Page 68 of The Hitman

“Good morning, tesora,” he says to me.

“Tesora?” the scary ones teases and then mumbles some more words in Italian.

I don’t know what he says, but I see the way Giulio’s jaw clenches for a second. “Do you want breakfast? Coffee?” he asks me.

“Coffee. Please.”

He stands from the table, espresso cup in hand, and walks toward me. He makes his way to the coffee machine, and I follow. I stand next to him at the counter, wanting to touch him, but not wanting his friend to notice.

“Do you want an espresso?” he asks.

I nod and place my hands flat on the counter so that I have something to hold onto. I watch as he grinds fresh beans and puts them into an expensive machine I don’t even want to touch. I watch his hands move with rapt attention as he makes me a small cup of coffee so dark it looks black. He places the cup in front of me when it’s ready. I reach for it. Our fingers brush innocently.

That small bit of contact sends a shiver up my spine.

He picks up his own cup and watches as I carefully bring my own cup to my lips. I take a small experimental sip and wince.

“Jesus Christ, that’s strong,” I cough.

“Americans,” the scary one mumbles under his breath.

“Sta’ zitto,” Giulio hisses.

“What does that mean again?” I ask.

“Shut up.”

We make eye contact for the first time since I walked into the kitchen. I don’t have to wonder. I know we’re both thinking about all of those words passing between the small sliver of space left by our mouths almost touching now.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” the scary one says.

I turn, embarrassed, and watch as he takes his espresso outside. The glass door has been blown out, and yet he opens it as if it’s fully intact and then begins to walk leisurely around the backyard.

“Well, he’s terrifying,” I say. It’s a joke. I mean, his friend is terrifying, but I’m not actually worried that he’ll hurt me, especially with Giulio around.

“We have to leave,” he says, changing the subject.

“I figured. Where are we going this time?”

Giulio takes another sip of his espresso. He doesn’t look at me when he starts speaking, which makes my stomach drop. “I’m taking you to the train station. I’ll get you a ticket back to Milan, and I’ve already bought you a plane ticket back to America.”

“You don’t even know where I’m from,” I say. It’s true, but it feels ridiculous.

“You don’t have the most common name, and apparently, your fiancé is famous.”

“Ex-fiancé,” I say through clenched teeth.

“I Googled your name and the words ‘wedding’ and ‘cheating’. There was only one result.”

My stomach feels like a boulder in my gut.

“Actually, there are many results, but the same event.”

I don’t know why it matters that Giulio knows what happened to me, I’ve already told him. But it’s one thing for him to hear whatever I was willing to share from me, and a completely different thing for him to read about my life as tabloid fodder. I’ve always hated that.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” I feel betrayed, and I’m not even sure that I have the right to.

“I know.”

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