Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Katya
After the horrible few weeks we've had, with the threat of Boris Orlov hanging over us, the peace that's settled over the house feels entirely foreign.
During the raid on the farmhouse, Orlov and eighteen of Andretti's crew were killed. Andretti himself escaped but the damage Gabriele inflicted on his operation means he's unlikely to show his face around here again.
For the first time since I arrived in Rome, I can breathe.
Gabriele, without prompting, arrived at my bedroom door this morning and announced he was taking me to the Villa Borghese. It's a huge park where he spent time as a boy with his mother and brothers. I can see the appeal. It's incredibly serene.
He's promised to take me back to the Galleria one day. We tried to gain entrance this morning without a booking.
Most people would take one look at Gabriele and throw the rules out of the window, but not Signora Delmonico, the fearsome septuagenarian who was manning reception. She was completely immune to the so-called Beast of Rome.
It was impossible to miss the way Gabriele’s jaw tightened. He’s not a man who’s used to being denied, yet this formidable old woman batted him away like he was nothing more than a gnat buzzing about her. That had to have dented his pride.
Unable to view the art, we opt for a walk by the lake. It’s pretty. The park is quiet today and for once the heat of the Roman sun is tolerable. It helps that we’re in the shade of the trees most of the time.
We stop at the water's edge and Gabriele points out the Temple of Asclepius sitting on its island.
"Who's Asclepius?"
"The god of medicine and healing."
"Hmm." That seems apt, somehow. I look around and smile as something catches my eye. "They have rowing boats."
Gabriele shakes his head. "I hope you're not suggesting I row you around the lake."
"It would be romantic."
"Katya, I can barely see."
His eye isn't as bad as I feared when Mila read out her husband's message.
The doctor who came to check it said it would be fine as long as we kept doing what I'd already started with the ice packs and painkillers.
Gabriele can't fully open it, which means his depth perception is even more compromised than usual.
Lukas and I have taken turns over the last couple of days to ensure he doesn't walk into something and cause himself a worse injury. We tried to get him to stay in bed but it would be easier to hold back the tide.
"It would be suicidal."
"Is the water deep enough to drown in?"
"Yes." He sees my disappointment and squeezes my hand. "We'll do it another day."
"Fine. I can wait."
"That would make a change," Gabriele mutters under his breath.
I purse my lips. "You know, I think I prefer you when you're being an ogre. I don't like all this teasing."
"Don't worry, dolcezza. I'm sure something will come along soon to spark my anger."
I'm sure it will too. The life we lead isn't one of kittens and dewdrops, after all. I turn to watch some ducks gliding across the water and smile.
"They mate for life, you know," I tell Gabriele. "Ducks."
"I don't think they do."
"Of course they do. Look how devoted they are. Look how he follows her everywhere."
"Katya." He sounds pained. "There are two males following her around."
I watch the three ducks for a moment. "Well," I say. "Perhaps they're a throuple."
Gabriele looks at me for a moment and then boops me on the nose, which is so entirely unexpected coming from this man that I'm momentarily speechless.
"You're adorable," he says.
I pout. "You're insulting my intelligence."
"I'm really not." He glances at his watch — the platinum one from Damiano, worn without comment, which is Gabriele's version of an acknowledgment. "Lunch?"
"That would be nice. Where do you want to go?"
"There's a little restaurant near here, up near the Spanish Steps. Very good pizza."
"Hmm." Pizza sounds exactly right for the mood of this afternoon. "Don't you need a reservation?"
He looks at me with an expression that says he finds this question slightly beneath both of us.
I raise an eyebrow. "You did not just give me that look. You were turned away from the Galleria Borghese this morning."
"That was different."
"How was it different?"
"Because that woman was a tyrant. I swear she's a direct descendant of Caligula," Gabriele mutters as we walk hand in hand by the lake.
I stare at him, open-mouthed. "Did you just make a joke?"
He shrugs. "It happens."
"I'm sure it does. I just didn't think I'd be around to see it."
He looks down at me, brow furrowed. "Am I really so forbidding?"
Does he have to ask. Surely the man knows he's terrifying most of the time, even to those closest to him.
"Not at the moment." I flash him a saccharine smile. "Right now you look like a panda. There's nothing scary about them."
Gabriele shakes his head. “Let’s go get lunch.”
I motion to the six bodyguards who've been trailing us at a respectful distance, doing as much to keep the paparazzi at bay as to protect us. "What about this lot?"
Gabriele turns. "Does anyone want pizza?"
The chorus of agreement is immediate and unanimous.
We walk to the restaurant hand in hand, a small thing that feels surprisingly natural.
When we arrive at Pinoli, it's clear they know Gabriele.
The staff install the guards at the two tables closest to the door where they can monitor who comes and goes.
A pair of bewildered tourists are relocated from their corner table, which is promptly reset for us.
“Do you come here often?” I ask.
“Are you chatting me up?”
I shake my head, not entirely sure what to make of this lighter version of my husband. “It would a wasted effort. You’re already a sure thing.”
“Yes,” Gabriele agrees. “I am.”
He pulls out my chair and helps me make myself comfortable. Then he takes the seat opposite. There, his back is to the wall and he has a clear line of sight to the door. That means he can spot danger before it arrives, not that anyone is likely to get past our entourage.
Gabriele’s seat is also partially in the shadows, which means he can eat without fear of being watched.
A waiter appears and greets Gabriele with genuine warmth rather than sycophancy. He brings a plate of antipasti.
"We didn't order," I point out.
"We don't have to. Giovanni runs the kitchen. He'll send what he thinks we'd like."
What Giovanni thinks we'd like turns out to be exactly right. The prosciutto is extraordinary. It’s wafer thin, dissolving before it even needs to be chewed. I eat several pieces and leave the sundried tomatoes.
Gabriele watches me set them to the side. "You don't like tomatoes?"
"Not those. They look like little red wrinkly cockroaches."
Gabriele grins and pops another in his mouth.
We drink the wine Giovanni sends and somewhere in the middle of an extraordinary pizza with artichokes, which I would never have thought to put on a pizza, I become aware of a change in Gabriele's posture. He carries on eating but something has shifted. He seems to pull slightly toward the wall.
I set down my napkin and turn.
Two older women at a table across the restaurant are staring at my husband. A quick involuntary glance is forgivable but their fixed focus is something I have no patience for. I want to slap the looks right off their faces. I don't, because I have standards. I get up instead.
I cross the restaurant and stop at their table.
"I'm sure you don't realize," I say, my tone remarkably steady given my rising anger, "but you've been staring at my husband. I'm sure you mean no offence. But I'd prefer if you found something else to look at. Otherwise I'll be forced to do something unpleasant."
The women look confused. They exchange a glance and murmur something I don't catch. I feel like an idiot. They clearly don't speak English.
From the table beside them, a small girl of perhaps eight years old, sitting with her father, leans over and speaks to them rapidly in Italian. I watch the color leave their faces.
"Thank you," I tell the girl.
She grins with mischievous delight. "I told them if they didn't stop staring you'd beat them up. I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all." I catch a passing waiter's eye and point to their table. "Their meal is on me." I lean down toward the girl. "Order dessert. And something to take home. My husband is very rich."
I return to the table to find Gabriele laughing. Not just smiling — actually laughing, in a way that takes years off him and makes him look entirely himself.
"Oh, Katya," he says, shaking his head. "What am I going to do with you?"
I pick up my fork and return to my pizza. "Finish your lunch and take me home," I tell him with a grin. "I have a few ideas."