Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
At the end of the song, I rose and prepared to hand the cello back to its owner.
He folded his hands in front of him as if in prayer. “No. No. No, signora. One more song. I beg you.”
Seeing the large crowd forming and knowing he enjoyed the attention a female cellist was drawing, I conceded. “You choose this time.”
He raised his arms with a flourish and announced to the crowd. “'Io che non vivo!'”
It was a superb choice. The tourists would soon realize it was the Italian version of Elvis's "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me."
Usually, the lyrics were just the lyrics, and I was more concerned with the music, but it hit hard as the man sang along. The plaintive loneliness of the words as the person in the song begged their lover not to leave them caused a lump in the back of my throat.
At the final strains of the music, I opened my eyes to see Matteo watching me intently. His dark gaze seemed to miss nothing.
With a watery smile, I rose and bowed my head to the cellist as I handed him back his cello. “Thank you.”
The man gestured to me. “A round of applause for our pretty cellist.”
The crowd erupted into applause just as Matteo approached with a singular purpose.
Without saying a word, he wrapped his arm around my waist and swung me in an arc, just as the quartet began to play "Dance Me to the End of Love."
Held close to his warm body, I clung to his upper arm as my other hand was enveloped in his firm grasp. “No one else is dancing.”
His voice had a fierce edge to it. “I don’t care. The music could stop, and I’d still dance with you.”
As he effortlessly moved me around the small piazza, other couples joined in. “You looked magnificent up there. I could watch and listen to you play for hours and never tire of it.”
He was so strong it was as if I were dancing on my tiptoes, nothing more than a leaf flitting on the breeze. “You say that now. But say that again after I’ve been practicing scales for three hours straight.”
“As long as you do that thing with your tongue while you’re playing, I couldn't care less if all you did was play 'Chopsticks' over and over again.”
My brow furrowed. “What thing with my tongue?”
He winked. “When you play, you close your eyes as you sway with the movement of your bow. While you’re doing that, your lips open ever so slightly, and the cute tip of your tongue runs along the upper edge of your teeth.”
“I don’t do—" Wait, I did do that. Usually I was aware of it and could stop it. I must have been too caught up in the music, but how did Matteo notice something so inconsequential?
As if reading my thoughts, he said, “I notice everything about you, baby. Your face is my favorite work of art.”
What nonsense. Right? I meant, it was silly. And meaningless to say such things.
Yet, it was awfully nice to hear them. And to think… maybe…
Matteo leaned down and softly sang the wedding lyric in my ear as he tightened his arm around my waist.
At that moment, I let myself believe in the fairy tale.
Maybe, just maybe… was it possible?
Could the tiny spark between us be sheltered through the coming storm?
Could it survive the raging winds which were sure to come from Sicily the moment my father learned of my sister's and my subterfuge?
If any man was strong enough to hold me through the rain, it would be Matteo Cavalieri.
Tilting my head back, I stared up at him, losing myself in the comforting darkness of his gaze.
And that was when I saw him…
His long sallow face and his small beady eyes fixed on me.
Fino Buratti had followed me to Abruzzo.
At the sight of him, I stumbled.
Matteo lifted me off my feet to press my body harder against his body. “Are you all right?”
“I’m… I’m fine,” I stammered as I tried not to stare at Fino, worried Matteo would follow my gaze and ask if I knew him. Or worse, recognize him from Carnevale in Palermo.
“You’re tired. Let me get you home.”
As Matteo turned to retrieve my coat, Fino came toward me as the crowd surged forward to request more songs. As his shoulder connected with mine, he pressed a folded piece of white paper into my hand.
Matteo stormed back, calling after Fino’s retreating form as he placed the coat over my shoulders. “Who was that man? Did he hurt you?”
I slipped my arms into the coat sleeves before sliding my hand into the pocket to conceal the note. “No. I don’t know him. I’m sure he meant nothing by it.”
Matteo’s eyes narrowed as he squared off in front of me. “Then why did he pass something along to you?”