Chapter 2

  17 years earlier

  The strada stretched long behind me, the sky burning orange as the sun dipped low.

  My moto hummed beneath me, the road smooth, the wind in my faccia.

  This was the life—no plans, no schedules. Just me, the motorcycle, and the next adventure.

  I had been riding for hours, the muscles in my gambe tight, the scent of the ocean never far.

  When I saw the sign for a campeggio, I figured - why not? A place to rest, to drink a birra, maybe talk to some new people.

  I parked, shook out my capelli, and that’s when I saw her.

  She was bellissima. But not just that—there was something about her.

  She sat with her legs stretched out, leaning back on her hands, a bottle of birra in one hand.

  She looked relaxed, but her occhi - ah, her eyes—they didn’t just watch. They studied.

  She wasn’t like other women. I could see that subito.

  She didn’t try to catch attention. But she had mine.

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  I grab a birra, walk over, sit down.

  “Mind if I join?” I ask, easy, like I haven’t already decided I want to know everything about her.

  She look at me, slow, like she is deciding something.

  Then she smirk. "That depends. Do you have good stories? Tell me something interesting."

  I grin. “I have terrible ones. But I tell them well.”

  She laugh. Ah, that laugh. It’s real. Open. Like she don’t care who’s listening.

  I tell a story. She laughs again.

  Mamma mia. This woman.

  The fire burns low. The others leave, but we stay.

  She sip her birra, eyes on me now. She tilt her head, like she thinking.

  Then, she stand.

  “Well, Paolo from Calabria…” she say, slow, like a tease.

  She pause. Just a second. Just long enough for my cuore to race.

  Then she say it. "Come with me."

  Dio mio.

  Inside the tenda, it is warm. Close. The air thick with her.

  She turn to me, sitting close.

  Too close. Not close enough.

  She look at me, dark-eyed, lips slightly parted.

  Then – Madonna - she grab my shirt, pull me down to her.

  She kiss me.

  Not soft. Not hesitant. No, no. She kiss me like she means it. Like she wants it.

  She taste like birra, like wind, like something I never tasted before.

  Her hands - forte, demanding - move up my petto, over my spalle.

  I groan in my gola. She smile against my mouth.

  Ah, furba. She knows what she’s doing.

  My hands find her vita, her schiena. She shiver.

  I like that.

  She want this. She want me.

  I kiss her slow, teasing. Then not slow.

  She moan soft, press against me, her fingers tugging my hair.

  She pull me with her, down, into the sleeping bag.

  We laugh, we kiss, we lose ourselves.

  Her nails scratch down my schiena, setting me on fire.

  Clothes disappear, breath gets heavy.

  I trail my lips over her collo, her spalla, lower…

  She gasp.

  Mamma mia.

  She whisper my name. And that’s it.

  I am gone.

  The notte is long.

  She is bella, forte, demanding and giving all at once.

  She take me apart. I take her apart.

  We move together, heat and skin and sound and breath.

  And when we finally collapse, spent, tangled

  She laughs. Soft. Satisfied. Like she just won something.

  I chuckle, kiss her capelli.

  She sigh, sleepy. “Good thing I invited you.”

  I grin. “Good thing I say yes.”

  Her fingers trace lazy cerchi on my braccio.

  She feels so good against me.

  I close my occhi, let myself stay in this moment.

  I should know she will leave tomorrow.

  But I don’t want this to be the end.