11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

B eing the son of a big business mogul, you would think that I'd spent all kinds of time touring olive orchards, pressing hands with the workers, and all that corporate PR stuff.

But, if one knows me well, and few did, they would have known that Arlo Bonetti avoided Bonetti Olive Oil work as if it were a wilted penis. Still, here I was, being given the grand tour by an incredibly accommodating Signor Piravino, the senior manager of Bonetti Farms 20. Yep, twenty. We had twenty farms here in Italy. Big farms. None as big as good old 20, though, as Signor Piravino had mentioned several times.

"We are most proud of twenty," he gushed in choppy but understandable English as we strolled through olive groves filled with workers tending the organic trees with earth-friendly means. "On this farm, we have four hundred thousand trees on five hundred eighty-five hectares."

I glanced back at Donvino, who was walking with us just behind—something that I wished he would stop doing but he seemed set on it even though I had motioned him up several times—to ask if he knew what that meant in American terms.

"Ah, so sorry, Signor Bonetti," Signor Piravino rushed to say before Donvino could reply. "That is roughly fourteen hundred acres. Come! Let us see the bees!"

He steered me past sweaty workers, through the never-ending lines of well-cared-for trees, to a massive square of probably a hundred beehives. I glanced back at Donvino to see that he was having a discussion with one of the workers, a man about our age with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.

"Now these are another of your father's marvelous additions," Signor Piravino said, the air filled with merry little bees flying to and fro from the white hives. I nodded at the portly man in the white dress shirt and terribly knotted tie. His shirt was soaked through under his armpits and he was sweating profusely. He began talking bees while I watched Donvino and the young man. Did they know each other? The discussion seemed to be erstwhile. I smiled feebly when Donvino glanced at me. The younger man shook his head. Donvino replied, then strode toward me, the worker falling behind, working the brim of his wide-brimmed hat with nervous fingers.

"Signor Arlo," Donvino called as he neared. Several other workers were milling about, looking busy but keeping an eye on the big man giving the even bigger man a tour. "If we could have a moment, please?"

"Sure," I replied, moving from the farm manager to face Donvino. He'd been incredibly quiet since we'd arrived two hours ago. Not as outwardly cold as he had been. Whatever his cousin had said seemed to have thawed him a bit, but nowhere near as chummy as we had been. Still, some warmth was better than none. Obviously, he had something big weighing him down.

"Grazie," Donvino said as a tiny bee heavy with pollen flew by. The air here was rich with the smell of honey and sheep dung. One had to watch where one stepped in their penny loafers. "This is Arturo, and he is the head of the workers' union here on twenty."

I heard Signor Piravino bluster over and speak to Arturo in Italian. The discussion was rather clipped.

"Can you please translate?" I asked Donvino, who seemed quite happy to relay all that was being said. As soon as he started to translate, Signor Piravino clammed up, nodding and grinning, waving at the union rep to speak. And he did, with haste. Donvino bobbed his head as the man word purged all over me. "What is he saying?"

Sweat ran down the back of my neck. I rather disliked sweat unless it was earned in bed.

"He says that while he and his fellow workers are most grateful for the good rapport with the Bonetti family over the years, the new contract coming up needs many things that he wishes to discuss before voting starts."

"Signor Bonetti is not here to take complaints from the union." I glanced at Signor Piravino, then folded my arms over my chest.

"If you don't mind, I would like to speak for myself?"

My tour guide blabbered all over himself to apologize. "Thank you. Arturo, Donvino, can we find a shady place to hear what the workers would like to say to the company?"

"Yes, of course," Donvino replied after a fast nod from Arturo. We strolled down to a river that flowed through the orchard. A lazy river for sure, as the rainfall had been minimal for months. We found some shade under a few scraggly trees, circled up, and began talking.

Donvino began relaying concerns from the workers. Signor Piravino stood at my side, lips pressed flat, as I heard about several needs that the people who worked here felt were not being met. I studied the faces that were slowly gathering, many were Black, proud but wary.

"They ask for better pay," Donvino explained. I nodded, pulling out my phone to make notes. I had not one clue how to negotiate for these people but if Daddy wanted me to get into the biz, then backing the workers seemed like a great way to do what was needed to get my money while twisting management's—aka Dad's and Aunt Ginerva's—titties. "They also wish for someone to help them get papers." I looked up from typing at Donvino. "Many are from Africa."

"Ah, okay, uhm…" I tapped that all out as my brain scrambled for what to say. "Uhm, we'll look into it."

Donvino passed that along. The men and women around us smiled brightly. Another spat of Italian from Arturo to Donvino took place. I really needed to ramp up my Italian lessons.

"Also, many have to walk from the nearest village so they ask if maybe a bus for the workers could be made available?"

I glanced at the manager. "How far is the nearest village?"

"About five miles."

"Christ. Okay, yeah, we'll get a bus for them even if I have to buy it myself." Big talk for a guy with ten euros to his name. "What else?"

The workers listed a few other small things but wages and transportation were the biggest. I promised them all that I'd make sure that Signora and Signor Bonetti were made aware of the requests. Then I spent fifteen minutes shaking calloused hands as people from Senegal, The Gambia, Tunisia, and Italy thanked me in their native tongues or English that rang with the music of their language.

"That was nice," I said to Donvino.

"You were good as a boss," he replied with a shy sort of sideways glance that made me slightly giddy. Signor Piravino seemed rather chilly during the rest of the tour, doing his best to be considerate, but you could tell he was unhappy.

When our time was over, I turned to face the manager as we were escorted to our dusty Suzuki parked in front of a small but newish office building.

"Thank you for the tour," I said and offered my hand. Signor Piravino shook it quickly, his mouth a tight pucker as he expressed his joy at meeting Signora Bonetti's American nephew. "I'll be sure to pass along the worker's request to my great-aunt so there is time to implement the things that the workers wish so we can avoid any strife in the form of a strike." He nodded as if it hurt him to do so. "I'll also tell her how kind you were and how well number twenty is being run."

That made him a little less tight. "Grazie, signor."

We parted with smiles. Donvino waited beside his bike, his eyes on the manager as the man made his way back into his office. Probably to send an email to whoever was above him that some punk American kid was making waves at farm 20. I kind of hoped that was the case. I'd enjoy talking to my father and great-aunt about things. Like making people walk five miles to get to work.

"He is not liking a man your age being over him," Donvino stated as he handed me my helmet.

"I know. Tough shit. They wanted me to be more involved in the business, so I'm getting more involved." I slapped my backpack into the saddlebag and pulled on my helmet.

He studied me for a moment. "Do you do the good things for the workers for your own gratification or because it is the right thing to do?"

It seemed like that should be an easy answer, but if I were being honest, it was a little of both. Was that such a bad thing?

"If I said both, would you think poorly of me?"

He shook his head. "No, I would think you are human."

Oh. Cool. Okay. The ride home was uneventful. My arms felt comfy around his middle, and my cheek really enjoyed resting on his back.

My aunt, on the other hand, did not enjoy what I had to say when I flopped down at the dinner table, still covered in road dirt and sweat. The text that arrived from my father that night—the first since I'd been airmailed to Florence—was also not filled with warm congratulations. He was unsure if I should be poking about in worker relations with so little knowledge of negotiations and union protocols. I hit him right back.

You wanted me in the biz. I'm in the biz. Can't have it all your way. Please send money for a bus. ~ Arlo

Once the reply was sent, I kicked myself for not asking for cash for a car. Oh well, the people walking five miles to pick olives for our family needed the money more than I did. Still wheels would be nice. Although being pressed against Donvino was incredibly nice too.

The following morning, my phone pinging woke me up. Someone—my father, I was sure—had set up a banking account for me at a bank in Florence and had deposited two thousand euros into it. I pumped my fist into the air and leapt from the bed to do a happy Arlo has money dance. Then I remembered I had to buy a bus for the people at farm 20. I had no clue how to go about that. I'd assumed the business would handle it, but nope, that fell to me, so cool.

Padding around my room in my undies, I stepped out onto the balcony, rising to my toes as the sun was tinting the sky mauve. The mossy door was open. I hurried to shower, gel my hair, and slip into something playful. I chose a tank top of charcoal, some pink shorts, and tiny flip flops with sparkly gems on the straps.

Lucia met me outside, her tiny paws leaving damp prints on the walkways as we made our way to the dock. Donvino was gone, but I had suspected he would be. I sat down, dipped my toes into the Arno, and enjoyed the sound of ducks downstream.

She curled up beside me, her whiskers twitching when a fly would buzz past. I stretched out, using my cupped hands behind my head for a pillow, and watched the wispy clouds drifting past. It was maybe seven a.m. if that, and here I was, awake and greeting the day. What a different Arlo I was from just a week ago. Old Arlo would have been sleeping off a binge of sex and booze with whoever had been willing to engage. I let my eyes close to really listen to the water moving past, the hum of insects, and the song of birds. I'd not meant to drift off, but I must have.

The feel of water sprinkling on my face woke me up. My eyes flew open and Donvino stood above me, gloriously sweaty, his water bottle in hand. I sputtered. He gave the bottle a good squeeze. Water flew into my face. I kicked and shrieked, leaping to my feet and darting away with him right on my heels. I lost a flip flop. He caught up to me before I even reached the old mossy door, his longer legs giving him a speed advantage. I also might have let him catch me just a little.

His arms came around me. Off my feet I went with a squeal, then he gently placed me back on the cool grass. I held onto his forearms while laughingly looking up at him.

"You're not mad at me anymore?" I asked, even though his happy face told me what I needed to know.

"I was not mad at you, Arlo," he replied as he searched my face for something. I rose to my toes to press a kiss on his rough cheek. He turned his head into the innocent peck on the cheek, his lips meeting mine. I was shocked, but only for a second. Pulling back, my lips tingling from that sweet brush, I stared into simmering dark chocolate eyes.

"Did you do that on purpose?" I had to know. He'd been so ping-pongy that I did not want to misread a simple mistake. He edged us out of the doorway, nodded just once, and then captured my head and crashed his mouth to mine. My brain stalled like an old car then suddenly fired back up with a hearty YES!!

I climbed Donvino like a kid who had just emptied the candy dish and hit the jungle gym. I threw myself onto him, legs around his waist, arms around his neck, tongue gliding over his as he wobbled this way and that to balance us out. I let myself get lost in the taste of him. Strong coffee lingered on his tongue as it swept over mine. His hands cradled my ass perfectly. I licked and lapped at his mouth like a dog too long in the sun. He matched each stroke so passionately my head swam as my dick swelled. My back hit the wall. I grunted, uncaring if the skin on my shoulder was grated off by centuries-old stonework. Skin was overrated.

"God…your kisses are incredible," I huffed when we broke apart for air.

"I was not mad at you," he whispered gruffly, holding me with such ease that I felt safe as a babe in arms. Not that most babes had raging erections. "Please, forgive me for yesterday?"

"Of course." I rubbed my fingertips over the back of his tacky neck, then tugged his mouth back to mine. His tongue was feathery soft this time as it slipped between my lips. I sighed into the kiss, ready to stay pressed against this wall for eternity. Sadly, the kissing eased off, and he lowered me down, inch by inch, my body gliding over his on the descent. I shivered despite the morning warmth when my cock slid over his. Both of us were hard as iron spikes. I cradled his cheek. His long lashes fell as he turned his nose into my palm. "Can you tell me what was wrong yesterday? If it was something that I did, then I'll know not to do it again."

"No, no, it was not you." He pressed a kiss to my palm, inhaled, and then opened his eyes. Now they held sorrow instead of passion. "It was me. I have…" He looked for the words mentally, then shrugged. "How to say this right in English? I've not told my family that I am gay."

"Oh…oh okay. Oh crap." I patted his cheek, then stepped back, clasping his big hand and leading him back to the dock. "Sit. We should talk. If you want to? Sorry, I get bossy at times."

"I like your bossy. It is a good bossy. Like at farm 20," he said, lowering himself to sit on the dock. I sat beside him, crossing my legs so I could sit facing him. He was so glorious with the new sun warming his skin and face. I wanted more kisses. Hell, I wanted more than kisses, but I sensed he was in a confused place. "Those workers are so poor, Arlo. You give them hope."

"I'm glad. I honestly had no clue that we paid our workers so dismally."

"No, on the contrary, Bonetti pays better than most, but migrant workers…" He let that dangle and that was fine. I knew from living in the States how those who came into the country to do the work that Americans refused to do were treated by the government, their bosses, and the people they helped feed. "Seeing you take interest? Was big for them. It is hard to be working man or woman today."

I nodded, although I had little knowledge of that. Sure, I was now expected to put forth some effort, but I knew that even if I did nothing but be a sulky jerk, I'd not go hungry. My aunt and father might be employing tough love, but I'd still have food, a roof over my head, and fashionable clothing. Even the outlines of my father's dictates said that my stipend would be what a working man makes. So yeah, food and shelter would be taken care of. That was a lot more than most people I was starting to see.

"I'm trying to learn," I told him.

"I know, I see. You are bold for being so tiny." That made me chuckle. "I like you much. So much that I am not sure how to go right now, yes?" I agreed with a bob of my head as I tried to follow along. He gave me a feeble smile. "You are a brave, bright bird. I wish I had your courage. My family is not knowing that I like men. My church does not know. It is hard to be one way for them but another for myself."

"I understand. I felt that way too."

"Were you mad as well?"

"Sure, yeah." I let my mind wander back to those days when I was a gangly teen caught in the world's expectations of me. "To be fair, I was younger when I came out. I knew I was gay forever, it felt like. I'm not like you all buff and macho."

"You are a bright bird," he supplied with so much admiration in his gaze I nearly melted into a puddle and slipped through the dock boards into the Arno. "I feel like a dull, frightened tit."

"I'm a bird all right. My father and aunt would say that I'm a shit bird." That made him snicker. "Others would say a finely plumed rainbow dreamer."

"A dreamer is not such a bad thing to be. I dream of making the Olympic team, you dream of steamer trunks. Not so bad dreams."

"No, not so bad at all." I inhaled softly, then let it out through my nose. "Still, back when I was younger, I was always mad, for a hundred thousand things, but being forced into a certain box by society, my family, and the church always angered me. I rebelled big time, splashing my queerness all over everything like a modern artist tossing paint at a canvas. Oh, what's that, Father Stickler, you think gays are deviants? Well, let me show you just how gay this boy can be!"

"So brave. You were just a young boy taking on the world. I'm a man grown and still hiding."

I patted his bicep. It was so large and firm. "Do not play that comparison game. Whenever you come out—or if you never do—it's done on your timeframe. I'd assume that my being a rainbow dreamer flitting about California was less difficult than being a buff, beautiful tit in rural Italy. And hey, no, do not shake your head, you are gorgeous. I do not kiss men who are not alluring."

"You're being gracious," he replied dully, his eyes locked on the other side of the river where tall purple, white, and yellow irises had blossomed.

"No, I'm being honest. You are a lovely man, inside and out, and when the time is right, you'll tell your family your truth. I am so touched that you confided in me. Please know that I will keep your secret." I pretended to lock my lips and toss the key into the slow-moving waterway.

"I'm happy for that, thank you. It's nice to have you know. Bianca said I should tell you that I think you are cute. She said that you look at me as if I am cookie."

I played up the coy, batting my lashes and tittering like a teen girl. That made him smile widely. I couldn't resist. I skittered over him like a chipmunk, sitting on his thighs and draping my arms over his burly shoulders. All that rowing did wonders for a man's body.

"I love that you think I'm cute." I rubbed his nose with mine, then kissed him softly on the mouth. He deepened the kiss as his hands ran up and down my sides. We made out languidly for a moment or two, then, sadly, reality reared its ugly head in the form of a pair of joggers with a dog appearing on the other side of the river. The dog barked at us. Donvino removed me from his lap as the joggers looked our way. I waved. Donvino lowered his sight. The duo of runners waved back and continued their run. "Sorry, I shouldn't have sat on your lap. You're just so damn irresistible I can't seem to control myself."

"Ah flatter." He lifted his face to the sky. "I like you're not controlling yourself quite much."

My heart did this funny little flutter as if it had skipped a beat. "Let's go eat. Kissing makes me hungry," I said, rising to my feet and offering him a hand. He slapped his massive paw into mine and I tugged. We got nowhere fast. Then he pushed up and hugged me to him. He was sweaty, yes, and kind of fragrant, but I cuddled in close just the same.

Nothing was said. I wasn't sure there was anything we could add to the morning, so we stepped apart, grinned goofily at each other, and made our way to the villa. My aunt was seated outside under the pergola, her sight darting to me from the folded newspaper she had been reading. Donvino nodded at her, then moved inside. I stalled on the stone pathway.

"Arlo, come sit, please. We have much to discuss this morning," Ginerva called, watching me closely over the top of her glasses. She was dressed and coiffed. The morning meal spread out on the table around a fat vase of yellow and pink blooms.

"I'm going to eat with Donvino this morning," I announced before strolling into the villa. The sound of my aunt's gasp followed me into the shady interior of her home. Smiling to myself, I made my way to the kitchen, stepping in unannounced to find Donvino seated at a small table with a massive bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Giada was at the stove frying eggs, and Alessio sat beside his grandson with a cup of hot tea. Everyone looked up when I cleared my throat.

"Signor Arlo, did I forget something for your breakfast?" Giada asked as she spun from the frying pan on the bright silver stove.

"No, I thought I'd eat in here this morning. Donvino and I were having a nice talk before we had to separate in the back garden." I pulled out a chair and sat down, smiling widely at Donvino as he gaped at me. Alessio looked at his wife. His wife looked at him.

"But signora is outside," Alessio reminded me. I nodded, folded my hands in front of me on the table, and eyeballed the oatmeal Donvino had been scarfing down.

"She is yes, I just passed her. That oatmeal looks marvelous. Is there any left?" I asked. Donvino stared at me as if I had sprouted a second head. Giada rushed to spoon me some oatmeal from a pot on a back burner. "Grazie," I said when the bowl was placed before me. "So, Donvino, I need to find a bus. Did you say you knew of a place?"

His jaw worked for a moment. He swallowed the oatmeal in his mouth and nodded, finally catching on to the ruse. My aunt was going to be so mad. Which kind of made me giddy inside. It was bullshit relegating some people to sit in a warm kitchen to dine while others were fed in a lush garden.

"Oh, a bus," he said, then dove into the platter of eggs Giada laid on the table. She rushed to make me some coffee and brought me some honey and yogurt. I thanked her profusely. Alessio sat in his seat, eyes wide, clearly unsure of what to do or say. "I think maybe Uncle Dario might have one or know of one."

"Brilliant. I have two thousand euros to spend."

Donvino grimaced. "That is not much. I'm not sure what kind of bus we get, but we will go and talk to him, yes?"

"Yes. We'll find something," I stated with all kinds of enthusiasm. Today was shaping up to be a great day! I'd been kissed by this gorgeous man and been able to stick it to my aunt all in the same morning. Would I get an earful later? For sure. Did I care? Nope. "Can you pass the honey, please? Oh, it's peach again. Yay!"

And I chattered on gaily as the morning sun shone through a window with pure white lace toppers on it. A slim vase with a single small sunflower soaking up the warm rays sat on the sill.

All was wonderful in the world.

Until I was summoned to the back garden by my aunt forty minutes later. Ginerva Dominica Bonetti was not impressed with her great-nephew in the least. I got thoroughly dressed down and dismissed in both English and Italian.

"You know," I felt that I had to say before I removed myself to my room to change for the trip to Uncle Dario's, "this whole class thing that you and your friends cling to is archaic, to say the least. And yes, I grew up with it firmly in place, but no more. From now on I'm going to take my meals with everyone in the household or not at all."

She glared at me, the dragon lady of Florence in full draconic form. I braced for the fireball headed my way. I knew I should have packed a shield, but it would have been a bitch to get it through customs.

"Then you shall go a long time hungry," she informed me.

I patted my ass. "Fine. I could use a little leaning up on the fanny."

With that, I sashayed off, making sure to shake my skinny ass back and forth as I left. Sashay shante as Mama RuPaul would say. Mama Ru also said a person better work. After that immolation, I'd best haul my backside to the olive farms on the daily now and work it big time if I wanted to feed myself. In all honesty, I truly did not think she would starve me. I was the sole heir, after all. Still, I let her have her threat. And all the cash.

Man, this needing money from a job thing really sucked. I liked being a rich, lazy brat better, just saying.

***

Donvino was gracious enough to haul my backside to his uncle's farm down the lane. Lane is actually the perfect name for the road that crawled alongside the Arno. I snuggled tight to Donvino as we slowed to enter the driveway of the cluttered home.

"Oh Lordy," I whispered when the geese appeared from behind a Panda—car not bear—sitting up on cinderblocks. The yard was an obstacle course of cars, most seemingly in fair condition, many on their last legs. Wheels, I suppose. "Do you carry goose repellent?"

"Just stand up to him," Donvino told me over his shoulder. I doubted that would work, but when I slipped off the back of the Suzuki, I threw back my shoulders as the gander lowered his head. When he took a step forward, I took ten in reverse. The gander charged, bloodlust in his beady blue eyes, and I bolted around the motorbike as Donvino waved his helmet at the bird and called him a bastard.

"Yeah, bastardo!" I shouted with the bike as a barrier. The gander moved off, shooting looks back at me, honking loudly to his ladies as if he had won that battle. In reality, he had won half of it. Donvino turned to look at me with humor. "That was me standing up to him."

"Good standing up," he teased just as the front door to the old house opened with a crash. Bianca jogged out, her hair pulled up into a sloppy knot, baggy overalls covering her slim frame. Her nose was smeared with grease.

"Hello!" she called out, shouting at the gaggle in Italian. Several chickens trotted past, a red rooster leading a colorful flock of hens. The geese wandered off after the chickens but kept a certain distance. "Papà has something for you to see around back."

I hung my helmet on the handlebars as I hurried to keep up with Donvino. Just in case the gander came back for another taste.

"When you call to say about a bus, we did not know what size," she started as we rounded the back of the farmhouse. Several pigs were in a pen, nosing about in the dry dirt. Next to them stood Uncle Dario, the same man that I'd met so many years ago. He was older, of course, chunkier, but still had a cigar in his mouth. Not the same one, obviously, but it smelled like it could have been that old.

He shook my hand vigorously. I smiled, thanked him in Italian, and then looked to Donvino or Bianca to translate.

"Papà has had this here for a few years. Someone sold it to him for church maybe to buy, but none do," Bianca explained as we skirted the pig pen to find a gray and rust-red Fiat minibus. "Today he says for special deal he will sell to you for three thousand euros."

Donvino instantly started arguing with his uncle, the rapid-fire discussion going too fast for me to grasp. Not that I grasped more than numbers and letters. After a lively discussion, Dario clapped me on the back, gave me an orange candy, and announced to the barnyard something that must have been a good thing.

"He says that he is selling it to you for only one thousand euros because signora has been so good to him, and he remembers that you are scared of chickens," Donvino explained. "For truth, I chew on him to go lower, as it is older than any of us."

"Also, it is a 1983 model with so many miles the odometer rolls backward. But she will run. I will get her going for you today!" Bianca gave me a slap on the shoulder, hoisted up her overalls, and opened the rear door of the minibus, exposing the engine. Several mice leapt out. She glanced sheepishly at us. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Whenever is fine! Thank you. Grazie!" I clasped Dario's meaty hand.

He chuckled, began talking, and then threw an arm around my shoulder. Cigar smoke wafted under my nose, which might have been an improvement over the smell of the pigs. Dario gave me an orange candy as we walked around a hay shelter, the small outbuilding packed full of square bales. Tiny brown wrens flew off as we slipped around the lefthand side. I looked back to see that Donvino was right behind us, smiling as his uncle prattled on and on.

We stopped. Dario patted my chest, moved to a sheet-covered shape, and then whipped off the dusty covering. A cloud of dirt and bird poop went flying. I coughed and stared at the little green and white car parked beside the shed.

I stared at the pretty little thing openly. It seemed to be in rather good condition. A two-seater with a fold-down roof of some sort. Adorable actually.

Donvino stepped up beside me. "Uncle says that this Bianchina is you, so he will sell it for only two thousand euros. I would chew on him for lower. It is old, late 50s or early 60s, and needs some work. I suggest you offer him two thousand for both," he whispered in my ear, his warm moist breath making me shiver even in this baking heat.

"Two thousand euros for both," I stated with authority. Dario chuckled, puffed on his stogie, and then patted me on the back so hard I nearly flew into the hay.

"Sì. Venduto al figlio della signora per un buon prezzo!"

"He says it's sold to signora's boy for a good price," Donvino said just as Bianca started shouting and peeling off her overalls. A mouse ran out of the sleeve. She blushed prettily, dragged her coveralls back on, and then got back to work on the engine.

After another round of handshakes, I had a cold beer, then rode into Florence to drain almost all the funds out of my bank account. Donvino waited on his Suzuki for me, his smile a lazy one when I emerged with the cash and a new debit card.

"Thank you for your help with the negotiations," I said as traffic sped by, people rushing to and fro, cars and motorbikes weaving in and out in ways that made no sense to my American eyeballs. "I'm not sure I will ever be able to drive in this city."

"You will learn. I will show you. Do you drive manual?" I shook my head. "Is easy. I will teach you easy one or two days. Driving in Florence is not so bad as Americans think." He handed me my helmet. A lady with a cat on a leash walked past, giving Donvino a look that nearly peeled off his tee and jeans. I shot her a laser-like glare. She moved on then.

"That's right, witch, keep moving," I mumbled under my breath. Donvino ruffled my hair.

"You are so greedy. She was only looking," he teased, his fingers lingering in my hair for a moment too long.

"She can go look somewhere else," I replied curtly after sliding my helmet back on. "Tart."

Donvino laughed, leaned up, and allowed me to slink a leg over the seat. I wiggled in close. My arms around his middle, I whispered a prayer to the patron saint of Florence drivers and held on tight. We veered into traffic, zipping in front of a tiny delivery truck, then merging to pick up an exit. A car cut us off. Donvino shouted. The driver gave him two fingers in the air. Several motorbikes appeared out of nowhere, slicing into the rush of cars. One was driven by an old man with a flowing beard that fluttered along behind him.

"Easy." Static. "Always." Static. "Green." Static. "Impatient." Static. "Red." Static. "ZTL."

Not a clue what he was talking about, but I was starting to pick up certain tricks about driving in this heavily trafficked city. Impatient was right. People used their horns a lot here. And while it seemed to me that the drivers were lawless, once you began to truly watch the flow of things, it seemed a little less wild west. Maybe I could do this. Now that I had wheels, I was going to have to if I wanted to come into Florence by myself, which I did. I was used to being independent, so bumming rides all the time made me feel like such a pathetic loser.

"Have you ever seen the statue of David?" I asked as we sailed along, leaving the city chaos behind. The air was fresher here, and just a shade cooler.

"Oh yes, a few times. Would you like to go someday?"

"With you?" I enquired all flirty coy boy.

"Yes, with me."

"I would love that." I pecked the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He smelled of lime soap. I drew that citrus smell deep into my lungs. "Maybe we can go together! I'll take you in my Bianchina!"

"You cannot drive into historical center of the city without special permit. We will take a train."

"Oh damn. I wanted to chauffeur you for once."

"I hear you saying you hate driving in Florence," he reminded me, and I shrugged.

"It's scary not knowing what the signs say," I replied, leaning to the left as we rounded a soft corner. "And yes, the traffic patterns are intimidating, but I want to do it."

"Good! I will show you. It is easy. You are clever. You'll be driving like an Italian in no time."

I hugged him just a bit tighter, simply because he was so wonderful.