Page 64 of My Dark Fairy Tale

When I met him at the car, there was a backup five cars deep behind him, and someone at the end of the line was yelling obscenities at him in Italian.

“Let’s go,” I said, opening the door to slip inside.

But Raffa was suddenly there, pressing me into the door so that it closed again. He spun me by the hip to face him and then slid one hand under my hair to cup the back of my skull and the other to lift my leg up around his hip. Again, I was balanced only by his grace, wrapped like a vine around him.

I didn’t complain even though we were in public, watched by those drug-dealing teens who had actually been quite sweet to me, and yelled at by angry drivers. It all faded away the moment his hands were on me. All I could see were those pale-brown eyes, luminous as sunlight trapped in amber.

“Is that how you are going to greet your consort, Kore?” he asked me, the words winding around me, another form of bondage.

“Kore was a virgin maiden stolen from a field of flowers by Pluto,” I reminded him. “If you want me to greet you like that, I think a slap might be more appropriate.”

His chuckle was all smoke. “Proserpina, then. How would she greet her husband?”

I tipped my chin up just as he curled over me, shielding me from the crowd.

“Like this,” I whispered, before closing my lips over his and sliding my tongue into his mouth.

He tasted like dark chocolate, rich and slightly bitter. I hummed at the flavor and plastered myself even closer to him until I was trying to climb him like a tree.

Finally, he broke away with something that was half chuckle, half moan. “That is exactly how I expect to be greeted from now on,capisci?”

“Pidocchio!” someone yelled from right behind us. “Che cazzo fai?”

Scumbag. What the fuck are you doing?

I jumped, but Raffa was already turning, pressing me back into the car like a human shield. I peeked around his shoulder to see a balding, middle-aged man with hairy knuckles gesture rudely at us.

Seemingly unperturbed, Raffa crossed his arms over his chest and coolly asked, “Ma perche non ti fai i cazzi tuoi?”

Why don’t you mind your own business?

“Jesus, Raffa, let’s justgo,” I hissed, tugging on the back of his expensive blazer.

He did not move, not even when the angry man stormed right up to him and drilled a finger into his chest.

“Faccia di merda, vaffanculo!” he shouted, spittle flying as he glared up at the much taller man.

“C’è una signora presente,” Raffa told him calmly, but I could see that somehow he’d grabbed the man’s finger and had twisted it nearly back to his wrist. “Bada a come parli.”

There is a woman present. Watch your mouth.

“Raffa, it’s fine,” I insisted, but broke off when the man spat, “Chi? Quella puttana? La pagherò cinque euro.”

Who? That whore? I’ll give you five euros for her.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Oh no.

I opened them again when Raffa abruptly moved off my body. He had the other man by the throat of his shirt, pushing him a few feet to press against the wall surrounding the Fortezza da Basso. I could see the corner of his mouth moving even though he spoke too quietly for me to hear. Before I could blink, his hand was in the man’s pocket, wrenching out a wallet and then a card from within it. He shook it gently in the man’s purpling face and then pocketed it himself.

He stepped back, and I heard him say, “Capisci, Enrico?”

The man, presumably Enrico, nodded, the color draining from his face as he stared unblinking up at Raffa. “Mi dispiace, signore. Mi dispiace.”

Raffa gently slapped his face. “Ricorda solo quello che ho detto.”

Just remember what I said.