Chapter 6 #3
He poured himself a glass, then another, and told me stories about growing up in Sicily, about the warm weather, about illegal soccer games in ancient plazas, about the time Pietro saved him from falling into traffic by grabbing his jacket and dislocating his own shoulder in the process.
“He doesn’t like to talk about himself,” said Tonio, “but he is always there for you, even if you don’t ask. ”
I believed him. I didn’t know why, but I did.
Somewhere in the middle of the second helping, Tonio’s phone buzzed. He checked it, then grimaced in a way that said nothing good was coming. He finished his wine, then stood up and stretched his arms over his head, making his back pop.
“I have to go,” he said. “Family thing. Pietro will be back soon, I think, unless he is being a chicken, which is likely.” He gathered the dish and the wine and packed them up with the economy of someone who had done it a thousand times.
Then he looked at me seriously, like he needed me to understand something.
“You are safe here,” he said. “No one gets in without Pietro knowing. And if you need anything, you call me, not just him.” He slid a card across the counter. “This is my number. You use it. Day or night.”
I nodded, tucking the card under my phone.
He whistled once, low and sharp, and Olimpo jerked awake, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The dog padded to the door, turned once to look at me, and wagged his tail, which banged into the wall with a satisfying thud.
Tonio smiled again, then walked out without backwards glance, his footsteps quiet but the energy of him lingering in the space.
He left then, with the kind of suddenness that told me he did not feel the need for a goodbye. Olimpo gave me one last nudge, then followed him out, tail wagging like a flag.
The door clicked shut. The apartment was quiet again.
I sat at the counter, my plate empty, the taste of wine and cheese and tomato still on my tongue.
It was the first time in months I had eaten without guilt or fear, and for a long minute, I just sat there, hands curled around the stem of the glass, letting the world be good.
I did not check the windows. I did not look for cameras. I just sat, and for once, it was enough.
*
I had been in the soft room for an hour, sitting on the sheepskin rug with an old paperback open in my lap, not reading.
The light in the room was different than the rest of the apartment—gold instead of blue, the kind of light that made you think of late autumn and old stories.
The radiator ticked. The air smelled of wool and varnish and, faintly, of the bread Tonio had left in the kitchen, which I could not stop thinking about.
The book in my hands was a Christie, but I hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. I was listening—first for footsteps, then for the sound of the elevator, then for nothing at all. When the knock came, it was soft, more of a knock on the air than the door.
Pietro was in the hall, half in shadow, hands deep in his pockets and his hair a little rumpled like he’d run a hand through it five times on the walk over.
His eyes flicked past me to the book, the lamp, the sheepskin, then back to my face like he was collecting evidence.
I didn’t move. For a second it was just us and the hush of the apartment, the thin partition of air between the hallway and the soft room not quite enough to keep his presence from rolling right in.
“You met my brother?” he said, voice low and sanded smooth, like he was hoping to keep the moment contained.
I kept my back to the couch, only half-turned toward him. “I did. Good lasagna.”
He smiled at that, just at the corner of his mouth, the expression not quite reaching his eyes.
“I’m glad. He likes you. But then, Tonio likes everyone.
” He shifted his weight in the doorway, staying put, as if even a single step inside would be too much, too soon.
A courtesy, or a boundary. I couldn’t decide which.
“Your day was ok? Getting accustomed to the place?”
“To being a prisoner?”
“You can leave any time. You know this.”
“I can’t though, can I? I leave, I die—or worse.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s not your fault, is it.”
He didn’t come in. Not right away. He watched me for a beat, then two, and I felt myself heat up under the scrutiny, something like the ghost of embarrassment from being caught living in his space, curled up on his rug, wearing his old ex’s sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled to my wrists.
He cleared his throat. “May I?”
Something in the request—it wasn’t sheepish, not awkward, just careful—landed on me. The word “may” from a man like him, brutal and gentle at once, felt like a trick question. I could have said no. I wanted to say yes.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He crossed the room. His shoes were off; he wore only socks, which made him look less dangerous, but not less striking.
He sat at the piano bench, hesitated, then lifted the lid.
He played one note, then another, the sound startling in its clarity, the kind of clear that made you forget anything else existed.
He played eight bars of something I didn’t recognize—slow, spare, sad. Then, when he caught me looking, he changed. The second thing was harder, faster, a burst of sound that rolled over the room and landed between my ribs. His fingers were quick and precise, the music filling the space like water.
He finished, let the last note hang.
I realized I was clutching the paperback to my chest, one hand tight around the spine.
I said, “You play beautifully.”
He looked over his shoulder, face still. “Come,” he said, very softly. “I’ll show you.”
I put the book aside. The rug was soft under my feet. I walked over, the air in the room tighter with every step, and sat at the bench beside him.
He took my right hand and placed it on the keys, fingers splayed. His hand covered mine. The heat of his palm, the weight of his fingers. I could feel the roughness at the ends, calluses built up over years, and the pads of his fingers pressed into the backs of mine, guiding them.
He pressed my thumb into a key in the center of the piano.
“One,” he said. Barely more than a whisper.
He guided my next finger to the key next to it.
“Two.”
I felt the pressure, the authority in it, the careful gentleness that told me he was used to handling things that broke.
We walked up the scale, five notes. Each time, he pressed my finger down, making the sound, not letting go until I had heard it fully.
At the fifth note, he stopped, his hand still over mine.
I turned to look at him. He was already looking at me. I wasn’t breathing right.
His hand was still over mine on the keys, and his face was so close that I could see where his stubble had started to come in, the shadow of it across his jaw, the darker line at the edge of his upper lip.
His eyes were darker in the lamp than in the hallway, not quite black, but the kind of brown that you got lost in.
He didn’t move. He held so still I could feel him holding still, like he was afraid that if he moved, I would disappear.
I moved.
I put both hands on the sides of his face and kissed him.
This time it was not an alley. This time it was not a move, or a distraction, or a way to escape something worse. This time it was the only thing in the room that I could do that made sense. This time, it was a yes.
He made a sound—low, rough, almost a growl—and his hand came up off the keys and tangled in my hair.
He pulled me into him, mouth hard on mine, the pressure so good I could have wept.
His other hand slid to my waist and then under the hem of the shirt, palm flat on my bare skin, hot and sure and not shaking at all.
I opened my mouth for him. I wanted him to know it was not a mistake.
He took it, tongue pressing in, the taste of him warm and dark and a little like the wine from before.
I could feel his breath, the heat of it, and the way his chest hitched when I bit down on his lower lip, just a little, just enough for him to feel it.
He pulled me onto his lap. I did not weigh much, but the shift put my knee on his thigh, the shirt riding up. I could feel him—hard, real—under the thin cotton, and the jolt it sent up through my body made me gasp.
“We shouldn’t,” he said, pulling back.
“Why?”
“Because you’re here for me to keep safe, not for me to fuck.”
His words were hard. So hard I almost felt myself tear up.
“Right.”
“I’m sorry, Angela. I won’t fail you. I won’t let myself.”
I nodded. But all I could think was, let yourself—please, let yourself.