Chapter Forty-Three
Elio
Gemma Parisi’s house was normal.
A modest bungalow in a neighborhood that was exceptionally peaceful.
The lawn was neatly mowed, drawing attention to the white picket fence that stood unblemished, just like the building, which stood out from the other cream-brown houses with its dark sky-blue and white paint design, along with the beautiful flowerbeds that lined the corners of the house.
It brought me to the realization that this house was either just remodeled or just built.
Her red car was parked right in front of the black tinted-windows minivan I had brought.
My gaze checked along the corners of the house, the little pathways leading to the other street in back. All clear. No suspicious movements that would have me on guard. It was normal.
Just like the woman I had come to see.
The woman who would invite a mere acquaintance to her house rather than meet at a public restaurant where people could see if something were to go wrong or inauspiciously.
I sucked on the almost burnt-out cigar, allowing it to warm my chest while I discarded the lit end, then blew out the smoke.
Removing my gaze from the house, I looked down at the phone in my hand, still on the page that showed Zahra’s name and contact number. My thumb hovered on the call button like it had been doing since the night she refused my invitation.
I had battled with the need to call her and the pull to ignore her. To slap on the mindset that she was just another woman—yes, another woman, but also the first woman you slept with twice. Twice. The first woman you can’t get enough of. The first woman you confessed to.
Very convenient, this situation I found myself in. Quite fucking impressive.
I sighed and pressed the side button.
Grabbing the black cap on the passenger’s side, I slipped it on my head before getting my gun, engaging the safety, and getting out of the car.
While looking around, I shoved the gun in the back of the black jeans I wore.
I allowed the jacket to fall over it as I shut the van door, going around it till I was face-to-face with the house, but a lawn’s distance away.
I’d started walking towards the entrance when the door pulled open, revealing Gemma in a beige-yellow tank top and dark gray sweatpants.
A genuine bright smile crossed her face as she approached me, enveloping me in a warm hug that had me standing very still.
She pulled away with a grin. “It’s good to see you again, cutie. You look…”
“Casual.”
Gemma’s brows went up as she looked at me from head to toe. “This was your attempt at casual?”
“Yes.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh God, my love, you’re wearing a cap and a black …
eh … well, a black everything, and you drove here in a small minivan?
With black tinted windows? That’s not a casual look; that’s an ‘I want my victims to know they will never survive it if I successfully catch them’ look. ”
“I see,” I stated. “I must have misinterpreted casual, then.”
She leveled me with a smile. “You’re good. Gran Louisa has been dying to meet you.”
“Has she?”
“Yup!” She jumped on her feet, interlocking her arm with mine as she pulled me towards the house. “Hope you haven’t had lunch! And I hope you like Italian?”
“I am Italian, Gemma.”
“Even better because Gran Louisa made something extra spicy!”
We got into the house, which was as normal as the outside.
Beige, white flowery wallpaper, light brown couches, picture frames on all the walls, the smell of a homemade meal lingering in the air.
A ginger cat—Sailor, whose pictures littered my phone gallery thanks to Gemma being obsessed with it and wanting me to be too, for some obscure reason—was lying peacefully on one of the yellow bean bags in the living room.
“Welcome to my home!” She untangled her hand from mine, twirling around with a grin. “What do you think?” Her eyes twinkled with eagerness for my response.
“I think it is well put together,” I said. “Homey.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but her grin widened, and her blue eyes shone with pride.
“Thank you,” she said. “I put literally everything into this house: my savings from all the jobs I did, and this face modeling gig I had a couple of years back. I saw the neighborhood in some real estate flyer back in the hood we used to stay in, and I said to myself, Gemma, you’re going to work your ass off and buy yourself a house in this neighborhood.
And here we are, my very first property. ”
“That is truly impressive. I am sure Gran Louisa was proud.”
“Oh, she was.” Gemma chuckled fondly. “Wouldn’t stop talking about it. Every Sunday, I swear, she tells everyone her granddaughter bought a house in some fancy neighborhood. They think she has dementia.”
“Being happy about something enough to repeat it is a far cry from dementia.”
Her eyes widened. “Right? They just don’t get it! The jealous ones always think she likes to brag about it, but she believes she will die soon; she has been saying that for two years now, and she’s still very much alive and healthy, kind of. But she’s the sweetest thing.”
“You seem to love her very much.”
“She’s my only family, and I believe family is … everything. I’m sorry you don’t have any, but that doesn’t mean Gran Louisa can’t adopt another grandchild.” She grinned, taking my hand and pulling me further inside the house. “Let’s go see her in the kitchen.”
My eyes took in the small hallway that held two doors I was sure were the rooms, but my view was taken away as she pulled me to a short corner, and we were in the most colorful kitchen I had ever seen.
Yellow countertops, different colors of plates and kitchen utensils, a huge bowl of plastic fruit atop the counter, and a bowl of real fruit on the dining table.
Spanish music was playing from a speaker in the kitchen, and beautiful, colorful flowerpots lined the windows, looking like someone went to extra lengths to care for the plants every day. It all just felt so normal.
Then my eyes settled on her grandmother, her hair in a netted bun, wearing a pink sweater and jeans; even though she was a little bit hunched over, she still looked smart as she cooked, moving her body to the beat.
She looked like one of those people who would hug you to sleep like my mother used to do. The instant craving for that affection made me feel cold and empty.
“Nonna,” Gemma called her attention. “Elio’s here.”
The woman turned immediately, soft blue eyes settling on me before a wide smile overtook her face, and she was wiping her hand on the apron around her waist.
“Oh, at last!” She laughed, walking over to me.
Without warning, she threw her arms around me like we had known each other a long time.
“Good meeting you, Elio.” She patted my back.
Her hug was warm. Friendly, motherly. It made me yearn to stay there and forget that I had a responsibility somewhere.
When she pulled away, she smiled warmly at me, her short arm raising to squeeze my cheek. “Ah, look at you. Pretty man. Eyes like steel, created to woo women.” She laughed.
“Nonna, knock it off,” Gemma said, going to stir what her grandma had been cooking.
“What? I never see fine men like this when I was young.”
“Even Nonno?” Gemma threw from over her shoulder.
The woman rolled her eyes. “Maurice had beauty on the inside,” she said, and then turned to me with a blank look, shaking her head slowly like she didn’t believe a word she just said, and she had only said it to appease Gemma. “But you see beauty like you, Elio.” She smiled at me. “Hard to see.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, yes, remove cap. You are inside now; cap is for outside. Why you wear one? Are you a paparazzi friend?” she asked.
“No … it was for me to look casual.” I removed it.
“Remove jacket too. Gemma is bad house guest. Never ever remove the jacket, and she ask why Luigi hate her, foolish girl.”
Gemma laughed, shaking her head. “Luigi doesn’t hate me, Nonna; he’s just bitter.”
Gran Louisa rolled her eyes as I removed my jacket and let my shirt cover the gun instead. She collected it from me, leaving me in just my black shirt.
“I hang this for you.” She smiled. “And yes, feel at home; my Gemma bought this place, so no landlord coming to bang and say, pay rent. Fucking Paolo,” she said before walking out of the kitchen.
My gaze settled on Gemma to find her leaning on the oven, a fond smile on her face. “She’s a handful, isn’t she?”
“She’s wonderful,” I answered.
Gemma nodded. “She also loves having people over; it makes her feel like she’s made a new friend. The first day we met, I told her about it, and she was excited that I helped a stranger, and then when I told her we were texting, she was glad I finally made a friend.”
“You don’t have friends?”
Her smile dimmed. “I used to, back in our old neighborhood,” she said, turning off the stove.
“It wasn’t as peaceful and spacious as this, and nobody minded their own business.
When I saved enough to move, they just stopped talking to me.
They have this notion that anyone who moves away stops being part of the community, and well, since I dared to move into the middle-class area, I’m now one of the people they think oppresses them. ” She sighed with a sad smile.
“You haven’t talked to any of them since you moved?”
“Aside from fucking Luigi and Uncle Rod, no.”
I nodded. “You’re doing well, Gemma.”
A smile brightened her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Anything I can help out with?” I asked her, rolling up my sleeves.
“You can help out in a kitchen?”
“Yes, Gemma. I had a mother and a very mean sister.”
She smiled at me. “Well, you can help set the table.”
I got to work, and was setting the table like she had asked when she called me.
“Hey.”
I turned to look at her.
“I just want us to be clear about something first, before Gran Louisa comes in.”
“What is it?”
“This thing between us, it’s just friendship, right?”
“Yes.”