4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

T he soft touch of the sun caressing my face pulled me from slumber.

Yawning widely, I moved from my back to my side, cracked open my eyes, and had a moment of utter confusion. Then my brain clicked in. Oh right, Italy. This was not my bedroom in Pindes Hill, it was a guest room at the villa of the damned. I should reach out to Rob Zombie or John Carpenter to see if they'd like to make a horror movie based on my life. The smell of lemon blossoms and water moved over me, the windows and patio doors open. Had they been yesterday? Sitting up, I glanced around Mama's safflower room. My bags sat just inside the door, all neatly lined up tallest to smallest. Cool. Looked like Giada and Alessio's grandson had toted them all up that incredibly large staircase. I'd make sure to tip him well for his trouble. Right now, though, I needed to get in touch with the world—aka my followers—and let them know I was alive and in the land of fine wine and gelato.

I dug my phone out of the tangle of covers, swiped it open, pressed my thumb to the reader, and wet my lips. Mm, some coffee with heavy cream and sugar sounded good. Maybe they had a bell to pull? I did a quick scan but found no bellpull. Knowing Great-aunt Ginerva, she probs was in cahoots with my father to take away all the little joys in my life. And the big ones. God, woe is fucking me. I tried to connect to the internet but didn't have the password. Oh my fucking God, how was this my life right now?!

Lacking coffee and the world wide web, with a sigh worthy of Greta Garbo, I kicked the covers until I had expended my rage on the bedding. Truly I think I was a golden age actress in a previous life. What else could account for my love of corsets and vests, steamer trunks, and Cary Grant? Huffing with flair, I slapped my feet to the cool tile floor and heard a soft meow. My sight darted about the room, finally finding the feline reclining on my patio. Her gray fur looked lavender in the morning sun. The cat didn't get up as I padded over. She rolled to her back and made air biscuits with her front paws. Purrs floated up. I crouched down to tickle her tummy.

"Good morning," I whispered, smiling down at the kitty. "Where did you come from?" I gave her a chin scratch and then rose, planting my hands on my hips to see if she had climbed up a tree to bask on my patio. I couldn't picture Ginerva having an animal in the house.

Wow. My eyes roamed over the narrow but resplendent garden at the rear of the villa, the sun's rays glinting off the Arno about a hundred or so feet away. I gazed upon a classic Italianate garden with vibrant flowers, boxwood hedges—a few sculpted into topiaries of swans—as well as the always present olive and lemon trees. There were statues tucked in among the flowers and herbs, mostly of saints or the Virgin but a few looked to be maidens with veils. The garden hummed with life. The lines were hard and precise, and it was obvious that someone did daily upkeep on the rectangular bit of land. In a shady corner, not far from the river, was a table and chairs with a small fountain that burbled. I could see a short dock from where I stood, just the tip and the nose of a dark blue rowboat. No, it was one of those sleek shells that rowers used. Yes, that was right. I patted myself mentally on the back. See, I knew sport. Then, out of nowhere, a man appeared under a pergola heavy with dangling grape vines.

The garden paled in comparison to this man. I rubbed my eyes, sure I was having some sort of visual spasm. Either that or I was still in bed dreaming of a water god leaving the river to come and have his way with me as gods were known to do. Yes, I had to be dreaming. No way was this stunning man a reality. He was quite tall, having to duck to clear the beams of the pergola. He was wearing tight red workout shorts, socks and sneakers, and a green tee hung around his thick neck. The man was cut. I mean, holy hell. It was like gazing at Michelangelo's David, for he was sheer masculine perfection. His hair was wet, ebony black, and his jaw coated with new whiskers. His chest had a fine covering of dark hair forming a tasty treasure trail that snuck down into his form-fitting shorts.

I felt a swoon coming on. He cleared the pergola and his gaze met mine. Dark, dark eyes framed with thick lashes. Yep, a swoon was imminent.

"Catch me, kitty," I whispered.

The cat just continued to sunbathe as if Neptune's hot son wasn't smiling up at me.

"Buongiorno!" he called, stopping beside a potted lemon tree, his hand coming up in a wave, showing me a thick arm with a nice thatch of black hair. What a manly man he was.

"Good morning," I replied, easing to the rail and then grabbing it with my free hand.

"Good morning," he said once more, his sneakers moving him slowly over the small flat stones on the garden path. "You must be Signor Arlo. It's a pleasure to see you. I'm Donvino, Giada and Alessio's grandson. I bring up your bags for you last night."

"Oh, that was you. Thank you. That was ever so kind." I batted my lashes, went to my toes, and leaned over even further. "Your English is quite good."

"Grazie. Thank you. I work in a restaurant for some nights with many tourists, so it is important to speak English good." Lord he was charming. And big. So big and strong. I could eat him up with a spoon just like a serving of tiramisu. "The bags are inside your door," he said as he dabbed at his face with the edges of his lime green tank top. Yum, yum, yum.

"Yes, I know. I saw them," I called down as the cat began to circle my ankles.

"Ah good. Good. Then you are finding your clothes soon?"

Caught up in the heavy flirt I was tossing out like confetti, I heard his words, but they took a moment to sink in. When they did, I gasped, blushed, and threw my hands down to cover my junk. God above I was in my skimpy pink thong.

"Oh shit!" I cried out, spun, and dashed inside before his grandmother or—god forbid—Aunt Ginerva, should decide to enter the back garden. I heard soft, deep laughter floating into my room. Nice. He had a sense of humor. And pecs. Lots of pecs. And abs. I dashed around gathering my things then flew into the bath which was another study in elegance with white tiles splashed with sunflower yellow, a shower with a rainfall showerhead that could easily hold two men—or one svelte man and one river God—and a sparkling white bidet and toilet. One small window beside the sink had lacy yellow sheers, allowing the sweet smell of herbs to blow in on a warm breeze.

I lingered just a bit in the shower, scrubbing at my skin with my favorite patchouli and lavender shower gel, eager to get dressed and bolt downstairs to continue my flirt with Donvino. I lathered my hair, rinsed, and leapt out of the shower, dribbling water as I ran into my room, towel in hand, to rifle through my clothing. Water ran down my nose as I dug about in several bags, leaving the bits of underwear where they lay. Someone would tidy up things…they always did. Actually, it was odd that Giada hadn't unpacked my things for me. Probably she didn't want to disturb me. I liked her. And her husband. And lord did I covet her grandson.

Emerging from my room thirty minutes later in a summery outfit that consisted of a linen vest over a sheer blue shirt, shorts, and sandals, I hurried down the stairs. Giada was dusting in one of the ornate rooms—a library by the looks of the books lining the walls—and so I darted in to ask about breakfast.

"Sorry, Signor Arlo, but Signora Bonetti say to clean it up after she eats without you." I stared at the woman hiding her face behind her feather duster.

"But I've not eaten since I don't know when." My stomach chose that time to rumble as if to back up what I was saying.

"I can find something fast. You missing dinner made signora very upset last night. She say if you no come to breakfast at good time then it is gone."

"Oh honestly," I exclaimed, rolling my eyes to the ceiling as if the chubby angels chilling up there could whip up a damn bagel. "I was exhausted. Does the woman have no sympathy?!"

"I have sympathy for those who need it," Ginerva said from the doorway. I spun so fast my head got loopy. Probably from lack of food. My aunt stood in the hallway, spine stiff, wearing a pale pink dress with a white belt, pearls, and tiny black flats. It was like looking at Jackie Kennedy when she was the first lady. Damn it, I really did not want to love her retro look, but I couldn't help myself. "You do not. Please join me in the rear garden. Giada will bring refreshments. Lunch is still a few hours off."

"Thank you," I whispered to Giada after my aunt walked off without another word. I fell in behind Ginerva, inhaling her perfume, Chanel No. 5, if my nose knew the scent and it did. Rather well. I once dated a man who wore it all the time. My aunt's shoes clacked on the terracotta tiles, her head held high, me on her heels, tail tucked, like a puppy that had just piddled on the Isfahan silk carpet.

My sight flew about when we entered the rear garden, but sadly my lusty peepers could find no trace of Donvino Marini. What a pity. I suspected that my great-aunt would not appreciate the flair of my hair or the way I'd applied some light lip gloss.

"We will sit here," Ginerva announced, taking a seat at the table in a small, round area with short rose bushes, tiny clumps of white flowers, and a charming stone birdbath that was getting lots of action. Doves of some sort splashed about in the marble bath while gulls cried out from the river. The wind was gentle back here along the far wall that hid the house and garden from the waterway. Ginerva seated herself as if she were a queen. Legs together and bent to the side, hands in her lap, chin up. She placed her glasses on her nose. Her sight pinned me to the white cast iron bistro chair that faced the wide door leading to the dock. The door was now open, probably to allow Donvino the freedom to go swimming or whatever demigods did to get all wet and scrumptious. "I was disappointed in you not showing up for dinner."

I placed my phone on the table that matched the chairs. A honeybee flitted around a vase of gladiolas and tiny bits of baby breath.

"I was exhausted. I did say I might sleep," I reminded her. She stared at me as if I had a troupe of tap dancing beavers on my head. "Do you have the internet password handy?" I tapped my phone. Her silver eyebrow rose. The gold chains on her glasses swayed gently when she lowered her head to give me a firm look.

"The internet is a privilege that you must earn."

"I'm sorry, but what?" I asked, sticking my pinkie into my left ear to clear what must be a blockage.

"Your father informs me that you are addicted to social media, and that is part of your lack of responsibility. So, you must earn internet time." She stared at me down that long, regal nose.

I might have come a little undone. There was some yelling, some waving of hands, and some tears. Ginerva sat through the tirade with her hands in her lap, as cold as a block of ice, and said nothing until I was properly vented. "I have not seen a tantrum like that since you were a tiny boy."

"I'm not a tiny boy. I'm a pissed off man!" I barked, but the outrage had run its course.

"No? That certainly looked like a bambino throwing himself. Now, if you are ready…ah, Giada, place the food and drink on the table and then inform Alessio that I will be leaving for the library meeting in thirty minutes."

"Yes, signora." Giada filled the table with light fare. Some biscotti, a bowl of yogurt, some white figs, oranges, and prickly pears along with a jar of honey and some balls of mozzarella. Silverware, cloth napkins, and two cups of cappuccino were settled among the platters, and then the housekeeper left me to glower at my aunt as I stewed.

"Eat. My staff is not here for you to run ragged at all hours. If you wish to eat, you will be here when the meals are served. Breakfast is seven to eight, lunch one to two, and dinner is served at eight unless we are entertaining, then the meal will be served at nine. Make note. Do not be late or you will go hungry."

"Noted," I mumbled, uncrossed my arms, and began loading up on whatever I could get my hands on. Ginerva lifted her cup to sip at it delicately. Her lipstick left a dark red mark on the white cup. "Just so we're clear, I'm not really happy to be treated like a toddler."

She lowered her cup just an inch. "Then do not act as one."

"I don't," I snarled while dumping honey into my bowl of yogurt. "I'm standing up for myself."

"Indeed? Well, shouting at me or those whom I employ is not acceptable. Only street people shout at other people. Bonettis speak with confidence, yes, but we do not shriek like the gulls bickering over fish carcasses." My mouthful of yogurt prohibited me from replying. "I find your lack of knowing your family's language frightful." Her slim brows knitted. "Did your father not hire suitable tutors for you?"

Oh dear lord save me from this nightmare. I bet if I made a run for it, I could throw myself into the Arno and float away. I could become a street performer who sings arias outside the Santa Maria Del Fiore.

No, you could not. You can't carry a tune.

Fine, I'll be an artist selling sketches of tourists.

Nope, no artistic talent.

Potter?

Sorry.

Fisherman.

You're terrified of fish.

Yeah I am. They have those buggy fish eyes. Oh! A goat herder! No, they have funny eyes too.

"Arlo, not replying when someone who is your elder is speaking to you is rude." I ricocheted back to the here and now, swallowed and shrugged. That, it seemed, was not a suitable reply to the signora, for her left eye twitched slightly, her rather thick lenses making the tic quite noticeable. I kept shoveling yogurt with peach honey into my face. Then, out of left field, she sighed and shook her head. Not a hair moved. Whatever kind of hairspray she used was slapping. "Piccolo puppy never did get over the loss of Lynette, and, I fear, his grief made him indulgent."

Did she just call my father a puppy? That was…weird.

"Pfft, yeah, no, not indulgent. He'd have to care to indulge, right? Also, to be fair to Tommaso," at the usage of his first name, her deep brown eyes rounded to twice their size, "he did bring in some guy when I was around twelve but I hated the lessons so that ended that."

"You use your father's first name instead of calling him father?"

"Sometimes. He doesn't care."

She sat back, her shoulders sagging just a bit, as the gray cat appeared from under a bush, sending the bathing doves to wing. The cat leapt to Ginerva's lap and settled into a tight ball, her bright yellow eyes watching me, then slowly closing as my aunt ran her ringed fingers down the feline's back.

"Yes, I see this to be the case." Ginerva watched me eat in silence, with one hand on the cat and the other tapping on the side of her cappuccino cup. Finally, after I had demolished the bowl of yogurt and was now peeling an orange, she took a diminutive sip of her coffee and squared her shoulders back into fighting mode. "Well, we are here to right his wrongs. We will start with you learning Italian." I made a face. She placed her cup back onto its saucer, the cat unmoving aside from its long, white whiskers. "That face did not work with your father and it shall not work for you. Knowing the language that your staff and employees speak is vital for when you take over the company."

"Yeah, I'm not really feeling the whole olive oil magnate thing," I said as I worked on freeing an orange wedge. When I glanced up, my great-aunt and the cat were staring at me as if a lesser demon had just spoken words of hellfire using my mouth. "No offense, but I don't see myself in big business. I'm aspiring to be a social media trendsetter. A maestro of the interwebs if you will." I flapped a hand in the air, sticky sweet orange juice flying off my fingers.

"I see. And does this internet trendsetting put food on the table?"

"Not now, no, it's more of an artistic thing. A way to live one's life. People love me. If I had access to the internet, I could show you how many followers I have and how adoring they are!"

"I'm aware of your internet presence. I repeat myself in asking how you plan to feed yourself. One can only survive on semen for so long."

I choked on my orange wedge. Wow, okay, Auntie G had some chutzpah. "Well, I might create my own brand of steamer trunks."

She smiled. It was the first time that her mouth had pulled upward. I wasn't sure that was a good thing.

"Ah, yes, the steamer trunks. So many people today are using them. So, you plan to sell steamer trunks and frolic with other young men with too much money and too little supervision."

I chewed on my orange as I tried to decipher if she was being sincere or sarcastic. I was leaning toward sarcasm when she reached over to lift another silver bell. She rang it once. Giada appeared from inside, her eyes searching the table.

"We'll need some wet wipes for the little one," Ginerva informed the housekeeper. Giada looked at me, smiled warmly, and then went off. I rushed to wipe my face and fingers on my napkin. "Giada will bring you something to remove the tackiness. For me, I will say this and then I must be off to the library for a reading. I am not willing to allow you , the only heir to the fortune that generations of Bonettis have slaved over 150 years to build, to toss it aside to make a fool of yourself on TikTok. Your foolishness ends now. Over the next year, we will mold you into a man who can take the reins of our legacy. I will not accept anything less. So, to that end, I will line someone up for your lessons in Italian beginning tomorrow. Then we will start teaching you the business."

"Did you not just hear me say that I don't want to be a farmer?" Giada slipped in, handed me a warm washcloth, and disappeared back inside.

"I do not think you know what you want to be." I snorted. That was ridiculous. Of course I knew what I wanted to be. I wanted to be…well, something that would make people notice me. For once. "I must go. Dinner is at eight. Do not skip it again. Addio, bella Lucia." She tickled the cat's chin, moved her to the ground, and rose. "Unpack and settle in, Arlo. We have much work to do."

With that she walked off, slowly, stopping by the open doorway to pluck a pearl and rhinestone cane from an umbrella holder just inside the door. Even with the walking stick, the old gal was intimidating. Not that I was scared of her, far from it.

From inside the villa, I heard Giada shouting for Alessio to come get signora. The cat, who I assumed was called Lucia, stretched, front legs out, butt in air, claws extended, and gave my ankles a quick rub before heading inside after her mistress. I ate the rest of my light brunch with attitude. If they—my father and my great-aunt—thought they could hide my brilliant light under a bushel basket filled with olives, they had another thing—

Did she say unpack?!