It actually feels like a real honeymoon for this small sliver of time. He has a few cuts here and there, but something tells me that won’t be out of the ordinary in the long run.
He checks on Santo while I make a quick list of things we need in the kitchen. Santo will be ready to fly home in a few days’ time. He’ll face interrogation from the Rossi family men.
I have my suspicions about why he’s here, and it’s the only reason I’ve forgiven him. The Rossi family eldest sister, Rosa, spent time here in Italy once. I’ve seen the way they look at each other. I’d bet money there’s a story there.
But it isn’t my story to tell.
I have enough of my own business to tend to, and if anyone should know how tangled relationships can become, it’s me.
There’s a pang in my heart with a different feel now when I think of Piero. It hurts that he had ulterior motives. But a part of him loved me, and I’ll hold onto that. Tavi was within his rights to call for Piero’s death. It hurt more that he didn’t tell me after I came clean with him than anything. But people are complicated. Intricate and complex, as Tavi said, and we sometimes can only ask for forgiveness and try better next time.
He said he’ll grovel. He asked for forgiveness.
And what is love, if not the blessing of forgiveness for the faults of the other?
We stroll in the garden after lunch, a simple meal of tossed greens, grilled chicken, and pressed panini with mozzarella and prosciutto. I asked the staff to bake fresh bread for dinner. I’m dying to get my hands on some of their own olive oil tonight.
Tavi doesn’t bring me to Santo, and I’m okay with that. I want as little to do with any of that as possible.
He does spend lots of time on the phone, and several hours with Santo. When he emerges from where he has Santo resting—guards stationed at the door and in the room itself—he looks weary but hopeful.
“How long in Tuscany this time, Tavi?”
We’re sitting on a patio overlooking the vineyard, drinking wine that’s so delicious, someone should write poetry for it.
He sighs. “Few more days. Romeo hasn’t been able to get any info from Rosa. She clammed up and packed her bags. He’s pissed.”
“Please, Tavi,” I say, reaching for his hand. I give him a gentle squeeze. “Please don’t let Romeo be too hard on her.”
He frowns and strokes his thumb over my hand. “I can’t make Romeo do anything, babe. I can try, though. Why are you pleading on her behalf?”
I sigh. “I don’t know everything, but I have a few suspicions.”
If Santo touched their sister, what he’s been through will be nothing compared to what they’ll put him through. Orlando or Tavi would beat the shit out of him before Romeo cut off his dick and shoved it where the sun don’t shine.
At least, this is what would happen in my family.
I’ll have to let them sort things out. For now, Tavi and Romeo are pleased enough with the intel Santo gave them that they’ve allowed him to live and will bring him back to the States.
So I’ll leave well enough alone.
I know what it’s like to be in love with someone you’re not allowed to love.
We spend a few blissful days eating good, fresh food. I cook most of it but feel badly his personal chef isn’t getting to do her job, so I enjoy a few meals made for me as well. But Tavi loves it when I cook for him.
And he eats more than any other human I’ve ever seen eat.
“Your mother must’ve fed you all day long when you were all teens.”
“Babe, you have no idea,” he says around a mouthful of ravioli. “No. Idea. You think it’s bad now? Ha. We had three refrigerators, two chefs, and my mother had a personal shopper.”
“Well, then,” I say, impressed.
“You think it’s an accident we own restaurants and bakeries?”
I smile around my glass of wine. “Uh, no.”
He takes another huge bite of ravioli. “Babe, we practically bought those for the wholesale food discount.”
In the evenings, we make love. Sometimes it’s sweet, and sometimes it’s rough. I like it rough, but there’s an almost healing vibe to our sweeter lovemaking sessions.
On the morning before we’re due to head home to America, I wake beside him.
“Tavi?”
His beard’s grown into thick stubble, and his eyes are still closed. He’s bare-chested and wearing boxers, one arm adorably tucked under his chin. I stroke the powerful swell of his inked bicep, lean in, and give him a gentle kiss.
“Mmm?”
He flexes his bicep for me, eyes still closed. With a giggle, I give him an obligatory squeeze.
“What happens if Romeo and Vittoria have no children?”