What do I do?
I promised myself I'd be assertive: if I don't feel like saying something, I won't, and he can't push me.
I don't want to fight anymore.
But I also don't want to lie.
At the end of the day, it's not my problem if it annoys him, right?
Screw it. I'm saying it.
"He… he asked me out," I spill, voice a little shaky.
"ZACK! Way to go, my little minx, striking again!" Romina yells, laughing so hard we almost swerve into oncoming traffic.
Fiore, on the other hand, whirls around, glare activated. "Say no."
I raise an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Say no," he repeats, eyes narrowing like daggers.
"And why exactly?" I shoot back, annoyed.
"He might have… ulterior motives."
"Well, honestly, I hope so," I tease. Romina snorts into her sleeve.
Fiore exhales sharply, irritation written all over him. "I mean, he could be involved in all this mess. You can't trust him."
"Really? You think Enrico's a threat?"
"Yes. Don't trust him."
"Or… are you just biased?"...Maybe even jealous?
"Of course," he snaps, eyes locking on mine. "I'm biased against anyone who gets near you. As long as I'm around, nobody touches you."
Romina snickers. "Wow, that's not at all terrifying."
But my face heats up.
"Y-you're, like what… my guard dog?" I shoot back, trying to be sharp, but I can't even meet his eyes.
"Call me whatever you want, I don't care. But you say no to him. Or I will."
And with a lightning-fast move, he reaches for my phone.
"Hands off!" I snap, clutching it to my chest. "And… relax. I already thought of that. We're on a mission; there's no time for beers. At least not now."
Fiore stares at me, intense, for a moment that feels eternal. Then he turns, arms crossed.
"Good", he says, simply.
Romina, from the rearview mirror, shoots me a knowing look that basically screams Ohhh, THE DRAMA.
I drum my fingers on the back of the phone, unsure how to put it.
Honestly… I really want another beer with him.
To talk to him again.
To see those tattooed arms up close.
I take a deep breath and start typing:
"Sorry, not the best time, like I said. I've been all over the place lately; still figuring out where I'll settle."
I pause, then add:
"But I'd really love to see you again. Maybe for a beer. Or even more than one 🙂"
The phone buzzes almost immediately. Then again. And again.
"No problem, when u r free just give me a shout."
"If you need a hand or a place to crash, text me eh."
"My sofa bed is always ready for u"
"Wait"
"That sounds way more suggestive than I meant 😂"
"I mean…"
"Not that I'd mind"
"But I meant, if u r broke, I've got space 😅"
A flood of embarrassed emojis follows.
My stomach does a flip.
Did I read that right? He wouldn't mind having me on his sofa bed?
I glance out the window, a sheepish smile creeping across my face.
Finally, I type:
"I'll definitely remember that ;) thanks!"
There's so much I don't know about Enrico, yet my gut tells me that even if I didn't ask, he'd tell me everything. His attitude is open; his words are clear and unfiltered.
For a moment, I picture us there, sitting on a sofa bed, a couple of beers in hand. Talking. Maybe not just talking. A quick, slightly electrifying thought.
Then my mind fogs over.
I end up staring at Fiore's neck, right in front of me.
What if he could be open just like that, naturally?
-
We're driving up a series of hairpin turns on a steep, narrow road squeezed between thick-walled houses and sloped roofs.
The greenery is everywhere, bold and unruly: vines climb up walls and utility poles like they own the place, massive forest trees sway their branches in the breeze, tufts of grass poke through even the tiniest cracks in the pavement. And the higher we go, the more the mountains loom over us, silent giants judging our life choices.
Fiore—though he knows the local anguane well—is guiding us to his friend's house (the witch), convinced she can give us some solid leads.
I don't have much to object to… except the way Romina handles these bends.
The back seat creaks as I grip the handle for dear life.
"Romie… could you slow down a second? I'm about to puke," I mutter, stomach twisting.
"We could stop, actually. I'm starving—what about you two?" she says, shifting gears like she's auditioning for a rally championship.
"Hang on, guys, we're almost there. Take this turn, Romina," Fiore says, pointing at a dirt road disappearing into the trees.
The car jolts over potholes and gravel until a small courtyard appears, surrounded by old stone houses.
The air smells of firewood, rosemary, and damp earth.
Romina parks just as a young brunette steps out of one of the thick-walled houses: a long, intricately patterned skirt, a simple white tee, a fringed burgundy shawl over her shoulders, and eyes so bright it feels like they already know more than they let on.
We get out of the car, and her warm voice wraps around us like a cozy blanket.
"I've been expecting you, Fiorenzo."
"Mel, darling." Fiore pulls her into a tight hug, kissing her on both cheeks.
Wow. You two are very friendly, huh?
A tiny sting of irritation hits me—God knows why.
She runs a hand through his hair like it's the most natural thing in the world, then turns to us with a serene smile.
"Come in, everything's ready."
Inside, the house is rustic and warm, scented with herbs and a hint of fireplace smoke. Every wall looks like a miniature museum: talismans, bundles of lavender and rosemary, chalk symbols on rough paper, bottles packed with spices and strange-colored liquids.
Fiore leads the way, chatting with Mel like they haven't caught up in ages.
Romina and I trade an uncertain look. Then a scent drifts in from the next room, rich and irresistible, and that pretty much seals our fate.
In the kitchen, a sturdy young man is slicing crisp bread while keeping one eye on a toddler in a high chair.
"Welcome! If you want to freshen up, the bathroom's down the hall on the right," he says with a friendly smile.
Romina looks like she might cry at the sight of the table: creamy spiced hummus, herb risotto, rustic cheeses with jam, veggies, and dried fruit tossed in a salad.
We wash our hands and sit down in a heartbeat—two schoolkids at lunch. My nausea has completely evaporated; my stomach growls in sync with Romina's like they're gossiping about us.
"Don't be shy!" Mel says, setting a glass jug of water on the table before sitting down.
"Th-thank you. Buon appetito," I manage, giving a small nod. Our hosts smile warmly back.
The food looks great, but the flavor goes beyond that. Each bite is rich, grounding, like it's speaking to something deep in the body in a language you forgot you knew.
Warmth spreads from my stomach to my chest—an almost physical embrace. A sigh escapes me before I can stop it.
"This is unbelievably good, I could cry," Romina says, fork still in her mouth, eyes shining.
"I'm glad!" Mel laughs. "Cooking is the magic I'm best at," she adds, feeding the little girl a spoonful of vegetable purée.
"Confirmed! This risotto is out of this world," Fiore chimes in, mouth full.
We devour everything with gusto. Fiore goes for seconds of everything, and neither Romina nor I are exactly shy about it. By the end, we're as stuffed as after a Christmas lunch—blissfully content and slightly dazed.
Mel's partner gets up to make coffee while we help clear the table.
"So… what brings you here today, Fiorenzo?" Mel asks. Something in her tone makes me glance up. Her dark eyes sweep from Fiore to us, like she's reading our every hidden secret.
I drop my eyes, uneasy, Romina following suit, and for a moment we feel stripped bare under Mel's piercing gaze.
"We're looking for the anguane," Fiore says, stretching his back like it's no big deal.
"The closest ones are at the Buso—you know that better than I do. But… I have a feeling that's not the whole story, right?" she replies, tilting her head. Her eyes glow like embers.
"Don't take it the wrong way, but I can't tell you," Fiore says, calm but firm. "If you could light your hearth, then we'd handle setting the intentions ourselves."
"Ah. So you just need the labor, then?" Mel smiles faintly. "Not sure how I feel about being put to work like that… without proper compensation."
Then her gaze lands on me.
"I could really use some new… ingredients," she murmurs, voice dipped in mischief.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Ingredients? In what sense?
Suddenly, I feel like a chicken on display while a customer tries to decide whether I'm worth plucking. I scratch my forehead, tense.
The moka pot gurgles on the stove. Mel's partner turns off the burner; the scent of coffee fills the room, thick, almost overwhelming.
"I intended to pay you, you know. Didn't come empty-handed," Fiore says, lifting his gaze with a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "So don't pressure Milo, please."
Mel laughs, warm, full.
"Got it, your protégé is off-limits," she says. Then, with a spark of playful hunger: "Although a lock of his gorgeous hair would come in handy. So, what do you bring me?"
Fiore digs into his jeans pocket and pulls out a folding knife. The metallic click as the blade snaps open rings like a sour note. He rests it in his palm and, with unsettling calm, says, "If you take a vial, I'll give you some of my blood."
"Ooh!" Mel's eyes widen, thrilled. I, however, freeze.
"Fiore…" I start, almost in a whisper, gripping his forearm. "I don't exactly know what's happening, but… wouldn't a lock of hair be enough?"
He just shakes his head. "It wouldn't."
Then he smiles at me, softly. "Don't worry."
Mel opens a cupboard and pulls out a small jar with a golden lid, setting it on the table with a gentle touch, as if it were a sacred object.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Fiore inhales slowly, his fist tightening around the knife.
Then he squeezes.
A sharp snap, and the blade slides away.