20. Rocco
— ? —
Rocco
The back exit leads to a narrow alley that smells like garbage and old rain, and I’ve never been more grateful for urban decay in my life.
Senna follows me without asking where we’re going, which is either a sign that she trusts me or a sign that she’s too exhausted to argue. I choose to believe it’s the former, even though the latter is probably more accurate.
“My car is two blocks east,” I tell her, keeping my voice low even though there’s no one around to hear us. “Once we’re in, I’ll explain the plan.”
“There’s a plan?”
“There’s the beginning of a plan. I’m making it up as I go.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Would you prefer I lie to you?”
“No.” She almost smiles - not quite, but close enough that I feel something loosen in my chest. “I’ve had enough lying to last a lifetime.”
We reach my car without incident, and I hold the passenger door open for her like I used to do when we were first dating, back when I was still trying to impress her with small gestures of courtesy. She notices - I can tell by the slight pause before she gets in - but she doesn’t comment.
Once we’re both inside, I turn to face her.
“I have a friend,” I say. “Well, more of an acquaintance. Someone I knew through mutual friends before we got married - he came to our wedding, actually. We reconnected at a charity event a few years back. He has property near Palermo - citrus groves, mostly. Very private. Very isolated. No press, no cameras, no one to bother us.”
“How are we getting to Palermo?”
“We’ll fly. I already checked - there’s a flight leaving in two hours. We can rent a car when we land, drive to the groves, and disappear for a few days while this whole thing blows over.”
Senna stares at me. “You planned this before you came to the studio.”
“I planned it the moment I saw the headlines. I knew you’d need somewhere to go, and I knew you’d never ask for help, so I arranged it before you could say no.”
“That’s very presumptuous of you.”
“Is it working?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Then: “Who’s the friend?”
“His name is Don Rafael Visconti.”
“Don.” Her eyebrows shoot up. “As in-”
“He’s legitimate. Mostly. His family has owned land in Sicily for generations, and he’s turned most of it into agricultural business. Olive oil, wine, citrus. Very above-board. The title is just… traditional.”
“And he’s going to let us stay at his property? Just like that?”
“His wife will. Serafina. She’s a fan.”
“A fan of yours?”
“A fan of yours.” I can’t help the small smile that crosses my face. “She heard you sing at our wedding. Apparently, she’s never forgotten it. When I called this morning and explained the situation, she said yes before I even finished asking.”
Senna’s face does something complicated - surprise and skepticism and maybe, underneath it all, the faint stirring of being seen.
“I didn’t know anyone remembered my singing.”
“I remembered. Serafina remembered. Everyone who heard you remembers.”
“Rocco-”
“We don’t have to talk about it now. We don’t have to talk about anything. I just want to get you somewhere safe, somewhere quiet, somewhere you can breathe without someone shoving a camera in your face. Can we do that? Please?”
She looks out the window at the Florence street, at the city that used to feel like home and now feels like a trap.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Let’s go to Palermo.”
***
The flight is short and mostly silent.
Senna sleeps for most of it, her head resting against the window, her face finally relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in weeks. I spend the time watching her and trying not to think too hard about what it means that she agreed to come with me.
It doesn’t mean she’s forgiven me. It doesn’t mean we’re fixed. It just means she needed help and I was there to offer it, which is more than I managed to do for most of our marriage.
When we land, I rent a car - a nondescript sedan that won’t attract attention - and we drive out of the city toward the groves.
The landscape shifts as we go, urban sprawl giving way to rolling hills and ancient olive trees and, eventually, the citrus groves that stretch across the Visconti property like a green and golden sea.
“It’s beautiful,” Senna says quietly. It’s the first thing she’s said since we got on the plane.
“Yeah. It is.”
The main house comes into view - a sprawling villa that looks like it’s been there for centuries, all weathered stone and terracotta roof tiles. As we pull up the drive, I see two figures waiting on the front steps.
Don Rafael Visconti is exactly as intimidating as I remember - tall, silver-haired, with eyes that seem to see through you to whatever you’re trying to hide.
His wife Serafina is smaller, softer, with a warm smile that makes you forget her husband could probably have you disappeared without anyone noticing.
“Rocco!” Serafina hurries down the steps to greet us as we get out of the car. “And this must be Senna. My dear, I’ve waited so long to meet you.”
Senna accepts the embrace with visible confusion. “It’s nice to meet you too. I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve-”
“Your wedding. I was there with Rafael - we’d just started dating, and Rocco invited us as a favor to a mutual friend.
” Serafina pulls back, holding Senna by the shoulders and studying her face.
“You sang that song - the Puccini, wasn’t it?
- and I cried like a child. I’ve never heard anything so beautiful in my life. ”
“I - thank you.”
“When Rocco called this morning, I told Rafael we had to help. Whatever you need, however long you want to stay, the groves are yours.”
Don Rafael appears behind his wife, his expression suggesting he’d rather be doing literally anything else.
“The guest house is ready,” he says gruffly. “It’s at the end of the east grove, private, no one will bother you. Serafina will show you the way.”
“Thank you,” I say, extending my hand. “I really appreciate this.”
He looks at my hand like it might be poisoned, then shakes it briefly. “My wife likes you. That’s the only reason you’re here. Don’t make me regret it.”
“Rafael,” Serafina chides gently. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice. Being not-nice would involve the lemon grove and a shovel.” He turns and walks back into the house without another word.
Serafina sighs. “He’s been tense lately. Business things. Don’t take it personally.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
“Good. Now-” She turns back to Senna with that warm smile. “Let me show you where you’ll be staying. And then you’re going to rest. Both of you. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
She leads us toward a path that winds through the citrus trees, and I fall into step beside Senna, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
“She’s very…”
“Intense?” I supply.
“Kind. I was going to say kind. But also intense, yes.”
“The Viscontis are complicated people. But they’re good. When it counts, they’re good.”
Senna is quiet for a moment, taking in the trees around us, the smell of citrus in the air, the particular quality of late afternoon light filtering through the leaves.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” she says softly. “Get away. Disappear somewhere beautiful with no cameras, no obligations, no one expecting anything from me.”
“I know.”
“You never took me.”
“I know that too.” I stop walking, and she stops beside me. “I’m sorry. For all the trips we didn’t take, all the escapes I never offered you. You deserved better.”
“I did.”
“I’m trying to be better now.”
“I know.” She looks at me, and there’s something in her eyes that might be the beginning of forgiveness. “I know you are.”
We stand there for a long moment, surrounded by citrus trees and silence, and I think about all the ways I failed her and all the ways I’m trying not to fail her now.
“Come on,” Senna says finally. “Let’s find this guest house before Serafina sends a search party.”
She starts walking again, and I follow, and the scent of lemons wraps around us like a promise.