Chapter 8 Gabriella
Our newlywed tourist day starts at the Pantheon because Luca gruffly admits he’s never been inside.
“You live five blocks away,” I say, scandalized.
“I live five blocks away from problems,” he answers.
For a second I forget this isn’t real. The quiet in him here feels different, like the temple pressed pause on the very dangerous man at my side. He doesn’t touch me, but he stands close enough that the heat off his body warms my bare arm.
After a quick peek inside, we exit back onto the street. He steers me with a firm hand at the small of my back down a narrow lane that smells of sugar and pistachio.
“Where are we going?” I ask, worried for a moment.
“To get the best gelato in Rome,” he replies.
“Well, that’s a bold claim. Prepare to be judged.”
We step into the small shop and order at the counter. Single cup of pistachio for him. A double pistachio and dark chocolate for me because I’m a hedonist. And because I never turn down a man’s offer to buy me food.
The tiny shop doesn’t have tables or chairs so we stand under an overhang outside to eat. He watches me closely when I take the first bite. The cold hits my tongue, sweet and nutty, and a tiny, involuntary noise of pure joy escapes me.
His mouth does a barely-there curve. “Good?”
“Obscenely.”
I suspect there’s a smear at the corner of my mouth.
I go to swipe it away, but his thumb gets there first, slow and unhurried, pressing against my bottom lip just enough that I feel the drag of his skin.
He doesn’t move for a beat. Just holds my gaze and rubs that thumb over the place he kissed last night.
“Sofia,” he says, like my name’s an object he can wrap a leash around.
“Mm?” I answer, very dignified, with his thumb still at my mouth.
“Hurry and eat. Your gelato is melting.”
When he pulls his hand away, I resist the urge to grab it back and suck his thumb. Then I remember innocent, virgin brides don’t lick their husband’s thumb in public. Something flickers in his eyes and for a brief moment, I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking.
“Want a bite of mine?” I ask, tilting the chocolate side towards him.
He leans down and takes a bite without breaking eye contact or speaking.
“Ready to move on?” he asks when I’ve finished eating.
“Sure.”
We continue walking along as if we’re regular tourists. Past a shrine tucked in a wall, and a street violinist playing a sad song. Luca’s fingertips brush the inside of my elbow to guide me through the crowd. He doesn’t say stay close, but his hand says it for him.
Near the Spanish Steps we decide to split a margherita pizza from a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. that looks like it was founded by someone’s grandmother and a brick oven. We sit on the steps to eat. The crust is blistered and perfect. I burn my fingers on a molten pocket of cheese and hiss loudly.
“Careful,” he says. He takes the slice from my hand, blowing on the tip in slow, deliberate breaths that do terrible things to my insides.
He takes a bite to test the heat, then without looking away tilts the slice back to my mouth.
I lean in and our fingers brush. The small act of him feeding me feels obscene for no good reason.
“Your bodyguards aren’t very subtle,” I say around a mouthful, tipping my chin toward Paolo and Tony, who are attempting camouflage via expensive sunglasses and the world’s least-convincing guidebook held upside down.
“Paolo’s getting married next month,” Luca says. “Tony’s got three kids.”
“Ah…he seems sweet,” I say, wiggling my fingers at Tony. He scowls at me and I grin. “Okay, sweet for a man who probably has multiple guns hidden under that jacket.”
“Don’t call him sweet.” Luca warns. “He’s killed twelve people.”
Wow…way to put it right out there.
I should flinch, but I don’t. I’m glad it’s me sitting here, instead of my terrified sister. He watches my reaction carefully. I hope he’s disappointed.
“Do they always follow you?” I ask. “Everywhere?”
“Part of the deal.” He swipes my last crust right out of my hand and eats it. His mouth brushes my fingertips on purpose. “You’ll have protection too now as my wife.”
“What? No! I don’t need big, surly men following me around all day.”
“Protection isn’t optional. You’re my wife. That makes you leverage to my enemies.”
“You have enemies?”
“Yes, many.”
“Doesn’t make them mine. As far as I know, I don’t have an enemy in this world.”
“If you’re smart, you’ll keep it that way.”
I fight the urge to snap back at him. I chew my lip instead to distract him and it works. His eyes dip to my mouth and stay a fraction too long.
“I’m ready to check out the Trevi Fountain.” I stand up and dust the pizza crumbs off my clothes. “How about you?”
“Of course,” he replies. “What would be a tourist day without the famous fountain?”
I stop flinging crumbs down the steps long enough to look at him. “Are you humoring me today? By coming along with me? Am I keeping you from work stuff?”
He hesitates before answering. “No, today is nice. Surely a man, even a busy man, is allowed one day after his wedding to spend with his new wife?”
I smile back at him, stupidly pleased with his answer. What the hell am I doing? Playing along like I’m a besotted fool for my new husband. Then I remember, that’s what I’m supposed to be doing.
Or is it?
Hell, at this point, I’m not sure. The lines are beginning to blur and this is only the first day.
The minute we arrive at the Trevi Fountain, I realize it’s a huge mistake. The crowd is shoulder-to-shoulder tourists, crammed in tight while hoping to get a photo. Everyone is tossing coins and swinging selfie-sticks around. A typical tourist nightmare to endure just to say you’ve been here.
Not to mention it’s blazing hot.
We try to make our way forward with the bodyguards following us. If anyone were watching they might think we were part of a very slow, boring parade.
I tug on his sleeve. “Can I take your photo with my phone? When’s the last time you took a normal, candid picture?”
“Never.”
I laugh and then realize he’s serious. “Then congratulations, you’re about to be immortalized like a teenage exchange student. I deserve to have a photo of my handsome husband on my phone. Right?”
He lifts a brow, but surprisingly doesn’t argue with me.
He stands where I tell him and looks like a man who’s pretending to be human. Stiff and uncomfortable. I take a few shots and check them. They’re all terrible.
“Relax, Luca. Unclench your fists. You look like you literally want to kill someone.”
He exhales, the tension leaving his shoulders. The next photo catches a softer mouth. The third—God help me—catches a devastating smile that makes him look ten percent less dangerous and somehow a thousand percent more so.
“Almost human now,” I say, scrolling.
“Thank you,” he says dryly. “How much longer is this going to take?”
“One more.” I line up another shot. Perfect. A flash of movement at my back barely registers. Before I can turn around, small hands snatch the phone from my grip.
"Hey!" I shout, spinning to see a girl maybe sixteen or seventeen years old already pushing through the crowd, my phone clutched in her fist.
Time slows down.
I should probably scream for help or stand there shocked. Wait for the bodyguards to handle it like a proper mafia wife would.
Instead, every instinct I've developed over years of backpacking through sketchy neighborhoods kicks in at once.
I take off running. “Come back here you little shit!”
"Sofia!" Luca shouts behind me, but I'm already weaving through the crowd, keeping my eyes locked on the girl's bright pink hair.
She's good. Really good.
Knows exactly how to use tourists as obstacles, ducking under cameras and around families. But I've been chased by everyone from angry ex-boyfriends to actual police. This is not my first rodeo.
I cut left around a group of German tourists, leap over a small barrier, and manage to get ahead of her. When she tries to dart between two gelato stands, I'm already there waiting.
She sees me coming and her eyes go wide. She tries to change direction, but she's moving too fast on the wet stone.
I tackle her.
We go down hard, both of us sliding across the ground.
She drops the phone as we fall, and it skitters across the stone.
But I don't care about that anymore. I'm running on pure adrenaline and years of pent-up frustration at every pickpocket, scam artist, and creep who thought they could take advantage of a solo female traveler.
"Listen to me," I yell, pinning her wrist to the ground. "You picked the wrong fucking tourist today."
The girl's eyes are huge. She's probably never had a mark fight back like this, let alone a woman in a sundress and sandals.
"I'm sorry!" she gasps. "I'm sorry, please!"
"Damn right you're sorry." I get to my feet, hauling her up with me. "And you're going to walk away from here and find a different fucking fountain to work, understand?"
She nods frantically and takes off running the moment I let go of her wrist. I walk over and pick up my phone and check it for cracks. It's fine.
That's when I realize the entire area around the fountain has gone quiet. Tourists are staring. Some are taking pictures. A few are even clapping.
Luca stands ten feet away, expression unreadable in that way that means everything is being read.
Behind him, Paolo and Tony are pushing through the crowd, looking like they're not sure whether to applaud or tackle me themselves.
"Boss!" Tony calls out, slightly out of breath. "We saw her run, we were coming—"
"I see that," Luca says slowly, not taking his eyes off me. "Little late though."
Paolo scowls at me. "Ma'am, you shouldn't have done that. That was dangerous, you could have been hurt—"
"But I wasn't." I hold up the phone. "She was just a kid. I’m fine."
"Yeah, a kid with a knife," Tony points out, nodding at something on the ground.