Grasmere
Chapter Nineteen
Before we left, things needed to be done.
Lorenzo changed the bike plates and provided us with new motorcycle helmets.
Both are precautionary. He also hit the shops early to buy me fresh clothing.
I sport a wig of dark-cherry curls, which is my least favourite disguise.
With the glasses, I appear distinctly nerdy.
But the look is the polar opposite of edgy Aksel.
My new clothes include black jeans and a grey jersey beneath a black zipper hoodie.
Thank goodness he also bought me a lightweight waterproof jacket and pants in case the weather turns bad.
We set off at nine, and before long, I realise how right he is about riding pillion. Despite being a skilled motorcyclist, nudging the speed limit and never taking risks, the winding and bumpy stretches of poorly maintained A and B roads—we purposely avoid motorways—soon become uncomfortable.
I stop beneath the lean-to that houses a chest-high storage unit of black metal set in concrete, which is probably used to store tools and gardening equipment.
I make a mental plan to check later. While I unstrap the luggage, Lorenzo bounds up the three steps to the front porch.
Romano has left instructions for us to access a safe box on the wall, and after punching in a six-digit code, Lorenzo grabs the keys and opens the door.
“Wait here,” he calls, entering the darkened premises. His caution puts me on guard, and I peer around to see what might have spooked him. But nothing catches my eye, and my instincts tell me we are safe.
When he returns, he nods at me to signal that all is good.
“Hide the bike behind the lodge. We should leave no sign that we are here. Then come and help me check the locks on the windows and doors.”
I follow his instructions, even though the precaution feels excessive in such a remote area. I recognise that Lorenzo has probably encountered this situation before, and exercising caution could be life-saving.
I enter the gloom and notice he has removed his helmet, so I drop our bags and do the same.
I am about to flick on the main living area light, but Lorenzo holds up a hand to stop me and tells me to wait until we have checked the windows and closed all the curtains.
We use our phone lights to map out the main living area.
Tall windows line both sides of the lodge, and, as instructed, I check that they are locked and secured.
Only then do I notice that each window has more than one lock, and that each has been secured ready for our arrival.
I also find a remote control on the main counter, and when I press a button, blackout blinds lower, covering every living area window.
Once he is satisfied, Lorenzo switches on the lights.
The open-plan lodge is functional, with modern furniture and appliances, but scant decor or embellishments. A compact kitchen is set on a single-level podium and overlooks the living and dining area. The lodge is chilly, and my eye is drawn to the brick fireplace with an open-log fire.
“What do you think?” he asks. “Good enough?”
“It will be. Once it’s warmed up,” I reply. “Am I allowed to get a fire started?”
“You know that is a gas fire, don’t you?”
“Is it?” I look again and realise he is correct.
“Go ahead. But I need a hot shower first,” he says. “If there is one.”
“Let’s check. Then you can shower while I figure out how to get a fire going?”
“You don’t want to join me?”
I hesitate. My desire for Lorenzo’s body is almost as fierce as the one to fill my belly. But I know I have him to myself for a few weeks, just the two of us, with no Mrs Bellacci in a room across the hall.
“I do, but we’ll have plenty of time for that. Right now I need fire and food.”
Two decent-sized bedrooms with double beds fill the back of the lodge, both recently cleaned and made up. Each has an adjoining bathroom with a shower attachment over the bath. Lorenzo selects the bedroom overlooking the lake for us, and we place our luggage at the end of the bed.
“It is not Eagle House, but anything is good right now,” calls Lorenzo from the bathroom.
“I haven’t asked. What happened back in Monticiano? Romano didn’t say.”
“According to his sources, they sent six of their elite for us. But they stepped down long before reaching the villa. Romano told me that our head of ops believes they had drones in the air with heat-seeking equipment and became suspicious when they found the place cold.”
“Weren’t our people there?”
“They stationed our team and vehicles behind Pensione Galli. Wanted to spring a counter offensive from outside the grounds.”
“I still have a home to go back to, then?”
“Gabriel does.”
We head back to the kitchen, where someone has stocked the fridge with fresh produce and the freezer with ready-made meals.
When I dig out a couple of frozen pizzas and place them next to the microwave, Lorenzo pulls a face before shrugging and nodding.
He manages a smile when I haul out a six-pack of Peroni Nastro Azzurro.
While he showers, I check the metal container beneath the lean-to.
The unit bears an electronic keypad rather than a standard padlock, which seems odd for storing surplus lodge equipment.
Having memorised Romano’s access number, I unlock the door and find four black metal drawers.
The topmost houses handguns and ammunition, the lower knives and other weaponry.
One has two sets of car keys, which is strange because I saw no garage on our way into the grounds.
I lift out two pistols and spare ammo, lock the unit up again, and return to the house.
Lorenzo is emerging from the shower when I show him the stash. While towel-drying his hair, he simply nods and gives me a half-smile.
“Il dottore would not leave us unprotected,” he mutters. “Put one in each of the bedside drawers.”
Both showered, fed and lounging in front of the open fire, I allow myself to relax fully for the first time since leaving Monticiano. Lorenzo cradles my head against his chest as we stare at the flames dancing in the grate.
He tells me about the military man who saved him from the streets, who had a far more rustic cabin in the remote countryside.
Lorenzo rarely gives away his emotions but talks of the old man with fondness.
Less than six months after taking Lorenzo in, the man found out the names of the gunmen who had assassinated Lorenzo’s parents.
Naturally, Lorenzo hungered for revenge, but instead of letting him loose, the old man taught him to restrain and channel his anger, to store up and use the rage only when needed.
Years later, when Lorenzo was in uniform and took leave to attend the man’s funeral, he learned that his parents’ killers had been executed in a downtown suburb of Napoli, two blocks from where the old man had lived.
With that knowledge, he had travelled to Rome to find his parents’ graves, to tell the news to their headstones and let them rest avenged.
“Didn’t you ever wonder about your parents?” he asks me. “Who they were. Whether they might still be alive?”
“Not until we found that file.”
Josh used to ask me the same thing and could never understand why I wouldn’t want to know, wouldn’t want to try to find them.
‘What if they’re rich and powerful?’ I told him I didn’t care.
Life is too short to be squandered, worrying about a past that cannot be changed.
And if they had really wanted to find me, they would have done so.
Why should I be the one taking the initiative to find them?
Although Albert actively encouraged and inspired me to solve mysteries, that is one sleeping dog he never encouraged me to wake.
Strange, though. In all the time I knew Albert, he never mentioned the subject.
And thinking back, that is precisely the kind of real-world mystery he would have relished.
But that does make me wonder. What did Albert know?
And what was the real reason he took me in?
I’d thought he simply wanted companionship.
But the more I learn, the more I believe he was protecting me.
I recall the night he turned up at the bar.
I had noticed him purposely hanging back until I was free to serve him.
Many of the bar boys got off with customers, and I could take care of myself, so I hadn’t been worried about the attention.
And he would not have been the first man I’d gone home with who wanted company without sex. Had he recognised the mark on my wrist?
“If the weather is better tomorrow, shall we swim?” asks Lorenzo.
“Where?” I ask, my mood lifting at the prospect. I am sure he made the suggestion to pull me out of my thoughts.
“Isn’t that a big lake down the hill?”
“Can we swim there?”
“In Italy, you would not need to ask. But according to the local magazine I found in the bedroom drawer, swimming is not only allowed but encouraged. I have extra swimming shorts you can use.”
“Yes, then,” I answer. “After a day in the saddle, I need to stretch my muscles and burn some energy.”
Lorenzo falls silent for a moment before muttering in my ear. “How about I massage you on the bed?”
We kiss as we remove each other’s clothing on our way to the bedroom.
Once we are naked, he instructs me to lie face down on the bedclothes, then fishes a small bottle of musk-scented oil from his wash bag.
He sits over my upper thighs and splashes the liquid along my spine before rubbing firmly into the muscles with long, slow strokes.
Inevitably, after touching and kissing and nipping my skin, the massage turns sensual.