“What was that?” I breathe. “My God.”
“First time my guards have met you as my wife. These are the men that oversee my business.” He nips my ear, then withdraws, and my skin’s on fire where his teeth and tongue touched. My heart begins to stutter. “I want them to know you’re mine.”
“So a ring and your last name aren’t enough?” My voice is a little shaky.
He actually laughs at that and doesn’t respond.
One of the uniformed men opens his door, but my attention’s diverted when I hear my door open behind me. His men greet him in Italian. I remember that he was only just released from prison. Coming back to work is a sort of homecoming, I guess.
The guard who just opened my door reaches his hand to help me out.
“Touch her and fucking lose that hand, brother.” Orlando’s deep boom carries through the parking lot so loudly, I jump. The guard steps back and tucks his hands behind his back.
“I’m sorry, sir. So sorry. I only meant—”
“To touch what’s fucking mine?” Orlando’s walking around to my side of the car. Stalking, one could say. Whoa.
“Orlando,” I say gently. “He was only—”
He shakes his head at me and narrows his eyes, a furious warning. I close my mouth. I guess you could say I’m learning.
“He was only on the verge of making a fatal mistake,” Orlando corrects.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the guard repeats.
Orlando takes out his phone and makes a call. I don’t understand what he says, because he speaks in Italian. And for the first time since I got here, I realize that maybe I’m expected to know Italian, too. Nooo.
Oh my God, how will I do this? How?
I’m a quick study. I’ll study Italian in my downtime and make up some excuse if he notices when he watches my Internet use.
The guard blanches as he talks, and I reason he must know Italian, too. Oh, God, Elise. What do I do now?
“Mi dispiace così tanto, signore,” the guard says. He’s apologizing. Why is he overreacting so strongly? I wrap my arms around my chest to hide the sudden chill I feel, then gasp when Orlando drapes his arm around my shoulders.
“You cold?” The words are clipped. Angry. The storm rages within him again, simmering and volatile.
“A little.” I’m shivering uncontrollably, but not just from cold.
On the other end of the phone, a deep voice responds to him. Orlando grunts. “Yeah. That works.” He hangs up the phone and slides it into his pocket, no more formalities.
“You,” he says to the guy that tried to help me out of the car. “Tuscany, tonight. You’ve got three hours to pack your bags. You come near her, I’ll end you before you’ve left this country.” I jump when he snaps his fingers at another uniformed attendant by a black car that’s double-parked on the congested street. “Get him out of my fucking sight.”
I walk beside him automatically, stunned and confused. I never would’ve suspected such a harmless gesture would be grounds for exile as it were. I watch the younger man hang his head in shame, before he opens the car door and leaves.
Does he have a family? A loved one? Connections here in the States that he’s forfeiting now that he’s been sent to another country for… trying to touch me?
I lose track of how many men greet Orlando, and a few women as well, as we walk the sunbathed streets of the North End. I haven’t been here in years, but I love the North End. Abutting the Boston waterfront, on a sunny day like today, the salty air of the wharf smells like vacation and travel. Once, when I was a little girl, my school came to the aquarium at the wharf for a field trip. As we got our tickets, a large window into the aquarium showed penguins diving and doing tricks in front of us. It was the first time I’d ever seen them, and I fell in love.
Vendors sell cotton candy, popcorn, pretzels, and cheap touristy Boston T-shirts stretched on cardboard. And even though it’s busy and bustling here, with commuters and college students, people riding on bikes, and heading into work, it’s clear that Orlando is not a stranger. People look at him with respect and some with a little bit of fear. Some take a step back.
I understand that feeling.
“The restaurants are a little further off, aren’t they?” I ask, as we cross a busy intersection and head away from the wharf and closer to where the smell of garlic and olive oil lingers in the air. My mouth waters.
“They are. I want to parade you a little.”
Parade me. Jesus.
“Uh. What?”
“The Rossi family’s well known here,” he says in a low voice, as we cross the street. He quickly slides his way between me and the curb, an act of chivalry that doesn’t really surprise me at all. I have a feeling I won’t be lifting any heavy boxes or carrying any bags with him around. I definitely won’t be splitting any dinner bills.