An Aria in Venice: A Musical Interlude Novel (11 page)

Once
inside the city, we say good-bye to our gondoliers and ride a water taxi to the
Baglioni, our home for the next five days. On the outside, the building reminds
me of a church with its weathered marble exterior and gothically creepy
entrance door. It makes me think of that old
Dracula
movie Jojo loves to
watch all the time, the one where Gary Oldman and Keanu Reeves fight over
Winona Ryder’s character. I almost expect to see a vampire or some similar
creature barrel out from behind the doors after Luca opens them. When the keys
are handed out, we find out that both Simona and Rafe have their own individual
rooms. My heart flips when I learn that due to some stupid mix up with the
reservations, I’ll be sleeping in the same room as Luca. But then, what did I
expect? I’m supposed to be his super serious girlfriend of three months and
we’re helping each other out. Only my part of the deal feels grossly unfair
since Nikolai has all but tossed me out the window like an outdated Barbie.

“I
can hold on to Giovanni’s key,” Simona offers as we all prepare to head up to
our rooms. Luca and Rafe exchange glances, and I can tell from their
expressions that the son known as the Cruiser won’t be joining us anytime soon,
if he does at all. I can’t say I’m disappointed. His crudeness in front of his
mother boiled my blood, and I do not like the way he undresses me with his eyes
right in front of Luca. Yeah, sure he’s an MMA fighter with the big, bad wolfy
attitude. And according to Luca, he has more women—and yes, even some
men—fighting to spend just one night with the Cruiser than both Luca and Rafe
put together. However, assholes of any type simply annoy me, and whatever he
was trying to prove the day he called me out regarding my family didn’t make me
want to cruise anywhere with him.

“Blame
it on me, Mama,” Luca begins, bopping his forehead as he speaks. “This mix-up
is all my fault. I will bring Gio’s key to you later on.” He moves over to his
mother, pulls her into an embrace, and kisses the top of her head. Since I’ve
already figured out Luca is the favorite of the three sons, I can tell by the
way Simona smiles that she’s comforted by the attention she’s getting from him.

“All
right, I can be patient,” she says quietly, her gaze locked on the key in her
hand. My heart hurts for her. I know how it feels to expect someone you love to
come around and support you in something that means the world to you, only to
be disappointed in the end when they aren’t there.

Watching
the way Luca treats his mother with tenderness amazes me. I guess because I’ve
never seen anything like it. My brother’s relationship with our mother is
strained and Nikolai’s parents are a mystery. Even though Luca and Rafe seem to
be in some kind of silent insult competition, and Giovanni is somewhat of an
ass, all three boys love the woman who has somehow managed to bring us all
together.

~Adriana~

The
hotel room isn’t super fancy, which suits me just fine, but it’s not boring,
either. The historic section of Venice doesn’t contain all of the frilly things
that Milan uses to attract tourists. The person staying inside a place like
this one can expect to be wooed by the charm of history, swept away by the
kindness of the people, and floored by the sadness in knowing that such a
beautiful place will sink at some point in the near future.

We
step into the living room first, an ode to all things earthy, a paradise for
someone like me who probably owns way too many brown dresses and white
leggings. Cream colored leather couches stand out against taupe colored walls
made of genuine plaster, the kind that’ll break your knuckles as Alek learned
one day when he lost his temper. He had tried to ram his fist through one of
Mother’s living room walls, and of course, the plaster won the fight. Water
color paintings, which illustrate various sections of the Grand Canal, hang on
all three walls. On the right side of the room, a small hallway leads to the
bedroom in back. Like a kid in a museum, I follow it and step through the
doorway, entering the largest part of our hotel room. I stop and my mouth falls
open when I take in the view from the balcony that looks out over the Grand
Canal.

“What?
Do you not like our room, my love?” Luca asks, a teasing grin plastered across
his face as we walk into our suite. He knows I love this. I don’t acknowledge
his
my love
statement either, but hearing it does make me smile inside.
“I know you’re probably used to having a lot more than this.”

“No.
This is a great room,” I answer, meaning every word; especially after I walk
over to the window and open the curtains. Rays from the setting sun stream
through the glass and I have to hold a hand up to shield my eyes until they
adjust to the reflection of light playing against the waves. The Baglioni has a
close up view of the Grand Canal. Across the way, I have a vision of Venice in
all its eclectic glory: churches with gargoyles sitting atop the spires,
gondolas carrying kissing couples, cafés strewn along the edges of the piers
running alongside the canal. The world is filled with life here, and all my
reservations about keeping my trip a secret seem unwarranted and pale in
comparison to what I would’ve given up if I hadn’t decided to take Simona’s
offer.

Behind
me, Luca starts laughing; a deep, hearty one. I turn around and frown,
wondering what he finds amusing.

“What’s
so funny?” I ask, walking back toward him, unable to stop checking out the
place where I’ll be living with my fake boyfriend over the next five days.

He
stalks in my direction, a mischievous grin on his face. “You. You’re amusing.
Aren’t you worried, being so close to me? The player who eats virgins for
dinner.” My cheeks flame. There’s no way he knows my secret. He’s just teasing
me again.

“Not
one bit, Luca Martuccio,” I lie. He’s all male and probably has more experience
than Nikolai and Alek together. Well, maybe not completely, but I’m pretty sure
he comes in at a close second. He’s wearing black jeans he designed himself,
along with a T-shirt that exposes the skin at his waist each time he bends down
to pick something up. I get a glimpse of the tattoo that has the words
La
Dolce Vita
sprawled across the middle of the design and can’t help smiling.
His hair seems really blond today, or maybe it has something to do with the way
his dark clothing sets off the highlights in his sun-kissed tresses. With his
svelte body, tattoos, and womanizing tendencies, Luca could easily have chosen
to be a rock star. He has the charm, the body, the looks … and I have no doubt
he’d have the talent, or would challenge himself to learn whatever would be
necessary to pull off a career in music. I’ve seen the way he dedicates himself
to a showing, the businessman that comes out of the artist behind the creations
of one of the fastest growing design houses in Milan.

“I
love to see you smile. Tell me, little Maia, what brings such a gorgeous glow
to your face?” he asks, easing closer until he’s standing less than a foot away
from my body. Now we’re both sharing the view of the canal from inside the
Baglioni.

I
shrug. “Nothing in particular.”

He
narrows his eyes. “I do believe I hear the whispers of deceit teasing me inside
her lovely voice.”

“What?
Speak English or Italian, would you?” I love his poetry, though. It’s
flattering, I admit it. He’s good, and I need to be careful. I have the feeling
he does actually eat virgins for dinner when given the chance. “Anyway, you’re
the one with the naughty eyeball look thing going on.”

“Naughty
eyeball look thing,” he repeats, his Italian accent wrapping around the words,
giving the syllables a unique kind of sex appeal, the left side of his mouth
lifting. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. I love watching you smile.” He
tucks a piece of hair behind my ear as our gazes lock. “Again, I’d like to
thank you for coming here.”

“I
told you before I didn’t mind.”

“That
you did.” He’s studying me with an intensity that makes my chest get all
fluttery inside. I catch him doing this quite often ... and I like the
attention.

“What?”
I ask, smiling.

“You
kissed me earlier. Like, you put your soul into kissing me,” he replies,
grinning and inching even closer to me. “You enjoyed it.”

I
so
enjoyed it.

“Are
you asking or telling me?”

“You
choose. But I suspect I already know the answer.” Once more, I get the dimpled
grin.

“Cocky
much? Anyway, your brother’s ego needed to be toned down a bit.”

“You
mean Rafe? No way,” he teases. We both laugh at the obvious. Rafe—who according
to Luca dresses in designer purple suits when he’s working with Luca on a show,
and investment banker brown on every other day—takes being the oldest brother
to a new level of coolness. Our laughter fades and we’re left staring at each
other. A sudden bout of guilt washes over me as I think of Mr. N. Sighing, I
cross my arms the way I always do when I feel vulnerable, and focus on losing
my thoughts in the sounds of the water rushing through the canal across the
way. Luca uncrosses my arms and cups my face.

“What
happens when you do this?” His gaze rakes over my arms and moves back to my
face. Although he pretty much swears he’s the antichrist, I can see the
sincerity in his eyes, a warmth that makes me want to reveal my soul to him,
let alone my most private thoughts. However, I can’t. It’s that stupid loyalty
thing again. I think being faithful to the wrong person will eventually be the
end of me.

“I
don’t know what you mean.” I know exactly what he’s talking about, but I am
truly not ready to explain what’s going on in my head and why I feel the need
to shut him out for the time being. Regardless, Luca’s smart and he has that
way of analyzing you as though he knows all your secrets without needing to
hear a word.

“Such
sad, but beautiful eyes, unable to hide anything,” he says, glancing deep into
my face as though he can pull all my thoughts out. “You are thinking of him. I
think he has hurt you.”
Crap.
He’s hitting too close to home and I don’t
want to go there with Luca. I start to turn around, but he gently takes my arm
and holds me to my spot.

“Why
don’t we … what do Americans call it?” He touches his chin with his index
finger, tapping it, and narrows his eyes as he thinks of what he’s trying to
say. “Ah yes. Subject change. An easy one. First, you have to promise not to
laugh.”

“Very
good idea,” I agree.

“Did
I ever tell you about my other hobby?” he asks, giving me the grin I know he
uses to get his way with women and taking my hand. I’m grateful for the subject
change. We walk through the French doors and out to the balcony. A small bistro
table, along with a set of wicker chairs, waits for us. I already know what
I’ll be doing each morning after I wake up. I can almost taste the coffee going
down my throat as I sit and bask in the Venetian sunrise.

“Do
you mean the drawings?” I ask.

“No,
the other one. You might think this is a little strange,” he says, wincing. I’m
completely intrigued. Leaning forward, he whispers, “I own every single Harry
Potter book and movie. I can even recite the spells.” Silence fills the air
between us. His lips start trembling; probably because he’s about to burst out
laughing. I know I’m unable to hold mine in, so I don’t try. I cover my mouth,
but we both explode. I can already feel the mood shifting from me being
defensive to me lightening up because Luca never stops showing me just how many
different sides there are to his personality. He’s like a chameleon.

“You
weren’t supposed to laugh at me.”

“I’m
... sorry. I ... can’t help myself,” I say, speaking through my giggles. “What
started your love affair with the boy wizard?”

He
shrugs and glances out across the water. “You will just laugh at me again if I
answer that.”

“Probably
so,” I say, trying my best not to grin. I so did not expect this conversation.
My smile fades when I see the way Luca’s expression has changed, his jawline
working.

“I’m
kidding. I promise not to laugh.”

He
gives me a quick side glance before he starts, “I read the books when they
first came out, back in 1997, I think. I was ten years old, amazed by this
skinny kid with glasses and his ability to change people’s lives by casting
spells. At that age you believe in anything … different. Especially if your
father supports you. Papa was even more of a dreamer than me. So when he told
me I could change the world by using the Harry Potter spells if I wanted, I
took his words to heart. Each year, I almost peed my pants waiting for those
books to come out. I waited till I turned thirteen so I could use a spell to
change things for my parents. Give them a better life, you know.” Pausing, he
glances at me and says, “Or maybe you don’t know. You probably always had nice
things.”

Sure,
I did. I had loneliness, fear of the unknown that always seemed to hang in the
air over my parents’ moods, constant threats from a Russian Mafiya lord of some
type almost every other day, no girlfriends, and a house that felt more like a
prison than a mansion. “Not really. This isn’t my story, though. Continue
please,” I urge.

He
lifts the left side of his mouth, the gesture lighting up his face,
highlighting his dimples. “I started off with little wishes. Things like a new
ring for Mama or a copy of a compact disc she wanted to find. She likes the
classics, which is very hard to find and expensive. To make a potentially long,
boring story short, I cast a spell. I wished for Papa to find a better job. We
could leave Sicily and start someplace new.”

“Did
it work?” I ask.

He
hesitates. “Somewhat.”

I
wonder if I should push this. “What do you mean?”

“I
got my wish. He found a job working in Tintoretto at one of the few mines in
Italy. We moved to a new house. Mama got her jewelry, her music. Papa was
promoted to overseer. My family and I will never be kings or queens, but things
did improve for us. Of course, tragedy has a special place for me in its heart.
An illusion. That’s what it felt like during those few short years of
happiness. A cruel trick on the eyes.” His voice drifts off as he stares across
the canal. He must be thinking of the way his father died. Party boats have now
come out, and I can hear the laughter of the people from where we sit on the
balcony. Moods to reflect the opposite of what I just heard.

“See,
I knew there was something unique about you when we first met. You used to be a
boy wizard before you became a designer,” I say, trying to bring smiley Luca
back instead of this serious one that has taken over his body. When it doesn’t
work, I poke out my lips, giving him the best version of my fish pout I can
muster. He makes a light laugh, and turns his gaze back to staring at the
floor. His eyelashes are touching his cheeks and hiding his eyes; they’re
probably the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a guy. Somehow, I have the
feeling I’m not the only one in this duo who’s suffering from the ghosts that
keep showing up in my dreams, haunting me.