“You are a good father, and you didn’t fuck up anything.” I sign and brush his hand. “And I am okay with Lena thinking about me as her new mom.”
“You are twenty-one, baby.” Mikhail furrows his brows.
“My mother had Angelo when she was nineteen. It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
I lean in and place my lips over his. “Yes,” I whisper into his mouth and kiss him.
Chapter 14
I’m leaning on the counter in the kitchen and scrolling through my phone for updates on work when Bianca walks in. I look up and my breathing stops for a moment. Wearing a long black dress that wraps around her upper body and then falls to the ground in numerous layers of silky fabric, and with her hair in a thick braid, she looks like she stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. She sees me looking, smiles, and turns around twice, making the silky fabric float around her, revealing her black stilettos and slender legs through a deep slit on the side. I can’t take my eyes off her.
“What do you think?” she signs.
I’m not capable of rational thought, and the only thing currently on my mind is her, naked, in my bed.
“Ty zazhgla ogon' v moyey dushe, solnyshko.”
She smirks, approaches me, and starts tracing the shape of a question mark on my chest with her finger.
“It means, you've ignited a fire in my soul, Bianca. And if we don’t leave immediately, we won’t be going at all.”
Her lips widen in a smile, and she takes my hand and leads me toward the door. She keeps smiling in the car as we leave the garage, and I’m wondering what could be on her mind when she leans in and whispers in my ear.
“I don’t . . . have panties.”
The car swerves, but I manage to righten it, barely avoiding the concrete pillar on the side. When I have it under control, I turn toward Bianca to find her leaning back in her seat, wearing a self-satisfied smirk on her face.
*
There are four large tents set up on the expansive manicured lawn. At least two hundred guests are milling around long tables covered in white cloth, chatting with each other, laughing at what are probably lame jokes. Most of them are Italians. Some of them I remember seeing at our wedding reception. There are also a few politicians. An interesting lot for sure.
In the middle of the largest group stands a small frail woman, wearing a poison-green dress and a strange spiky thing on top of her head of grey hair. An extremely attractive and young man—probably in his mid-twenties—has his arm wrapped around her waist and whispering something into the woman's ear.
Bianca squeezes my hand, and I look down at her to find her smiling widely, motioning with her head toward the woman in a green dress. I guess that would be the famous Nonna Giulia.
We approach the group, and I take note of each person who enters my field of vision, cataloging anything even remotely suspicious. I don’t like crowds, but I’m not a fan of wide-open spaces either. Both are a security risk.
Bianca’s grandmother turns, and the moment she notices us, she giggles in delight like a little girl, then hurries over to us. Her young companion trails after her.
“Bianca! You are late!” She kisses Bianca on both cheeks, then turns to me. “I see you brought your husband. Handsome. Tall. Fit.” She leans in slightly, regarding me. “You picked good, tesoro.”
Not only crazy but blind as well, apparently. I nod. “I’m glad you approve, Mrs. Mancini.”
“Oh God, no. Just call me Nonna. Mrs. Mancini sounds like an old woman’s name. And I divorced two months ago, anyway,” she says and makes a shooing motion to the young man standing next to her. “Go get something to eat, Tony. I’ll find you later.”
The guy nods and leaves without question.
“I hired him specifically for today. The young ones are expensive, but it’ll be so worth it. Bruno is going to lose it.” She smiles widely, and I’m not sure that she’s not a little bit nuts.
Bianca takes out her phone, types, and gives it to Giulia, who looks at the screen, then up at Bianca.
“Of course. Why, do you have something against gigolos? It’s honest work. Oh, there is Luca Rossi. It’s too bad he’s already married. Such a fine male specimen.” She narrows her eyes. “Is that Franco with him? I hear he divorced his wife last month, so it’s open season. I have to go.”
I look down at Bianca, who is shaking her head as she watches her grandmother rushing toward the man, presumably Franco.
“She is just fooling around.” Bianca signs. “Let’s go find a place to sit.”