I dressed his wounds again and went to the closet, stepping out of the dirty clothes and putting on blue jeans, a white shirt, and my favorite Isabel Marant sneakers. When I was finished, Massimo appeared in the doorway and opened one of the four huge closets. It was filled with his things.
“When did you manage to unpack?”
“Yesterday. I had some time to do it. Besides, I had some help.”
He put on worn dark blue jeans and a black sweater, finishing his look with a pair of casual loafers. I had never seen him wear clothes like that. He looked like an ordinary, young, well-dressed man now. He looked mind-blowing. He reached for a suitcase inside the closet and took out a small box.
“You forgot something,” he said, clasping the watch over my wrist. It was the same one he had given me when we were driving to the airport on Sicily.
“Is this a transmitter, too?” I asked with a chuckle.
“No. That’s just a watch, Laura. One transmitter is enough. Let’s not get back to that subject again.” He sent me a warning look.
“Let’s go before your stigmata opens up again,” I ordered, grabbing the keys to the BMW.
“You drank. You shouldn’t drive,” he said, putting them back on the table.
“Well, okay, but you can. Unless you can’t. Drive, I mean.”
Massimo stopped, sporting a sly smirk and raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve raced a bit in my time. I know my way around a transmission. But we aren’t taking your car. Too big for my liking.”
“I’ll call us a cab, then.”
I pulled out my phone, dialing a number, but the Man in Black plucked it out of my hand, pressing the speaker button. He approached the cupboard next to the door and opened the lowest drawer, pulling out two envelopes.
“You haven’t looked in here, have you?” he asked ironically, opening the first one. “We have other means of transport in the garage. I like those others better. Come on.”
We went down underground, and Massimo pressed a button on the remote he was holding. Car lights blinked in one of the parking spaces. We walked that way and stopped by a black Ferrari Italia. I froze, ogling the low, sporty, incredible supercar.
“Are any more of those cars yours”? I asked, watching as he got in.
“Whichever you want, baby girl. Hop in.” Inside, the car looked like some kind of spaceship: multicolored buttons and knobs, and a steering wheel flattened on the bottom. To me, it didn’t make any sense. “How do you drive this thing without reading a manual? Could you get anything showier than this?”
The Man in Black pressed the ignition button and the car roared.
“There were some other options, but a Pagani Zonda was too ostentatious. Besides, Polish roads aren’t flat enough for its suspension.” He raised his eyebrows in amusement and stepped on the accelerator.
We drove out of the underground garage, and after the first couple of hundred feet I was sure he knew what he was doing. We passed intersection after intersection and I navigated, showing him the way to a private hospital in the wealthy Wilanów district. I had picked that specific place, as I knew a few doctors there. I had met them on one of the medical conferences I had organized. We clicked. They were party people, liked to eat and drink expensive cocktails, but most of all, they appreciated my discretion. I called one of them, a surgeon, telling him I needed a favor. Two young women sat behind the reception desk. I walked over to one of them, introduced myself, and asked her to point us to Dr. Ome’s office. She practically ignored me, her eyes shooting glances at the handsome Italian accompanying me. I hadn’t seen women reacting to Massimo like that before. In Italy, a darker complexion and black eyes were nothing special, but here it was something rare—exotic and novel. I repeated my request, and the receptionist gave us directions, blushing.
“The doctor is waiting for you,” she muttered, trying to focus.
In the elevator, Massimo brushed my ear with his lips.
“I like it when you speak Polish,” he whispered. “I’m just pissed that I don’t understand a word. But that’s okay. Our son will speak three languages.”
I didn’t even manage a riposte, as the elevator doors opened and we got out.
Dr. Ome was a rather plain-looking middle-aged man. This seemed to make Massimo happy.
“Welcome, Laura.” The surgeon shook my hand. “How are you?”
I greeted him and introduced Massimo, telling the doctor we would be talking in English.
“This is my—”
“Fiancé,” the Man in Black finished for me. “Massimo Torricelli. Thank you for having us.”
“Paweł Ome. Call me Paweł. It’s a pleasure to meet you. What brings you to me?”
Torricelli, I repeated silently. During those long weeks I hadn’t learned Massimo’s last name.
The Man in Black took off his sweater, and the doctor grew completely quiet.
“A hunting accident,” Massimo said, seeing the reaction. “A bit too much Chianti,” he added, feigning amusement.
“Believe me, I get it. Once, after a party, we decided to catch a train. Literally.”
Recounting the story, Dr. Ome applied an anesthetic and stitched the wounds back up, writing a prescription for some ointment and an antibiotic, warning Massimo not to stress them too much.
We left the hospital and got into the car.
“Lunch?” Massimo asked, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “I can’t get used to that color. I love it and it suits you well, but you’re just so…” He thought for a while. “Different.”
“I like it for now. Besides, it’s only colored. I’ll change it when I get bored with it. Let’s go. I know a great Italian place.”
Massimo smiled and tapped an address in the GPS.
“I have Italian food in Italy. Here, I’d like to try something Polish. Buckle up.”
We drove across the city, passing narrow streets, and I was glad the Ferrari’s windows were tinted—seeing the car, people turned their heads, trying to peer inside.
The supercar was a great match for Massimo: complicated, dangerous, hard to control, and very sexy.
We stopped downtown, at one of the best restaurants in town.
We went inside and were greeted by the manager. Massimo told him something discreetly, and the man disappeared before directing us to a table. A while later, an older man with a clean-shaven head appeared. He wore a dark gray suit with crimson lining—clearly hand tailored—and a dark shirt with the top button undone. On his feet was a pair of breathtakingly beautiful shoes.
“Massimo, my friend!” he called out, giving the Man in Black, who barely managed to get up, a great hug.
No stress on the wounds! I scolded the Italian in my head.
“It’s good to finally see you in my country.”
The men exchanged pleasantries, only recalling that I was there, too, after a while.
“Carlo, please meet my fiancée, Laura.”
The man kissed my hand and said, “Karol. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You can call me Carlo, like he does.”
I was a bit surprised that Massimo was friends with a restaurant owner in Warsaw, despite not having been here before.
“You probably won’t find my question too unexpected, but how did you guys meet?” I asked.