Page 52 of The Hitman

I like to cook, but I leave the real shopping to Giulio because I can’t read any of the writing on the packages. Besides, I just want to see everything, all the different kinds of fresh pasta and oil and vinegar. I smile at the grocer who seems to be hovering around us, but not, I think, in that racist American way, but in a ‘let me make sure these tourists spend all their money’ kind of way.

“Don’t forget the wine,” I tell Giulio.

“Of course not,” he says, leading me to the surprisingly extensive — considering how small the store actually is — wine and spirits section.

“You said this town is famous for wine,” I remind him.

“Si. You have to try the vernaccia.”

I grab the sides of his head in both hands and turn his face toward me. I’ve always thought Italian was a beautiful language, but it’s even more beautiful coming out of Giulio’s mouth. I like the way his lips caress the words, the varying intonations of his gruff voice, and the way I can sometimes discern his meaning by the warmth in his eyes.

“Say that word again,” I tell him.

His eyebrows dip together over the bridge of his nose, and his dark eyelashes flutter. “You have to try the vernaccia di San Gimignano.”

“Do you like it?” I ask him.

The grin on his mouth disappears, and his eyebrows bunch together. I wonder if I shouldn’t have asked that.

“I’ve never had it,” he finally admits, but then his face brightens. “We’ll try it together, yes?”

“Si,” I breathe. He shakes his head before moving forward.

“If you are good, I will lick the wine from your skin, si?”

I swallow my own groan and wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my body into his. His free arm wraps around my waist, and he pulls me in close and tight.

“What if I’m bad?” I ask in a heated whisper.

He smiles for a brief second, but he doesn’t get to answer my question.

The grocer who’s been following us around starts yelling. We both turn, and Giulio’s arm tightens around my waist as he moves me behind him in a protective gesture.

I expect to see a man — or many men — rushing into the store with guns drawn. Pessimistically, I think that our day has been too good, so of course, it’s all crashing down now before I can learn all the translations to Giulio’s dirty suggestions. But when we turn, there’s just the grocer and his angry red face.

I don’t expect Giulio to start yelling back.

I can’t even begin to understand the rapid-fire Italian, but rage is universal. “What’s going on?” I ask.

It takes a few seconds for Giulio to stop yelling and answer me. “Nothing.”

“Clearly, that’s a lie.”

He ignores me and keeps yelling at the man before releasing his hold on my waist and snatching two bottles of white wine from the display in front of us.

“Come, tesora,” he says, leading me toward the front of the store. Strangely, the grocer leads the way, yelling at Giulio over his shoulder. Giulio keeps yelling back. I stand to the side, bewildered, my eyes darting from one man to the other as the grocer inputs the prices of our groceries on one of those old-school electric cash registers and then bags them carefully. Giulio throws the money for the food onto the counter, still yelling. I’ve never been more relieved than when Giulio gestures for me to head toward the door and follows me.

I feel like I’m in an Italian soap opera. Actually, maybe I am.

Giulio’s hand settles at the small of my back as he follows me out of the store. He doesn’t stop yelling until we’re outside. The piazza is full of people. It’s so quiet and serene compared to that scene in the store that I feel like I’ve gone through a magical door into another dimension.

I can feel the anger rolling off of him as he steers me out of the village. He’s pissed, but he still walks at a comfortable pace for my sore feet. I wonder if he realizes that he’s doing that. I wonder why these small things matter to me.

At the car, he unlocks the doors, gently places our shopping bags in the back seat, and ushers me to the passenger side. He’s still furious, but a stranger might only recognize that when he wrenches the car door open with much more force than necessary.

“Get in,” he barks.

“Don’t yell at me,” I bark back.