Chapter 39
NICO
The Venice Simplon–Orient-Express gleams under the Florence station lights like a promise from another era, one where travel was not merely a means to an end, but a transformative experience that could alter the very fabric of one’s being.
A low hum vibrates beneath our feet, and warm air sighs from beneath the carriages, ghosting briefly across the platform before vanishing.
Alessia stops short when she sees it, her breath hitching, eyes wide with a mix of awe and trepidation. “Nico,” she gasps.
I love seeing the unmitigated delight on her face.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she murmurs, a soft command cloaked in vulnerability.
“Yes, I did, because you wanted to experience it, and there was no way you were doing it without me,” I tell her.
She looks at me then, and I see a myriad of feelings reflected in her eyes—grief, suspicion, and fragile hope. I want to promise her, then and there, that she has no reason to worry. Not with me. Never with me. I will protect her heart, nurture that hope into an inferno of certainty.
“Just one night?”
“Well…one night on the train, and then one in Paris.”
“You said one night,” she protests in mock outrage.
“I guess we could come back tomorrow night, but, cara, I have a need to kiss you by the Seine.” It’s a bit too smooth, even for me. And she gets it.
She laughs, holding her hand up. “I guess there are worse places to spend a night than Paris.”
“I want you to have the world, Alessia,” I tell her, pouring all my heart into my words.
She gives a faint, wry smile that dances at the corners of her lips. “I’m surprised you remember I told you about this.”
“It was after harvest, when we were in the courtyard, and I asked you what is something you wanted to do but hadn’t because you don’t have the time, and you said you’d love to travel the Orient Express.”
She quirks an eyebrow in amusement. “I think I mentioned something about Johnny Depp then.”
I make an exaggerated grimace. “You did say you didn’t want murder, and if I recall, Johnny Depp was the odious Ratchett.”
“You’re absolutely right!” She hugs me, then kisses me.
And that’s every fucking thing!
As we step aboard the train, we’re enveloped in a world where time seems to slow, and the outside world fades away.
Our cabin is intimate in a way only old luxury can be—polished wood, brass fixtures glinting in the soft light, and crisp white linens folded with a precision that speaks of a time when elegance was paramount.
The air is thick with the perfume of leather and fresh flowers, a sensory delight that welcomes us into its embrace.
“Just leave your bags,” I tell her. “They’ll unpack.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “But then they’ll see all my sexy lingerie.”
I kiss her soft and sweet. “Dolcezza, I am hoping you’re wearing that lingerie and don’t have it packed.”
She gives me a shy smile. “You’ll have to find out, won’t you?”
While our bags are unpacked, sexy lingerie and all, we go into the dining car and it feels like stepping into a dream—a realm where elegance reigns supreme.
White tablecloths drape over polished mahogany, the soft glow of crystal chandeliers casting a warm light that dances across the faces of the guests.
Each table is adorned with delicate China and silverware that glints invitingly, while the soft murmur of conversation creates a soothing background hum, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses.
The train begins to move, and a gentle swaying sensation envelops us, as if the train itself is cradling us in its arms. The rhythmic sound of the wheels gliding over the tracks becomes a soothing melody, harmonizing with the soft jazz playing in the background, creating a cocoon of intimacy that feels almost sacred.
“Is this as good as you imagined?” I ask.
“It’s better than the movie with Johnny Depp,” she teases.
“Cara, are you trying to make me jealous?”
She leans in, eyes bright. “Is it working?”
I take a deep breath and savor her closeness. “I know you’re mine and I’m yours.”
Her eyes filled with emotion. “Si.”
Dinner is a feast of culinary artistry that transforms each plate into a canvas.
The first course arrives, an exquisite arrangement of vibrant colors—a salad of heirloom tomatoes, drizzled with a rich balsamic reduction, paired with creamy burrata that melts in your mouth.
Alessia’s eyes widen in wonder as she takes in the presentation.
“But is the wine pairing going to be worth it?” she muses.
“Oh, I think so.”
And it is.
I told the barman to not serve us any Alighieri wines. I want us to be free of the company, at least for a night.
“I can’t believe you remembered and made this happen.” She’s still in awe, as she savors each bite, the flavors dancing on her palate.
“I’d do anything for you, cara,” I tell her, my heart swelling with emotion.
The main course follows—a sumptuous duck breast, perfectly seared and served with a cherry reduction that glistens like rubies against the white China.
As she takes her first bite, her eyes close momentarily, lost in the rich, savory notes that unfold. It’s a sight that fills me with joy; I want her to experience the fullness of this moment, to know what it means to indulge in life’s pleasures.
“Is this what heaven feels like?” There’s a playful glimmer in her eyes as she raises her glass, filled with a deep red wine that sparkles under the soft light. French, not Alighieri, not even Italian.
“Only if you let it,” I reply, clinking my glass against hers, feeling the warmth of her smile radiate through the air.
With every course, the world outside the train blurs into a watercolor of lights and shadows, the passing landscapes a backdrop to our unfolding connection.
The mountains rise majestically in the distance, their peaks dusted with snow, while valleys stretch out beneath us, cloaked in the golden hues of dusk.
The train glides through tunnels, where darkness envelops us momentarily, only to emerge into the vibrant colors of the Italian countryside—an ever-changing tapestry that captivates the senses.
Later, back in the cabin, we find ourselves cocooned in the gentle rocking of the train, the world outside reduced to a blur of shadows and stars. The soft sound of the wheels on the tracks becomes a lullaby, lulling our worries to sleep.
She changes in the tiny washroom, emerging in—fuck me—the most delectable wisps of lace ever seen on a female body.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded, waiting for her to bridge the distance.
“You’re being very…well-behaved,” she observes, a teasing glint in her eyes.
I huff a soft laugh, the tension between us easing momentarily. “Don’t get used to it.”
She stands in front of me. The black of the lace she’s wearing looks spun from shadow and moonlight—Italian craftsmanship at its most dangerous.
La Perla at is finest.
The bra is sheer and delicate, scalloped along the edges, whisper-thin straps tracing the elegant line of her shoulders. It doesn’t hide much, only frames—lifting, shaping, worshipping.
The matching panties sit low on her hips, cut high along her thighs, the lace so fine it’s almost an illusion, like it might dissolve if I breathe too hard.
The lace maps her curves instead of covering them, following the soft swell of her breasts, the gentle dip of her waist, the feminine arc of her hips. It’s not costume-lingerie. It’s couture seduction. The kind that assumes you’re already undone.
I swallow. Hard.
She tilts her head slightly, watching me watch her, absolutely aware of the effect she’s having.
The black against her skin makes her look luminous. Untouchable. Offered.
“Say something,” she murmurs.
My voice comes out rough. “If I speak, I’m going to stop being well-behaved.”
Her smile is slow. Predatory.
“Good.”
I put my hands on her waist, feel her warmth.
I want to take her now but I want her forever so I tamp down my carnal needs for my emotional ones. “Alessia, tell me what this means?”
“I can’t forgive you,” she says quietly, the weight of her words settling heavily between us. “Yet.”
“I know,” I reply, my voice steady, accepting the truth of her feelings.
“But I love you,” she adds, the admission trembling on her lips, as if it costs her something profound to say it aloud.
My chest tightens, a swell of emotion rushing through me. “I know that, too.”
She looks at me then, her gaze steady, searching for certainty in my eyes. “And I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” My hands flex against her flesh. “Even if it takes time. Even if it’s uncomfortable.”
She smiles the smile of a siren. “So, what do you think of the lingerie?”
“It looks amazing. But I think you’d look better without it.”
She puts her hands on my shoulders. “Make love to me, caro,” she commands.