12. Giada
Giada
That evening, Luca spreads a printed floor plan across the table in his breakfast room. His finger rests on a square marked EAST HALL.
“We enter here,” he says. “The ballroom is through these doors. Dante and Polina will meet us near the entrance. Dinner follows the reception, but we don’t have to stay for it.”
I trace the route with my eyes: entrance, ballroom, east hall. A smaller room sits past the coat check.
“What is this room?”
“A private sitting room. It will remain empty for you. Mattia has posted a guard outside it.”
“May I go there alone?”
“Yes. Or I’ll go with you.” Luca taps the east exit. “Our car stays here. If you want to leave, tell me. We’ll leave. You don’t need a reason.”
The plan has straight edges. Each part leads to the next.
“How many people?”
“About one hundred and fifty. The room holds more, so they won’t be packed together. A string quartet will play during the reception. No dancing until after dinner.”
“Who will speak to me?”
“Polina. Dante. The host and his wife. Other people may approach us, but I’ll handle them.” His finger moves to the ballroom. “I need to speak with Dante during the evening. If that happens, Polina will stay with you.”
“For how long?”
“Five minutes if everything goes as planned.”
Plans may fail. Luca always includes that part.
He folds the paper and offers it to me. “Keep this if you want.” I put it in my evening bag.
His black suit is cut close. The silver tardigrade sits on his lapel beside a white pocket square.
“You wore it.”
“My wife gave it to me.”
He says the same sentence at home and in rooms full of dangerous men. I touch the pin with one fingertip.
“It doesn’t match formal evening clothes.”
“Then formal evening clothes need better standards.”
My mouth curves. “That is unreasonable.”
“I’m prepared to defend my position.”
The ballroom has gold walls, high painted ceilings, and hundreds of candles inside glass holders. Their flames remain contained. The quartet plays near the far wall, loud enough to fill the room but not drown the conversations closest to us.
Luca keeps his palm firm against my lower back after telling me he will place it there. He guides me past the receiving line in the order he described. No one changes the plan.
Polina meets us inside. Her blue dress has long sleeves and no beads to scratch her arms. “I’m glad you came.”
“Luca explained everything before we left.”
“He made me review the floor plan,” Dante says.
“You missed an exit,” Luca tells him.
“One of my many failures.”
Polina takes me to meet two women from the host family while Luca and Dante greet the host. One wears a green dress and asks whether I prefer the quartet or recorded music.
When I answer that recorded music has consistent volume but live players make fewer mistakes than bad speakers, she considers the ceiling before agreeing.
The other woman points to Luca’s pin. “What animal is that?” She asks about the animal instead of asking what is wrong with me.
I explain cryptobiosis. I stop after four facts and ask whether she wants another.
“Tell me the strangest fact,” she says. So I do.
More guests arrive. The quartet finishes one piece and begins another. A server gives me mineral water without lemon after Polina asks for it. The bubbles sting my tongue in a pleasant pattern.
For thirty-seven minutes, I speak when I want to speak. No one laughs when I take a question literally. No one touches me. Polina introduces me as Giada rather than Luca’s new wife, Antonio’s daughter, or the woman taken from Giuseppe at the church. For once, my name is enough.
Dante approaches Luca near the end of the quartet’s third piece. “I need you.”
Luca looks at me. “Dario may have located your father. Dante and I need to discuss it in private. Polina will stay here. Do you want to use the sitting room?”
Papa’s face enters my mind: his fingers digging into my arm, his mouth close to my ear at the church.
“No. I want to remain here.”
“I’ll return in five minutes.” He tells me before pressing his palm against my waist. “You may come to me at any point.”
He and Dante cross to a group of men near the terrace doors. Polina stays beside me.
The host’s wife joins us. She wears perfume with roses and sharp citrus. Another woman follows her, then a man whose name disappears beneath the quartet. They ask about the wedding at the same time.
“Was it romantic?” the woman asks.
“Did Corsini plan it?” the man asks.
“You poor girl,” the host’s wife says. Her fingertips land on my forearm.
My skin burns under them. I pull away. A server passes behind me and his sleeve brushes my elbow. The quartet grows louder. Violin, viola, cello, questions, laughter. The candles break into hundreds of moving points against the glass.
“Please give her room,” Polina says. The host’s wife touches my shoulder while the man leans closer to repeat his question.
My dress presses under my arms. Rose perfume coats my tongue. A man steps closer to make room for another server, and the open path to the east hall closes behind his black jacket.
I need the hall. My mouth won’t form the sentence.
Across the ballroom, Luca turns away from Dante. Dante stops speaking. Luca keeps walking.
People move aside before he asks. He reaches me and stops beyond contact.
“Giada. The east hall is behind me. Do you want me to take you there?”
I nod.
“My hand will go on your waist. Firm pressure.”
His palm closes around my side. He puts his body between mine and the guests and takes me through the doorway.
The closed door muffles the quartet. The hall is empty. Luca brings me to the sitting-room door but doesn’t open it.
“Inside or here?”
“Here.”
“Do you want me near you or farther away?”
“Hold me. Firmly. Around my shoulders.”
“I’m going to put both arms around you now.”
I step into him before he finishes. His arms lock across my upper back. Hard pressure. Even pressure. My cheek rests against his shirt, below the tardigrade pin.
He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t tell me to breathe. His body blocks the hall while the straight seams of his jacket press against my face.
I take three short breaths. The fourth reaches deeper.
The rose perfume fades. Luca remains.
“Home,” I say.
“Yes.”
He takes me through the east exit. We don’t return to the ballroom. He doesn’t apologize to the host or ask whether I can endure dinner.
At home, I change into my blue tardigrade shirt and thick socks. Luca brings Earl Grey with two sugars and places it beside me in the breakfast room. He sits across the table rather than touching me again.
I take the floor plan from my bag and unfold it on the table. The tea reaches the correct temperature. I drink half the cup while my palms flatten the creases.
“Dario’s lead,” I say. “Did you need to return?”
Luca pushes the untouched chair beside him farther under the table. “No. Dario is following the lead now. Dante can handle the rest.”
“You left while Dante was speaking.”
His attention remains on my face. “You needed me.”
There is no qualification after it. No anger about the missed dinner. No reminder that one hundred and fifty people witnessed us leave.
I finish my tea and take the cup to the sink. My hands work properly. The places where the dress scratched no longer burn. The house contains the refrigerator motor, Luca’s breathing, and nothing I need to escape. I return to him and stand between his knees.
“I’m calm now.”
His hands remain on his thighs. “I’m glad.”
“I’m not apologizing for leaving.”
“Good.” He waits, leaving me room to continue.
“And I’m not offering you a reward for helping me.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “Good.” I press my palms against his lapels.
“I still want what I asked for.”