CHAPTER 33
"There are times when the world stops pushing. It wasn't long, but it was ours."
VALENTINA MORETTI
The pool was small.
Four people standing, at most. But it had an infinity edge on the sea side—that thing that seemed to swallow the water into the ground, never stopping.
I was in the corner, elbows on the white stone, my wet hair slicked all the way back. A black swimsuit Lina had bought in a hurry last week, one I'd never worn before.
Luca appeared on the terrace above.
White linen pants, white shirt open at the top three buttons, and a glass of whiskey in his right hand.
"Bella mia."
"Vieni qui."
"I just got changed."
"I know."
"I'm not getting in the pool."
He set the glass down on the stone parapet of the terrace. He came down the little side stairs, barefoot, without taking off the linen pants, over to the edge of the pool.
I splashed water at him. Not much—just enough to hit the right cuff of his white pants.
He closed his eyes for a second. Madonna santa, I thought. He's going to kill me.
Then he laughed, in that way he had—almost too much of a laugh, almost nothing at all.
"You're impossible."
"Sì, padrone."
And he got into the pool.
In the linen pants and the open white shirt. The water came up to his waist. He took three steps to where I was, slowly, with that calm of a man who knew I was cornered in the corner, and took me by the waist with both hands.
"I'd just gotten changed," he murmured.
"Cazzo, you're a Don. Have it washed."
The corner of his mouth lifted on one side.
He kissed me, long, with the taste of whiskey in his mouth, my wet hair dripping water onto him. His hands moved up my waist—now the part that was out of the water, cold—and down my hips.
I lifted myself up and wrapped my legs around his waist in the water. He held me by the backside with both hands.
"Bella mia. Not here."
"No?"
"There are soldiers on the staircase."
I rested my forehead against his.
"Come on, Luca. Andiamo."
He carried me off in his arms. He climbed the pool steps with the pants heavy and streaming water.
He carried me across the terrace, through the living room door, through the kitchen—where Donna Lucia, hearing us, turned to the spice shelf and stood very carefully adjusting the jar of oregano.
Madonna, I thought. The poor woman.
"Scusi, Donna Lucia!" I said over Luca's shoulder, laughing.
"Niente, signora," she answered, without turning. "I didn't see a thing."
He set me down on the floor inside the room.
The window was wide open, the white curtain billowing. Down below, the sound of the Tyrrhenian came up like a continuous whisper. The bed had been made by Donna Lucia that morning with fresh white linen sheets that smelled of Marseille soap.
"Swimsuit," Luca said.
"Pants," I said.
He drew the straps of the swimsuit down off my shoulders, slowly, kissing every inch as he uncovered it. The collarbone, the top of the chest.
The black swimsuit fell to the old ceramic floor.
His white linen pants I had to help with. Soaked, heavy, they stuck. He laughed at my effort, and I cursed under my breath.
When they finally came off, he was already bare, his black eyes shining.
Then he laid me down on the bed.
"Slow," I murmured.
"Va bene."
He went.
Slow the way he knew how to be slow. Mouth on my neck, then on my breasts, and then he moved down. His hand was open on my thigh, and it moved up.
Madonna, I thought. I don't have to think about anything today.
And that was it. That was the first new thing in this bed: I wasn't thinking about anything.
Not about Mamma. Not about Matteo in the cellar. Not about my father.
About nothing, only him.
I felt his warm sweat over the cold of the pool water still on my skin. I felt his hair soft between my fingers when I pulled it. I felt his mouth trace a silent sentence on the curve of my waist.
When he came back up, he kissed me deep again.
"Bella mia."
"Sì."
"I'm going to."
"Go."
He came into me. Slowly again, the way a man does when he has time. I wrapped my legs around him, his hands found mine at the level of my shoulders, and our fingers laced together.
"Luca. I want to be on top."
"Always."
I sat up on top of him, hands open on his chest, over the Latin tattoo.
I started slow at first, then sat down hard and fast. His black eyes fixed on mine the whole time, never looking away.
That was when he said it:
"Ti amo, bella mia."
I went still.
Not from shock—I'd known, since the night of the first time in his room, maybe before.
But it was the first time he said it. In Italian. Ti amo. With no asking, not in answer to mine.
I swallowed hard. I felt a stubborn tear want to slide down, but it didn't.
I didn't answer right away.
I kept moving and leaned forward. I rested my forehead against his, kissed his mouth lightly.
"Lo so," I whispered against his mouth.
I know.
What he always said to me.
He laughed inside the kiss. It was a laugh half caught in his throat, half surrendered.
"Brava."
And then he turned us again, him on top, his hands gripping mine above my head, and he went harder, in a hurry for the first time.
I came first—the breath went out of me, I closed my eyes, felt my whole body lock once before letting go. He came after, his forehead buried in the curve of my neck, without a sound, the way he did.
I stayed on top of him afterward.
My hair still half wet, mixed now with sweat, spread across his chest. His hand moving up and down at the base of my back, slowly. His heart coming down again, from a high beat to its normal rhythm, under my ear.
"Two and a half weeks," I murmured.
"Two and a half weeks."
"And then we go back."
"Sì."
He kissed the top of my head.
There was a soft knock at the door. Three slow knocks—Donna Lucia's way.
"Padrone."
Luca shifted a little beneath me.
"Sì?"
"L'avvocato Acquaviva al telefono." Her voice was careful. "Sicilia."
His hand stopped at the base of my back for a fraction of a second. Then it went back to tracing.
"Va bene, Donna Lucia. Arrivo."
"Sì, padrone."
Her footsteps moved off down the hall.
I didn't move.
"Luca."
"Bella mia."
He leaned in and kissed my forehead. Then he slid out from under me carefully, taking a robe from the corner armchair, putting it on and tying it at the waist.
"I'll be back."
"Lo so."
He smiled—just a little, the way he did—and went.
I stayed in the bed.
The white curtain billowing, the sea down below, the linen sheet still warm from the weight of him.
Two whole hours, I thought. I had two whole hours without thinking.