8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

R olling about the next morning, I blinked awake to bright sunshine streaming into the lemon-yellow room. My eyes were gummy. We'd not rolled in until well after two a.m. due to my aunt needing to spend hours gossiping to her friends about who knew what—they all spoke Italian, so all I grasped were numbers when I heard them—then deciding Se?orina Cappello was staying the night at our villa for some reason only they knew. I called for Alessio and stepped outside to check on my IG feed. The prime minister's aide had appeared out of nowhere, asked if he could see my silken panties, and then grew sulky when I told him no. It wasn't nearly as attractive a look on him as it was on me.

Knowing I had missed breakfast judging by the slant of the sun, I showered and dressed in some casual shorts that showed off my legs, a tank top with a slit up the back to show off my spine, and sandals to show off my tiny toes. I did grab a hat with a wide brim, sunglasses, and my phone. Finding food in the kitchen was surprising to say the least.

"Signora was home late so is acceptable to eat later today," Giada informed me, then heaped eggs, seasoned tomatoes, some sausage, and several pieces of toast onto a plate for me.

"Can I have some for Donvino? I'm meeting him on the dock, and he will probably be hungry."

She gave me the oddest look but complied, taking my plate back to fill containers and then packing them into a basket she'd fetched out of the pantry.

"Grazie," I chimed as I made my way out back. The day was already well underway, but I was feeling chipper, probably because I knew I'd be seeing Donvino soon. Lucia joined me, slinking out of her napping spot, curled around the base of a lemon tree in a pot. "Buongiorno," I whispered to the cat as we made our way through the mossy door to where the Arno flowed musically along. I settled down on the pier crisscross applesauce, took out a thermos of coffee, and logged into my IG account. I needed to get my own service soon, but since I had less than a hundred bucks in my checking account—working man wages, thanks, Dad—I was still using Wi-Fi when I could find it. I was just about to check my DMs, for there seemed to be a slew of them when I glanced up to find Donvino rowing toward the dock. My heart sped up at the sight.

He smiled widely, easing the scull closer, then leaping out with experienced grace.

"Buongiorno," I called from my seat on the dock. He pulled his boat out of the water a bit, resting it on the edge of the pier, then sat down, his long legs in front of him. I drank in the sight of all that rugged masculinity. His skin was shiny with sweat, his dark hair plastered to his head, and his jaw was thick with black whiskers. I wanted to jump his big strong bones. "I brought us a late breakfast."

"That is gracious," he said, opening the lid to the basket and taking out a water bottle that he downed in several greedy gulps.

"Your grandmother packed it for us. So, how was your row?" I sipped my coffee while he talked. He handed out containers of food, chattering along as we ate, and only after he was done eating did he imbibe in some coffee.

"…working hard for this week and next for the competition." He removed the chewy crust from my toast for the quackers paddling our way.

"What competition is that?" I asked as he tore the crust into small bits for Bongo and Bonita. The mallards gobbled up the offerings, the drake giving us a raspy quack in thanks before leading his lady love off to search the edge of the river for other duckie treats.

"I just tell you not a minute before the ducks come," he teased, reaching out to tweak my nose playfully before growing serious. "It is a competition in Pisa. If I do well there and then in several other contests, I maybe qualify for the national team. But it is hard with no money to back a rower. Still, I try every year to make a team."

The ducks swam off while Lucia tried to climb into the now empty basket. He removed her, chided her gently, and then placed her little gray paws on the pier. Off she went in a huff, tail in the air.

"Is it incredibly expensive?" I asked as I rested my arms on my knees to watch him speak. He was just so incredibly lovely. Enrapturing was the only term that fit. He enraptured me.

"Yes, it is. This scull is the only boat that I have, and it is old. It was my fathers."

"Could your parents help with the costs?" I enquired, unsure of his home life but rather sure his folks would cough up some funds for him.

"No, they are both gone. Since I was little. I lived with my grandparents until I find a room in Firenze for myself."

"Oh shit, I'm sorry. I lost my mother when I was young, so I know the hole that leaves in a child's heart."

He smiled a sad smile, peeled off his shirt, and wiped his face. I nearly swooned right off the edge of the dock.

"Grazie, thank you. It is what it is. My father was agent de polizia…police officer?" I nodded. "He was killed in duty when I was five. My mother runs off after I was born."

"Oh, Donvino, I am so sorry." I placed my hand on his calf and gave it a rub. The coarse hairs on his leg made my fingertips tingle. "Seems neither of us had a good childhood."

"No, not so much but also yes," he answered, locking his arms behind him to lift his sweaty face to the sun. It took all my control—which is notoriously low—not to clamber over his strong leg, settle in his lap, and kiss the sadness from his face. "My father leaving was not for his choosing. My mother was not a good kind for mothering. Too flighty my grandmother says, but beautiful, so my father was drawn to her like moth to a fire."

"Yes, I can relate." I sighed, pulling his sight from the wispy clouds to me. I did not turn my admiring gaze away when his eyes touched mine. His lips twitched a bit at the corners, and he sat up, looping his arms up and over his knees to mimic how I was sitting.

"You find me beautiful?" His voice was smoky. I bobbed my head. "The finding is mutual."

If not for the call of his grandmother ringing out, I for sure would have been in his lap, with my fingers threaded into his damp hair and my mouth sealed to his. He rose slowly, stretched side-to-side, and then offered me his hand. I placed mine in his, letting him hoist me up with zero effort. I pretend-stumbled into his chest, uncaring if I got sweat on my clothes. His arm went around me, a band of steel that I never wanted to be freed from.

"Oops," I tittered as he looked down at me. I saw the unmistakable fire banked in those mocha eyes. My body responded instantly. Then, because old people got to be old people, his grandmother called him again, and he stepped back, his arm dropping away.

"You are easy to fall to the ground. Perhaps we should make sure you eat more sweet to fight low blood sugar?"

"I would love something sweet," I purred. Bless his heart, he dug about in the basket and removed a baggie of donut holes.

"Here, have a zeppole for your dizzy head." He fished one out as I pouted and with long fingers and rather nice nails, he went to feed me. I opened my mouth. His nostrils flared as he placed the treat between my lips. I closed my lips around his fingers, moaned, and tasted his fingertips with my tongue. My dick was so hard now it ached. Donvino made a sound in his throat. A guttural sort of grunt that made my balls draw up. Then, because old people have to ruin every damn thing, his grandmother bellowed his name. This time, it was no nonsense. "I must go before she comes looking for me. She does not care that I am much taller, she will pull me into the house by my ear." He slowly removed his fingers from my mouth.

"Are you doing garden work later today?" I asked and got a sad little headshake.

"I am working a double shift today to bank money for the trip to Pisa, and the tips will be good for the weekend is busiest." He grabbed his shirt, pulled it over his head, and gave me one long, last look that sent sparks down to my toes. "Tomorrow morning. Ah no, tomorrow is Sunday. Maybe after mass?"

"Sure, yes, of course." I smiled up at him. He trotted off through the mossy door. I could hear Giada speaking to him from the dock. For such a little thing, she sure could get some volume rolling. I lingered for a few moments. I did not want to get into a family moment. God knows I have enough of those with my own kin let alone bumbling into someone else's. After the voices died down, I tidied up the dock, packed away the containers, and strolled into the villa, sighing as the cooler interior enveloped me. Giada came to meet me, smiling meekly and removing the basket from my hands.

"Signor Arlo, you did not have to bring this back. I would get it," she said as I padded along after her down the long hallway, unsure of what to do with myself for the rest of the day.

"You were kind enough to make it, so the least I could do was bring it back."

"You are most gracious. The signora is now awake. She asks for you to join her in the salon for coffee."

"Oh okay, thank you." I watched her go, then made my way to the salon, nodding pleasantly at the two old gals sitting on well-padded chairs, enjoying a Saturday brunch.

"Buongiorno," I called and got two pleased smiles. "That's all I got unless you wish to hear me count to one hundred."

Se?orina Cappello clapped her hands. Did that mean—

"Sì, count for us." I blinked, then sighed. Jesus on a Segway, talk about feeling like a child. But I did as asked, rattling off my numbers as they both listened, wrinkled faces lifting in sheer pleasure at my dubious accomplishment. When I was done, I gave them a dramatic bow. Both applauded and then bid me to join them. I sat across from the settee they were on, toeing off my sandals and tucking my feet under my backside.

"You did well," my aunt said while pouring some sort of dark purple tea into a cup for her guest from a delicate teapot. "Memorization is key."

My tutor nodded her turbaned head as my aunt dropped a single cube of sugar into her fruity-smelling tea. "We will start on letters on Monday," Se?orina Cappello stated and took her cup from my aunt with a tender smile of thanks. Ginerva inclined her head and then turned her attention back to me. "Today we are going to confession followed by an early dinner with someone who has great impact on our business. It would do you good to meet with him, so I have arranged it."

When did we become me? And confession? Uhm nope.

"I was planning to go to town to visit with Donvino, then maybe hit a club," I explained, hoping to avoid another battle royale. Ginerva gave her friend a long-suffering look then, maybe because we had company, the firm set to her shoulders eased.

"You may do that after your dinner with the undersecretary of agriculture, food, and forestry. Him taking time to dine with you is nothing to brush off simply so you can make a goof of yourself with your new friend."

FFS. "Does anyone in this house ever do anything just for fun? Why does every night out have to be tied to freaking olives?"

Ginerva shared a glance with Se?orina Cappello. It was one of those boomer expressions that screamed ‘kids are so clueless' which, no, we are not.

"The undersecretary is an important man for you to know. You will be corresponding with him when you are in charge of the mills." I opened my mouth. Ginerva threw a firm look at me over the top of her glasses. I relented silently, exhaling with all the drama I could muster, which was a ton of fucking drama. "Good, that is settled."

If I didn't need money so badly—and internet access—I'd be laying into both of the elderly women staring at me. Instead, I huffed, puffed, and blew nothing—or no one—down.

"Monday we will be taking a ride out to Umbria to visit our largest mill. You will be working with the manager of that mill for several weeks, so I have left some papers on your bed for you to familiarize yourself with. Please make sure you know the man's name, at the very least."

"You are the worst social secretary on the planet. When do you slot in any time for fun?" I just had to ask. I mean honestly.

"Last night was fun," they both said in unison, then giggled like schoolgirls. I stared openly at the tee-heeing taking place. I wasn't sure my great-aunt had a giggle in her, but here was one. Maybe Ginerva just needed to be with someone she liked. This made me feel like donkey droppings stuck to the bottom of her petite gold slippers.

"If you're over eighty," I mumbled, stood, and excused myself. They started speaking to each other in Italian as soon as I left. I paused just to the right of the door to eavesdrop, but…Italian. I was going to really have to put some mustard into my lessons if I ever wished to reach the snoop levels I had acquired back home. Feeling down now, I slogged upstairs to my room, feeling my spirits lift a little upon seeing the soft yellows and whites of the draperies and freshly made bed. If I closed my eyes, I could envision my mother. She would have loved this room, the sunniness, the view, the way the wind wuthered through the garden trees. "I miss you, Mom," I whispered and opened my eyes, hoping…

But no, Mom wasn't here. The only thing here that hadn't been earlier was a three-ring notebook packed to the gills with paperwork. On the cover was the Bonetti Farms Olive Oil logo. That all too familiar circle with a large B in the center, four gold stars on either side, and a red olive branch under the dark blue B.

"Some papers she says," I grumbled, threw myself on the bed, and spent an hour doing social media posts, lying my ass off to my followers about how much fun it was here. To cover up my lack of cool, young, hip outings, I started sharing snapshots of Lucia, the ducks, and shots of my bare legs as I waited on the dock for my Tuscan Mystery Man. That was what I had coined Donvino online, as I had no clue as to how he would feel about having his face plastered all over my IG and TikTok feeds. So I just put up some thirst traps to keep my viewers happy. His calf, his bicep, a peek at his shoulders from the back. Those pulled so many little hearts. People were demanding I tell, but I refused. Mostly due to the fact while I maybe sort of hinted that there was something romantic taking place, sadly there was not. We'd flirted insanely, yes, but nothing more. Donvino was a little shy, perhaps. That was so new to me that I found it impossible to resist. All the guys that I socialized with were all about random sex. The more the merrier. I was too—or had been—before I'd been shipped off to this elegant monastery. Now I was a monk with zero access to porn due to parental controls that my uptight aunt had firmly in place and no nights out with friends.

"Abbott Arlo," I moaned, then rolled to a seated position, lifted the binder, and opened it. The cover page was just the Bonetti Farms Olive Oil logo with something written in Italian in small print. "If all of this is in Italian, I'm going to be…kind of relieved," I told the empty room.

Sadly, all ten gazillion pages were in English. I read about five pages and studied the faces of the people who ran our companies: my father and great-aunt and me. Funny, they had a photo of me above some older guys who were much more invested in our mills than I would ever be.

Family. La familia. It was everything to my father. The man who had yet to even call me or send a text to see if I was still breathing. For all he knew, I could be floating face down in the Arno. A bloated, once pretty rich boy that some poor tourist on a gondola—no wait that was Venice, not Firenze, so some poor tourist on the Ponte Vecchio—had spied as they fed their kid some raspberry gelato. The polizia would be called. They would fish me out of the river with long poles, then ship me off to some cold storage facility where I would be put into a cryogenic chamber unbeknownst to those who knew and loved me. Which was nobody.

The words began to blur. I chucked the binder aside, rolled to my back, and stared at the ceiling above my bed. There had to be something to do around here. Something. I found my phone under my backside, opened it with a press of a thumb, and went to my Pinterest account. There I found my steamer trunk boards. Such beauties they were. Oh shit, I had some DMs to check out. I dove into them, editing out the rando men who wanted to send me dick pics or have me include more shots of my toes. What was it about my wee little digits that turned men on so? Then I began reading over the ones from people with Italian surnames I was unfamiliar with. I sat up, eyes wide, mouth agape, to see at least ten people expressing an interest in seeing some of my original steamer trunks. One was the wife of the steel magnate.

"No shit," I softly said, smiling at the influx of interest. Lucia arrived with a soft meow as she leapt onto my bed. I reached out with one hand, her smoky fur soft under my palm. "Do you know where a man can find some old trunks?"

She bonked my chin with her nose and darted off. I followed because cats are known to be superior beings who totally understand and can communicate with humans. Barefoot, I followed the feline down the hall, past several guest rooms and a solarium filled with lemon, lime, and avocado trees in small pots. Lucia stopped just outside the solarium, meowed, then sat down and glanced up. I did the same. Lo and behold, a trapdoor that had to lead to an attic was right above us.

"You are the smartest cat ever," I cooed, giving her several good chin scrubs before hurrying into the solarium to drag a chair into the hallway. I had to get on my tippytoes to reach the chain, but I did it, and with a dusty creak the folding stairs nearly came down on my head. Lucia skittered off a few feet to observe from under a cherry side table holding a small statue of the Virgin Mary, a lit candle, and some flower petals scattered at the lady's feet.

Once the ladder was fully down, I rushed back to my room for my phone, came back, and caught sight of a slender gray tail as it disappeared into the darkness. Using the flashlight on my phone, I carefully climbed up, easing my head through the opening, and shined the light into the dusty attic. One small window at the other end of the cluttered space allowed just two squares of light to fall on boxes, totes, and…

"Oh, Lucia," I gasped as my eyes fell on not one, not two, but four gorgeous old steamer trunks. I rushed up, took a few steps, and decided that it would have been wise to put some shoes on. Mouse turds between one's toes was decidedly uncool. It was only a slight pause. The trunks were calling to me like the seductive sirens they were. I picked my way carefully along, avoiding stubbing my tootsies on old tables covered with drop cloths, several sewing forms, and hat boxes by the dozens. I took a moment to open one of the hatboxes. Inside sat a beautiful bright green straw hat with a tulle bow. "I wished ladies still wore hats like these."

I lifted it out of the box, set it on my head, and gave it a pat. Lucia made a sound in the far corner, a chittering call that I took to mean she had seen something moving up here. I'd leave her to worry about the rodents. Hat sitting on my head, I moved to the nearest trunk, pushed some older luggage to the side, and used my hand to brush off some feathers, a few mouse droppings, and several inches of dust.

Coughing lightly, I eased the top up, knelt down, and began investigating the piles of clothing stored carefully inside. The strong scent of mothballs floated upward as I lifted a tiny blanket, hand-knitted, of blue and white. I rubbed my cheek on the baby blanket. Was this my fathers? It seemed impossible to imagine Tommaso Bonetti as an infant, or even as a child, but obviously, he had been at one time. Had he been less uptight back then? Did he like to play and run? Was he mischievous? Did my great-aunt have to punish him for breaking vases or carrying frogs into the villa? To me, I couldn't imagine him being a normal kid. No one ever told stories about his youth or the trouble he got in like most people do. Dad never reminisced about his younger days in any way that wasn't lacquered, with a thick coat of work, responsibility, and commitment to the company. I leaned up and found more baby clothes. Sleepers with footies, tiny beanies, itty-bitty socks, and mittens. A snowsuit of pale blue with white bunnies sewn on either side of the zipper. I sat back on my heels, studying the snowsuit. Had my father ever built a snow fort or crafted a mound of snowballs to pelt his nanny with when she came looking for him? Had he made snow angels or sledded?

I knew that snow fell in Italy, along the Alps and Dolomites, for lots of my acquaintances went skiing there. Did my family ever venture north to frolic in the snow? I just could not envision a holiday of any kind. My father and I never went on vacations together after my mother had died. He was working, always working, and I was just an annoyance. A noisy, needy, snotty kid whose only role was to become a drone for the Bonetti Farms Olive Oil mega hive. Well, fuck all that. I tossed the baby clothes aside, stacking them on top of a newish tote that looked to have green Christmas garland in it, and emptied the trunk.

Lucia came streaking out hot on the tail of a mouse. I squealed and jumped into the now empty trunk as the mouse and cat played a game of tag. Lucia nearly had him once, but he veered left when she pounced right. After a moment the cat sat beside a retired canister vacuum, her sharp eye on the long hose where she thought the mouse had hidden. I eased myself out of the trunk, closed it, and ran my fingers over the old locks. They seemed to be in good shape as was the rest of the trunk. It just needed some TLC and a glow-up. Some new paper on the inside, a drawer to replace the one that should have been inside but wasn't, and some new leather accoutrements and she would be ready to sail the seven seas again!

"Sorry to interrupt but this needs to come with me," I told Lucia and put my back into pulling the trunk to the trapdoor. It was heavier than it looked, even empty, and I was panting by the time I got it to the stairs. Lucia watched from a distance, her tail swooshing back and forth to dust a half arc on the wooden flooring as I maneuvered, cussed, and began backing down the stairs with a steamer trunk following me. The side handles were sturdy, thank God, because the trunk was in a hurry to exit the attic. It thudded down the short stairs, chasing me until we both hit the bottom. I threw my hip into it to stop it from crashing into me.

"Arlo, whatever are you doing?!" Ginerva called, exiting her room with her face half made up to find me coated in sweat and mouse droppings and pulling a steamer trunk down her hall. "Why have you taken this old thing from the attic?"

Lucia jogged past, a mouse in her mouth, and all talk of the steamer trunk ended when the cat dropped the still incredibly alive mouse at Ginerva's feet. Fifteen minutes later, the mouse had somehow escaped from Giada's broom and Alessio's shoe. Ginerva had to be helped down from a wobbly footstool in her bedroom. She gave me a glower while Se?orina Cappello flitted around with powder puffs filled with talcum.

"Arlo, explain please." Ginerva softly tutted at her friend then sat down to sip on some chilled tea with lemon. Se?orina sat beside her, worrying at her turban as she gazed at Ginerva with concern.

"I found an old trunk in the attic," I began. She rolled her dark eyes. "Several people from the birthday party last night have expressed an interest in purchasing one." She snorted. "I shit you not." Full of myself and my dreams, I strode over to show her the messages from potential clients. "Signora Ercolano was very excited." I showed her the message and waited, dirty toes tapping on the thick throw rug in her sleeping chambers. Her sight darted to the DM, then to the trunk, and then, finally, to me.

"I see. Well, this hobby of yours is fine as long as it does not take up time from your Italian lessons with Vittoria or your days with the company learning what you will need to know."

Amazing how seeing her friend's interest in a trunk had elevated my dream from a foolish notion to a hobby. Someday, all the scoffers would take note of Bonetti Custom Trunks. This was just the first step.

"Can I have the trunks in the attic?" I asked and got a funny look from my aunt and her bestie. "To redo."

"I will sell the remaining ones to you for fifty euros each," Ginerva replied.

"Deal. Can I have some money?"

"Have you done any work here at the villa to earn a wage?" My aunt studied me over her tea, her scare now in the past and her hands steady once more.

"Well…" I thought back over the past few days. "Not really, but—"

"Then you have earned no money. When you work, you get paid."

"That's not fair," I whined.

"Life, my sweet nephew, is never fair. Now, will you pay me what I ask or will we have Donvino take the trunk back to the attic?"

I dearly wanted to shout, but being a newly minted businessman, I nodded. Sending her the cash for the trunks would wipe my account clean.

"I can pay you for one now," I bargained, and she nodded, then shooed me away so she and Se?orina Cappello could finish getting ready for confession.

"Arlo, please shower and be dressed for church in one hour," Ginerva called out to me as I wrestled my trunk down the hall to my room. I made a puking face at Lucia, who seemed to be quite pleased with herself despite her catch getting away. "And do not wear my hat to church."

How on earth was I supposed to earn money for the other trunks with no knowledge of the language, no car, and no real skills outside of sharing my dinner plates and sweet toes with millions of strangers? Maybe I should have listened to my high school guidance counselor and taken a few vocational courses. She might have been onto something…