Page 37 of 10 Days to Surrender

We coast down a long, slow incline and into a village clustered together at the foot of a hill. More traffic joins us as we get closer—farmers towing carts of fruits and vegetables behind unamused donkeys, a few other locals on bikes and foot. Occasionally, a car rumbles past and kicks up little whirls of red dust.

In the center of the village—Rocka-something, Sasha called it—are rows of stalls selling all kinds of things. Bread and cheese, jarred jams, dried meat hanging from twine. Sasha parks his bike behind a trio of nonnas gossiping in flowing Italian and waits for me to do the same.

“I was just starting to get the hang of French,” I say mournfully. “Back to square one, I guess.”

“Ritorno al punto di partenza,” agrees Sasha in a flawless accent.

I whirl around to scowl at him. “Do you seriously—? No, actually, don’t even tell me. My ego can’t handle it if you really do speak Italian.”

Face completely straight, he just shrugs. “Then I won’t say a word.”

He steps aside and gestures for me to lead the way. With a sigh, I do, though his hand comes to a rest on my lower back and I let it stay there.

The market erupts around us in a carnival of smells: sun-ripened tomatoes and crusty bread, lavender sachets fighting with pungent wheels of parmigiano. Old men in newsboy capsargue over artichokes while tanned women pinch peaches and talk right over one another.

We wander from tent to tent for a while. I let my cravings guide me, and Sasha is mostly content to let me pick where we go. He stays plastered to me like a shadow, but a quiet one.

Little by little, his arms fill up with the things I pick. Fresh figs. Sun-warmed tomatoes. Clusters of bright green herbs.

At a cheese stand, the vendor’s wife coos over my belly. I don’t understand the words, but her warm smile needs no translation. She presses samples into my hands—soft cheese, hard cheese, cheese I’ve never seen before.

“Non posso,” I try to refuse, but she waves me off.

“She says it’s good for the babies,” Sasha translates.

I sag and accept it.“Grazie.”

The woman beams, winks, and walks off.

“Alright, fine, I’ll bite: when did you learn Italian?”

Sasha chuckles. “The Ardizzone family and I had some… disagreements over some territory in Brooklyn a few years ago. I figured it was best to meet them at their level.”

“‘Disagreements’? I know what that’s code for.”

“I was expanding market opportunities through aggressive negotiations. They objected to my tactics.”

I snort and nibble at a fig. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. For a moment, he looks likemySasha—the one who kissed me in library stacks and bought mean entire tabloid just to protect my reputation. Then his face smooths back into its usual mask.

“How are you feeling?” he asks as we move to the next stall. “With the pregnancy?”

I consider lying, but what’s the point? “Tired. Sore. The doctor in France said my blood pressure’s high, but…” I shrug. “Nothing too concerning yet.”

He nods, but the frown remains in place. “It’s getting warmer. Let’s find somewhere to sit.”

“Sasha, seriously, I’m?—”

But he’s already dragging me down an alley, the bag of groceries swinging at his side.

With a weary exhale, I let him.

We take a few twists and turns until the cobbled street spits us out into the courtyard of a chapel. Like the one we stopped at just over the border from France, this one is missing most of its pieces. One whole wall has collapsed, but the birds don’t seem to mind at all. They twitter around the exposed wooden ribs of the structure, flitting from nest to nest and singing the whole time.

He helps me into a seat and settles down next to me. Away from the hubbub of the market, quiet is king. After a while, though, Sasha twists so we’re face to face.

“Marry me.”

---