Page 50 of The Hitman
He leans forward to brush his mouth and that spiky stubble across my cheek, before turning back toward the bedroom to get dressed.
I watch his ass as he walks away.
* * *
Giulio
“It’s beautiful,” she says more times than I can count as we drive from the farmhouse toward San Gimignano. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her crane her neck in every direction, trying to take everything in.
I know the countryside is beautiful, and yet it’s hard to be here and not remember all the ugly I’ve seen in this place. But that’s not Zahra’s burden to bear, so I nod and grunt each time she sees some new thing to exclaim over. I focus on the cadence of her accent and the tones of her voice, finding soothing comfort in her, even though I shouldn’t. I’m not some dark, hardened criminal who needs an innocent waif with watery eyes to save me. I’ve seen the movies, and that life isn’t for me. But I have seen a lot of ugly in my life and done a lot of terrible things as well. Zahra isn’t going to save me. She’s like a beautiful respite. I know this moment won’t last — I know I can’t keep her — but I keep the memories I don’t want to revisit at bay by focusing on her voice and let her excitement center me in today rather than tomorrow and certainly not yesterday.
I park outside the village wall. “We can walk from here,” I tell her.
She looks down at her shoes, another pair of tall, strappy platforms that show off those white toes I remember from the first time I saw her at the pool.
“You could have told me that before we left. I could have changed my shoes.”
I undo my seatbelt and then undo hers. I lean over the middle console and get as close to her as I can without touching. She sucks in a sharp breath, and her nervousness makes me smile. “I didn’t want you to change shoes.”
“And what are you going to do when my feet hurt?” she asks, disdain and lust mingling in her voice.
“Carry you.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“You know I’m not. If you want me to, just tell me.”
“Is this just about carrying me?” she asks in a heated whisper.
“You know it’s not,” I tell her with a smile.
She licks her lips, and there is nothing more seductive than watching her pink tongue glide over her bright red lipstick. It doesn’t move, but I imagine all that I could do to smudge that color across her mouth.
“Let’s go,” she says abruptly and opens her door.
I blink after her as she slams the car door and walks towards the village, flouncing away from me. As I watch, she stops and turns toward the car with a smile on her bright face. She lifts her right hand, points her index finger at me, and crooks it slowly, beckoning me forward. I don’t hesitate to push the car door open and rush to her side.
* * *
San Gimignano is a small place. I assumed it had gotten smaller since my mother and I left, but I think that was just a coping mechanism. As we walk around the streets — carefully, so Zahra doesn’t trip and fall on the stone roads — I realize that the village is just as it was when I was a child. I wouldn’t call San Gimignano lively outside of the tourism, but there’s life here, and Zahra wants to see it all.
I give her a tour of what I can remember of the town, which isn’t much. We stop for coffee and pastries at the first bakery we see. We visit both of the cathedrals. Zahra prefers the artwork in the Sant’Agostino. I don’t care about the art, but I love watching her face light up at each piece. She carefully runs her hand across stone walls all over the town, marveling at the different textures and how long the buildings have been standing. I don’t know why I find that so fascinating, but I do. Watching Zahra, I realize that everything I know about this town is personal and horrible, but not historic, so I run my hands along the walls right along with her, wanting to see this place through her eyes.
We become tourists.
We double back to the entrance and find a kiosk with maps and buy one to share, and then we set off.
“There are towers all over the place,” she says, staring intently at the map. She’s not watching where she’s going, so I do it for her. I have a hand poised ready to catch her should she fall and a hard eye aimed at anyone who strays into her path.
“We can see them all,” I tell her, leaning into the part of my brain that wants nothing more than to please her.
She smiles as she moves her sunglasses from atop her head to her face. “You can’t take that back now,” she tells me. “Andiamo.”
I can’t help the smile that forms on my face. “Your accent is horrible.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m trying,” she whines.
We set off in the direction of the closest tower. Her hand reaches out to brush my arm, and I don’t think. It feels as if it’s been years since she last touched me instead of just a few hours. I brush my fingers across the back of her hand. When she looks at me, her bottom lip is clutched between her teeth; the red on her lips, white teeth, and brown skin all seem to shine in the sunlight.