Page 15 of Luca
It’s not a question.
He steps back, finally giving me space.
“You’ve got ten minutes before we leave,” he says, already turning for the door. “I’ll be downstairs with the car. Don’t keep me waiting.”
The door shuts softly behind him, and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for the last five minutes.
The worst part? I’m not sure if I want to be early… or make him wait just to see what he’d do about it.
Chapter 8: Gabriella
Our newlywed tourist day starts at the Pantheon because Luca gruffly admits he’s never been inside.
“You live five blocks away,” I say, scandalized.
“I live five blocks away from problems,” he answers.
For a second I forget this isn’t real. The quiet in him here feels different, like the temple pressed pause on the very dangerous man at my side. He doesn’t touch me, but he stands close enough that the heat off his body warms my bare arm.
After a quick peek inside, we exit back onto the street. He steers me with a firm hand at the small of my back down a narrow lane that smells of sugar and pistachio.
“Where are we going?” I ask, worried for a moment.
“To get the best gelato in Rome,” he replies.
“Well, that’s a bold claim. Prepare to be judged.”
We step into the small shop and order at the counter. Single cup of pistachio for him. A double pistachio and dark chocolate for me because I’m a hedonist. And because I never turn down a man’s offer to buy me food.
The tiny shop doesn’t have tables or chairs so we stand under an overhang outside to eat. He watches me closely when I take the first bite. The cold hits my tongue, sweet and nutty, and a tiny, involuntary noise of pure joy escapes me.
His mouth does a barely-there curve. “Good?”
“Obscenely.”
I suspect there’s a smear at the corner of my mouth. I go to swipe it away, but his thumb gets there first, slow and unhurried, pressing against my bottom lip just enough that I feel the drag of his skin. He doesn’t move for a beat. Just holds my gaze and rubs that thumb over the place he kissed last night.
“Sofia,” he says, like my name’s an object he can wrap a leash around.
“Mm?” I answer, very dignified, with his thumb still at my mouth.
“Hurry and eat. Your gelato is melting.”
When he pulls his hand away, I resist the urge to grab it back and suck his thumb. Then I remember innocent, virgin brides don’t lick their husband’s thumb in public. Something flickers in his eyes and for a brief moment, I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking.
“Want a bite of mine?” I ask, tilting the chocolate side towards him.
He leans down and takes a bite without breaking eye contact or speaking.
“Ready to move on?” he asks when I’ve finished eating.
“Sure.”
We continue walking along as if we’re regular tourists. Past a shrine tucked in a wall, and a street violinist playing a sad song. Luca’s fingertips brush the inside of my elbow to guide me through the crowd. He doesn’t saystay close, but his hand says it for him.
Near the Spanish Steps we decide to split a margherita pizza from a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. that looks like it wasfounded by someone’s grandmother and a brick oven. We sit on the steps to eat. The crust is blistered and perfect. I burn my fingers on a molten pocket of cheese and hiss loudly.
“Careful,” he says. He takes the slice from my hand, blowing on the tip in slow, deliberate breaths that do terrible things to my insides. He takes a bite to test the heat, then without looking away tilts the slice back to my mouth. I lean in and our fingers brush. The small act of him feeding me feels obscene for no good reason.
