Page 80 of Beauty and the Mafia Boss

“Don.” A middle-aged man approaches. I hold out my hand and he kisses La Santa's ring before walking away with a bow.

“How can Sagrada help you today?”

“I have a small piece of land, Don Cataneo, but this year, a plague hit my plantation and I had no return, I lost everything. I would like to ask for resources to support my family during the winter and to start over, please.”

“May La Santa bless you and may you not forget her blessing.”

“Thank you, Don.”

The next in line is a young woman, she carries a child by her hand, another on her lap and another in her swollen belly. The light-haired pregnant woman kisses the ring before she walks away.

“Don Cataneo.”

“How can Sagrada help you today?” The woman's eyes water, and she takes a deep breath before speaking.

“I lost my husband a month ago, Don. I have two children born and one in my belly, but I can't work to support them, because I don't have anyone who can take care of them while I do that. I have two months to go until I have a new baby, I need a job that I can do without having to abandon my children, Don.”

“May La Santa bless you and may you not forget her blessing.”

The line continues, from more farmers with planting problems to property disputes, I attend to all the men and women who come seeking a favor from the Sagrada, but no matter who I am talking to or what about, my eyes never really deviate from her.

Over the course of the hours, Gabriella steals glances at me more than a dozen times. In all of them, her dark eyes ask thesame thing: ‘What did I do wrong?’ even though the only thing the girl did next to me was breathe.

I needed to walk away after the fiasco that was our last encounter, I couldn't keep her around me, I didn't trust my self-control enough for that. The heat burning through my veins, however, tells me that if I really want to take this approach, it's probably best to send theragazzato another planet, because the urge to touch her increases with every step she takes away from me.

Gabriella returned to the party some time ago, she and Rafaella are standing in a dance circle, close to the bonfire, and when a man extends his hand to mybambina, inviting her to a dance, I press my fingers against the carved wooden arms of the chair I'm sitting on. The girl blushes, but refuses the invitation, and the desire to reward her for this becomes absolute.

I turn my eyes to the front and notice that the line of favors is over. I wonder what I agreed to tonight, because I don't remember the overwhelming majority of requests made to me.

Carmo's daughter pulls Gabriella out of the circle, and the two walk to the vats in which the grapes are being crushed. The smile that immediately appears on thebambina's face makes it impossible to take my eyes off her. And it's not like I was having an easy time doing this before.

Gabriella takes off her sandals and washes her feet. She and her friend have an argument that doesn't last long, and I understand what they were talking about when the Brazilian woman enters the tub alone. She probably wanted company, and Rafaella refused. I don't hear the little scream that Gabriella makes when her feet step on the grapes for the first time, but I imagine the sound in my head through the movement her lips make.

She throws her head back in a loud, nervous laugh and, outside, her friend tells her how to do it. Gabriella is overflowing with joy as she imitates the movements inside the grape-treader. So different from the dead girl I found in Brazil...

I don't look away, even though I know I shouldn't pay so much attention to her under any circumstances, but especially in public. However, in yet another proof of the lack of control that only Gabriella is capable of subjecting me to, my eyes barely blink and, when she is satisfied with stepping on the grapes, I stand up, march towards her feeling the strength that kept me aware of her every movement throughout the time I have been here, pulling me towards her. It's a fucking lack of control, but one that I make no effort to avoid.

Her eyes lift as if, as much as I'm able to sense hers, Gabriella is also able to sense my presence. She follows me as I take the last steps towards the tub where she remains standing. I extend my hand, thebambinalooks at my fingers, then at my eyes before accepting it. Her contact with my palm reverberates through my body, activating the sensory memory I've been depriving myself of over the last week: her touch.

Gabriella parts her lips with her eyes fixed on mine, and her entire body leans slightly towards me, despite the physical barrier and distance between us. She doesn't even notice.

Her eyelashes flutter up and down a few seconds later, as if she's just been roused from a daze and remembered that she needs to move. Slowly, Gabriella climbs the small steps out of the grape-treader, then descends those she finds on the other side, holding my fingers with one hand and the hem of her dress soaked in grape juice in the other.

“Sir,” she says in a soft voice, before making a small bow, and I feel the word in every inch of me like every time the girl hasused it. I give myself a moment to just look at her before nodding and letting go of her hand. When I turn my back on her, it's to head home.

***

The cold shower did nothing to calm my mind, the insistent image of Gabriella laughing as she stomped the grapes, however, has wreaked havoc on every inch of it and refuses to relinquish control over it.

The smile on her face, the movements of her small breasts and wide hips, the joy exuded by the Brazilian, the laugh that I didn't hear and that I simply can't stop trying to imagine the sound of. Absolutely everything about that moment engraved itself, without permission, on the walls of my skull and insists on trying to do the same with each of my nerves.

A microfilm that I continue to watch in an infinite loop, mapping every gesture and look as if ensuring that I know the exact second of each of Gabriella's blinks was the solution to all the problems I've ever had and those that one day I still will.

I laugh, furious with myself. A handjob. I got to the point where I considered giving myself a fucking handjob in search of relief from a sensation that had never even overwhelmed me before.

I'm not a twelve-year-old kid who can't control his desires. And even though I didn't surrender to the humiliation of masturbating, my inability to get the girl out of my head and to consider handing her over to Coppeline as a solution to the problem are much greater humiliations.

Just the thought of having her out of my sight and reach pushes me to a limit that no one in their right mind would want to see me cross. I let out a long sigh and push my hair backbefore leaving the closet. A loud sound causes me to quickly walk through the bedroom door, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants.

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