Page 66 of The Crimson Lily
I burst into nervous laughter, a little bit hysterically, unsure what to make of the situation. I might as well go see the fountain while we’re at it, perhaps cast a glance at the adjacent streets to see if I can spot the infamous antique shop. I nod and wait for Giovanni to decide on the method of transportation. I let him lead me to the nearest taxi, a blue car this time, and off we go toward the center of Rome.
We sit still for a good fifteen minutes until the taxi takes us as close to the Piazza di Trevi as possible. The sun has already begun its descent. I can no longer see it in the sky. Giovanni opens the door for me like a true gentleman and guides me to the crowd of people amassed by the fountain.
It is as beautiful as I had it in my mind. I know the last time I was here was three years ago, with Béatrice. I won’t forget to snap a picture this time. The mighty statue of Oceanus taming the waters is what catches my undivided attention. His chariot of savage horses rides the insurgent waves, guided by ferocious Tritons. I am hypnotized by the fountain’s music, enhanced by this imagery and the cacophony of the crowd.
I am brought back to reality by Giovanni, who has a hand on my waist to make me turn around. He bears a flare in his eyes I don’t want to acknowledge, as if he’s been looking at me this whole time instead of at the object everyone else is ogling.
“You could be Anita Ekberg with your blond hair in the wind,” he softly sings to my ear. “And I’d be your Marcello.”
I chuckle before realizing Giovanni is way too close. I put my hands on his chest with the intent to push him away, yet he finds his way around my lower back and presses me even closer. He takes my hand in his before turning his face slightly, his lips coming just within reach.
“What are you doing, Giovanni?” I question, tensing up the muscles in my arms.
His pupils have dilated, and his eyelids look heavy. He exhales a little, caressing my cheeks with his warm, minty breath. Then he lets go of me.
“You’re a special one, Liliana,” he confesses. “Let’s go have dinner before I think of something else to do.”
I blink a few times, wondering what Giovanni meant by that last part, then feeling stupid because I know exactly what he meant. Giovanni was an inch away from kissing me. As handsome as he is, I cannot let him do that. I belong to someone else, and I need to make that clear.
I catch up to him and seize his arm. “I’m dating someone already, Giovanni.” I choose not to sugarcoat this and get straight to the point.
He turns to lock his eyes with mine. “Is it the man who did this to you?” he asks, pointing at my neck.
Shit. I completely forgot my scarf! How stupid of me. What was he thinking this whole time? How did I not notice? I maintain his gaze to show I’m in control, but I bite my lip nervously. He must notice because he’s holding my gaze too and eventually wins the staring contest.
“A man like this doesn’t deserve you,” he comments.
I want to answer, to defend Maksim, but how can I explain my strange kinks in the middle of the Piazza di Trevi, where everyone can hear and judge? I can’t tell him I like being marked and bruised by my Belarusian man. That idea is twisted. I don’t think Giovanni would understand. He would think of me as insane.
“That wasn’t him,” I lie. It’s an obvious lie.
Giovanni shrugs, unamused, and keeps marching ahead, toward a small pizzeria on one of the side streets. I realize Icompletely forgot about the antique shop, too entangled in the Trevi Fountain, the crowd, and Giovanni and his mossy glower.
He makes me take off my coat and sit down at a table close to the window, and he immediately orders us a bottle of wine. He regains his smile once thevino rossoappears, and the young waiter in a fancy outfit with a bowtie pours me a glass.
“So, Liliana,” he begins when the waiter leaves. “How do you like Rome?”
I’m unsure how to respond. His mood has begun to change. He’s getting back to his friendly and witty self. The waiter brings us some menus, and I intuitively go for the vegetarian section. I don’t answer his question.
The waiter takes our orders. Once he’s gone again, Giovanni decides to try and break through my awkward shell.
“Did you grow up in America?” he asks.
I decide to answer this time. “I think so. I don’t remember much of it.”
“Ah, yes, the memory. Do you remember your parents?”
I shake my head. “I know they died when I was four.”
Something in his gaze softens, and his tensed shoulders loosen. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Do you know who raised you?”
“Nope,” I answer, not wanting to say more. Why does everyone ask about my parents? “I don’t remember my fosters, and I don’t think I want to remember them.”
“It sounds like a complicated childhood is behind you,” he remarks.
I nod distantly. He’s right, after all, and I begin to consider Doctor Rossi’s theory about selectively forgetting aspects of my life. Perhaps my subconscious indeed erased that part to protect me. Tough luck, Liliana. I want to know now, more than anything else, what those memories are.
“How does a man like you end up…here?” I ask, veering the spotlight away from me. Byhere, of course, I mean the criminal life. I make sure not to mention the Mafia Capitale in public.
