Chapter 3
B usiness class would’ve been a step down from what I’m used to, but worse still, I’m forced to find a spot in economy for the first leg of my journey to Puglia. It’s fine. I booked last minute on a full flight. I’m lucky I have a seat at all. But it’s the aisle, and the stewards knock the shit out of my elbow with their cart every time they walk by. There’s a screaming kid behind me. Hell, even the little bottles of booze I get with my meal are tiny and taste like spiced petroleum.
Italy . It’s worth it, and it’ll be over soon. I’ve had hangovers longer than this flight.
The food cart bruises my arm with its force. The steward offers me two whole meal options and I answer “chicken” through a wince. The swill they serve on this side of the plane is one of the worst meals I’ve had in a while. The most appetizing part of it is the freaking dinner roll.
Italy . The reminder is more of a mental grimace but it keeps me focused. Overpriced eye mask on, the rush-purchased neck pillow from Hudson News propped just-so, I shove my earphones in to drown out the wailing. I’ll land in Naples and then find my way to Puglia—I’m winging it. It’ll be okay. Easy. I pop an Ambien and it takes hold—putting me out of my misery for the next few hours.
When I wake, it’s with a kink in my neck and my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth from the recycled air. Disembarking is a crush of people who stand as soon as the seatbelt sign goes off. Overhead bins are thrown open and bags bump anyone unlucky enough to be in the vicinity. The plane smells like sweat and desperation. I count myself among the latter, antsy to get the fuck out of this sardine can. The longer I stand in the press of bodies, the quicker my heart pounds.
Just a couple more minutes .
Once I’m free, I rush to the baggage carousel as if walking will burn off the anxiety of being contained for too long. After a few rotations, my hand wraps around my suitcase handle, tugging. Italy waits beyond the exit doors.
Steeling myself, I step out into the Neapolitan breeze. The air is different here. It’s not a stretch when New York carries its own personalized scent, but here it whirls around in my lungs and calms the calamity in my chest. Stepping away from the doors, I wait on the sidewalk as cars pull up and depart just as quickly—witness to sweet reunions and hurried rideshares.
Naples is apparently the best place to get authentic pizza—my first taste of Italy. This might be the turn I’ve hoped for. Things are looking up. I google the top-rated pizzeria in Naples and order a taxi to get me there.
Other tourists mull about, stuffing their faces with red sauce and cheese. Spots dot the crust, blackened where it’s risen too close to the flame. I’m thankful Naples is such a tourist town when I’m able to place my order in English. Thomas Palmer immersed himself in the American Dream so fully you’d hardly guess he was Italian at all. That left me with a severe lack of knowledge and almost zero language skills.
I people-watch while I wait and let the city's energy settle around me. Woodsmoke and bright tomato; the smell hits me before I see it. The waiter sets a piping hot pizza down in front of me and it pains me to wait for it to be cool enough to touch.
The moan following the first bite is easy to excuse. After a rude awakening to suffer through another terrible plane meal, it’s only expected. The second and third bites feel downright sinful. Flavor bursts along my tastebuds—sauce sweet and salty in the best way. The dough has a rougher texture on the bottom where they’ve either floured it or added something to stop it from sticking to the base of the oven. Fresh basil lends an earthy and sweet distraction to the richness of fresh mozzarella, torn off into bubbling balls of decadence.
Jesus Christ . Did I just fall in love with a pizza slice?
I force myself to take a break from devouring food to look up my best option for travel—no direct flights from Naples to any airport in Puglia. The train is an extensive journey, which leaves buses . I’m very tempted to find a driver who will take me all the way, but the rolled-up contract in my backpack hangs heavy.
I haven’t looked at it yet. Seeing my father’s birth name on it left me with a feeling I didn’t want to examine back in New York. It can wait a little longer, right?
Takeovers and dismantling corporations can’t happen on an empty stomach. This has nothing to do with me being scared shitless and wondering for the first time what I’ve gotten myself into. Looking before leaping might have been a good idea. How the hell am I going to manage this in three months? Part of me is unconvinced I want the CEO title, but that was when I had time to decide. The board forced me into a corner and I can either rise to the occasion, or…
Be the fuck up everyone expects you to be .
I don’t have much going for me, it’s true. But perhaps this can be my chance to do something outside my father’s scope. Thomas Palmer was well-known in New York. But here… here my father was Tommaso de Palma and his only legacy is rolled up into an agreement close to thirty years old.
I could make it mine, could find a space where I fit without having to self-medicate and plaster on a smile. This could be fulfilling. At least I might have something to fall back on if I fail at being CEO—besides vices.
Sucking it up, I book the bus ticket. Matt Palmer hasn’t taken a bus before. He’s a spoiled asshole whose only talent is finding trouble. Today, and for the rest of the summer, I’m determined to be more than just Matt Palmer. What that means remains to be seen.
A handful of sweltering hours later, I step off the crowded bus into a town called Taranto. The sun-kissed edge of the coast glistens in invitation. My first impression of Puglia is sunlight and sensation. Heat leaves my limbs languid—the daylight baking onto my skin—and the wind offers a kiss to temper the bite. The air tastes different here, unburdened by smog and fumes. A summer breeze dances around me, laced with freesia and the hint of rich, tilled earth. It’s like a fucking postcard, and all I can think is I’ve had all this waiting for me and never knew. So close, yet so far.
In Puglia at last. I finally pull out the contract. Abundantia stares up at me like an accusation. I find precious little on the internet when I look up the name. There’s an old article about the farm in Italian that Google is trash at translating. The rest is about some ancient goddess. The address of the law office where the contract had been drawn up is in Gravina—a good fifty-some miles away, and after a full day of travel even I can’t ignore my body’s need for rest. As desperate as I am to get started on this whole endeavor, I’ll be useless without sleep. So, at the very least I can find a place to spend the night here. As much as it pains me, I ignore the contract and see about trying to find accommodations.
After a frustrating exchange of broken English and piss-poor Italian I have a room, a hot shower, and the sinking feeling that there’s a very strong possibility none of this will be as simple as I intended. Sleep drags me under almost the second my head hits the pillow and when I wake in the morning, I feel halfway human. I take a moment to enjoy an espresso and some breakfast, staring out at the sparkling waters of the Ionian Sea. Sunlight catches the ripples in the water of the gulf, seagulls squawking overhead, and it feels so far from New York I might be dreaming.
But then one of those fucking birds shits on my luggage and I’m reminded of the pigeons back home. Birds are assholes everywhere, it would seem. Scrambling to find something to clean it with, I take it as the omen that it is to get going. I swear if I could make eye contact with that little asshole his beady eyes would be saying “get out of here,” like he’s from a bad mafia movie. So, I get my ass in gear and hope this isn’t an indication of how the rest of this trip is going to go.
I approach a ticket window at the bus stop, pointing to the town's name on the contract and hoping for the best. The man behind the partition only scowls as if I’ve personally offended him. His bushy brows bend down into a severe frown. The impressive mustache he's sporting emphasizes the downturned brackets beside his mouth. He could be anywhere between thirty and fifty. His swarthy skin holds few wrinkles but his demeanor screams grumpy-older-man.
The attendant dismisses me with a backhanded wave and shakes his head. Through broken English and unintelligible Italian, I glean there are no buses for the rest of the day. My confused expression must soften the man because he sighs, hands me a pamphlet for Vespa rentals, and gestures to a building across the street with his thumb.
My phone’s power is on the brink of uselessness. I’ve forgotten to buy a converter at the airport, and the idea of being stranded sends anxiety rocketing through me.
Just get to Gravina. We’re so close.
The rental is about to shut for riposo but I flash a wad of euros, and fifteen minutes later, I wobble out with a sunny yellow vehicle. Handlebars in my grip, ownership papers for the Vespa in my backpack beside the contract—I push it out onto the street. It doesn’t make sense to rent one when I have no idea when I’ll ever get back here.
I strap my bag to the luggage rack on the back of the bike and straddle the seat. Engine sputtering, the sound jumps from a mild grumble to a roar when I twist the throttle and take off. Wobbling at first, jerking the handles in an attempt to keep the Vespa upright, it takes a minute for me to get used to the feeling of driving. Once I’m sure I’m not going to tip over spontaneously, I follow the rudimentary verbal directions I’ve been given (thanks to a now-dead phone) and eventually the road signs.
Gravina comes into view, its ancient aqueduct rising proudly. The town rests like a fortress on a hill—a remnant of the Middle Ages. My amazement grows as I venture deeper into town and traverse the twisting streets. Vendors display a wide array of products, fresh fruit, and other oddities. Another road is littered with small groupings of tables and chairs—people sipping wine. The music of rapid Italian and laughter follows me as I pass. How have I never known about this? How did my father walk away from all this life and beauty for the gridlocked, heart-attack-inducing misery of corporate New York?
I can only speculate. There’s no way to ask what it must have been like for him thirty years ago—how he grew up and if it was difficult. I might never get the chance to know now he’s dead and gone.
There’s no time to ruminate on bitterness over the past, not when the Vespa veers on the road a little as I try to soak it all up before it blurs past me. The airport was standard, the bus as I imagine most others. It’s here, in the country, further from the hub of tourism that I feel wonder start to spread through me. How long has it been since I’ve felt excited? Months? Years?
I can’t wait to trade vodka for limoncello, kale salad for homemade pasta, and American kisses for the famed fire of Italian women.
All I have to do is find a hotel. No big deal. I’m a big boy—Italian by blood, if not by culture. If I have any chance of taking over a piece of property on this side of the world, I better start learning how to navigate. Hence the Vespa and the shirt buttoned lower than I usually would. Wind whips through my dark curls under the helmet, mussing them, cooling the sweat from my body beneath the linen shirt.
Cobblestoned streets send uneven bumps through my arms, and I round a corner I’m sure has to lead to a hotel. I’ve been up and down this area multiple times, and this is the last street I haven’t tried. Too preoccupied with looking up at the few signs I can see up above the entryways, I hear her yell just in time.
My hands crush the brakes in my grip. The Vespa’s tires screech loudly, echoing against the buildings on either side of the narrow street. The roaring of my heart fills my ears, dulling the world around me until her voice pierces the fuzz.
“ Che cazzo stai facendo! ” she shouts, not even three feet from my face. Rage twists on her face but she’s beautiful in her fury. Pushing her hair back in frustration, she huffs out an angry breath. The lustrous silk of her dark strands distracts me from the fact that I’ve very nearly hit her head on. How do women get their hair that shiny?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, senseless for what must be the millionth time in my life, though rarely over a woman.
“American?” she accuses more than asks. Watching with amusement, I wonder if she’s going to spit at the ground in my general direction. Her demeanor gives off that vibe. She’s justified. I deserve it.
“Yes. Again, I truly am sorry. I’m lost and I was preoccupied.” The words feel clunky leaving my mouth. As she stares me dead in the eye, my usual charm evaporates—brain empty.
“Typical.” Gesturing at me, she mutters under her breath and bends to gather up the canvas tote bag she dropped in her haste to get out of my way. I’d be a fool and a liar to say my eyes don’t catch on her generous curves as she retrieves what she can. It’s a lost cause, though.
Oranges roll down the street, and whatever bottles were in there have crashed to the road. Thick syrupy liquid drips from one corner and onto the cobblestones below. The other corner spreads red wine like a bloom of blood, soaking the fabric.
“Please, let me make it up to you.”
Why haven’t I shut up yet? There’s no way she wants anything to do with me now. As far as first impressions go… near-death isn’t the most endearing start.
Bag retrieved, she breathes deep and releases it slowly before looking at me. I catch myself watching her lush chest rise and fall.
God, stop being such an asshole. You almost killed her and now you can’t stop checking her out?
“It’s not necessary. I think you’ve done enough .” Ire colors her voice and she turns to leave, stumbling slightly.
“I feel terrible. At least let me reimburse you for the mess I made?” Maybe if I keep trying? Something in my chest flutters, uncertain. Why does it matter to me at all?
“I appreciate the offer but,” she says over her shoulder, a frown carving into her tanned skin as she waves me off.
“Okay… Honestly, I do want to help you, but it’s for selfish reasons. I’m so far out of my depth here. I’m afraid I’m going to have to find the nearest fish and catch it with my bare hands to avoid starving. My phone is dead. I don’t speak a lick of Italian, and I’m a little desperate.” My stomach gives an impressive gurgle as if to punctuate the direness of the situation.
“You must be desperate since we’re an hour from the coast and it’s a long way to travel for a lone fish… especially with how you drive.”
She’s joked back, her eyes softening, and the knowledge spreads through me like a shot. The color is dark spiced rum, and they make my chest burn the same way. Her lips tilt up into the ghost of a smile and my own stretches against my cheeks.
“So, what do you say?” I venture—feeling like a kid—giddiness bubbling in my chest. I try to make it sound cheeky, even throwing in a wink for extra measure.
“I say… only if you follow my rules.” It’s stern. Her tone is grave though her eyes glint with amusement.
“Name them.”
“No questioning what we eat.” She ticks it off on her index finger.
“No comparing it to American food.” A second finger now.
Stopping to think for a second, her expression turns pensive, and I know I’ll do as she asks if it means I can turn that frown into a laugh.
“And lastly?”
“Lastly…” A smug smile curves up her mouth. “I drive.”
“Drive? I just bought this thing!” I protest halfheartedly.
“Those are my terms. Take it or leave it.” She shrugs, but I can tell she’s enjoying this little exchange almost as much as I am.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Giuliana Santoro.” Sticking her hand out for me to shake, I shift my hold on the handlebars to respond in kind. My hand swallows her palm. The touch is a juxtaposition of velvet skin and calluses on the pads beneath her fingers. Given how small her hands are, I wouldn’t have pegged her for having calluses, but her grip is firm, and her introduction friendly.
“Matteo de Palma.” I offer.
Why didn’t I go with Matt Palmer the way I do back home? There’s no need to use my government name out here. It’s not the goddamn TSA line. Maybe I want to convey I’m not a total stranger—not a mere pathetic tourist—but possibly something more.
“Okay, Matteo… move back on the seat and get ready for the ride of your life.”
Hanging her ruined bag from one of the handlebars, Giuliana settles herself in front of me and I have to tuck my legs around her in order to fit us both.
The Vespa surges beneath us and somewhere between my hands around her waist and the thundering of her heartbeat against my chest, I might have pulled an Icarus… because Giuliana’s skin burns so hot against my hands, I wonder if I’ll have any fingerprints left when I pull away from touching her.