in what reporters are broadcasting as the wedding of the century.
I wish I could tear today’s newspaper out of the hand of a man with a seedy mustache, but since the seat next to him is the only one empty, I excuse my interruption before slipping past him and sitting next to the window.
As the train speeds toward Palermo, I block out the noise and try to center myself.
Nothing works. I replay every second of my time with Giovanni.
His expression when he entered me bare and the flare that sparked through his hooded gaze when he tasted my arousal feature the most. But I also recall the warmth of his eyes when he raked them over my body, and his command when he led our exchanges with authority.
I hate him, but I hate myself more.
I could have not allowed lust to speak on my behalf. I could have said no. I didn’t because I didn’t want anything to disrupt what I’m confident will always rate as the best night of my life.
By the time I arrive in Palermo, I’m mentally exhausted. I beeline to the clinic. Though my confidence lags, my steps are quick and sure. I don’t bother with the side entrance this time. My embarrassment has already reached its pinnacle, so what’s the point in hiding?
I walk straight up to the front doors of the clinic with my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure anyone passing by can hear it. The glass entry door slices open with a hiss, and I step inside and brace for the usual bustle of patients and staff.
The waiting room is empty. There are no receptionists or nurses. There isn’t even the faint whirr of the coffee machine that taunted me for hours on end when I was required to fast.
The silence is eerie, amplified by the prickling of awkwardness already coating my skin.
I hover by the desk for a few minutes, certain someone will eventually come out. When no one does, I clear my throat.
“Hello?”
My greeting bounces back to me, my request for help unanswered.
I wait a little longer. When the emptiness of the space homes in on me, I pace down the corridor toward the procedural rooms. My shoes squeak on the gleaming surface, and each shriek makes me feel more and more like an intruder.
When I walk by closed doors, memories of my last visit steamroll back in. The nerves, the paper gown, and the sterile scent I thought I’d never scrub from my skin bombard me.
Partway down, I hear voices. They’re muffled at first. Barely a low rumble. But the closer I get, the more one voice stands out. I’d know it anywhere.
Giovanni.
I freeze, and my breath catches halfway to my lungs. Turning around and retreating to Carlisle is tempting, but my feet root in place as my mind is caught between dread and something I refuse to name.
When the voice grows louder, against my better judgment, I press myself against the wall and listen intently. I shouldn’t care what has Giovanni so worked up he has to shout, but I do.
My concern is as insistent as my wish to see my mother grow old and has my feet refusing to budge for anything.
Even him.