Blood and Truffles (First Chapter)

In the hearts of Venetians who roam these alleys in the night, time is all that matters. Now is the time to love life. Now is the time to appreciate every little thing, even in the saddest moment. In this city of Venice, everyone loves everyone. There’s something in the air that transforms you, makes you feel you are somewhere.1

I have chosen to come to Venice, to escape from my father. In this city, everyone also have secrets. Abri Rizzo is not my name.2

The only place I adore the most in Venice is the piazza where I live. I live in an old-fashioned apartment above a coffee shop. Every morning, the coffee shop is never quiet. The young children of the owner run around the piazza, giving coffees to people and collecting their pay. People have asked me if I have found it tiring to wake every morning, disturbed by the noise from below. It's true there are some times I have been infuriated, but no, it doesn't bother me too much because I love the strong fume of coffee beans. The scent of coffee is my reminder of all that I am. And best of all, since I live above the coffee shop, the owner has guaranteed me free drink. I could have as many as I desire, but it is not my nature to take advantage.3

It has never been in my nature to take advantage. One of the attributes, Father would tell me, that I have of my mother's soul.4

My beautiful child, I recall at what my father has said to me when I was only a mere child of five, at an innocuous age. My dearest figlia. Enveloping my face in his hands, he sighed in shame and sadness. I was too happy to understand why he was tired. I liked to make him happy. After all, I merely did what every daughter in Italy must do when their fathers had forgotten to smile. His breath of cigar and coffee, just the hybrid smell of both, overcame all my other senses. Sometimes just the smell of him was enough to sum up everything of the universal meaning of a word - father.5

Coffee and cigars are the only two things that remind me of my old life in such a vivid way. My horrible past.6

As a child, when he had become like this, holding me as he sighed, I would pick up the heel of my feet and, do it mischievous as always, but cluelessly innocent as well, kiss his lips. In a lustful groan, he demanded more by biting my lip. It is him who has taught me to kiss. Kiss like a cultured lady of pure Italian blood, Father had enjoyed saying as a mixture of order and compliment. The enormous, white chair at the corner of his office was the only place he preferred for our little game. He would seat me on his hip where, as I called it, the bump is. His groan, I have theorized as a child, corresponds to his bump. As a child, I had loved the idea of keeping this a secret that only Father and I know. To this day as an adult, it's a secret I am not proud of and that I despited.7

"Take me, Artuto." I said the words, many previous times, in a hasty, but gentle way. Father groaned desperately. Under my dress, under my oyster's pearl as Father would call it as, the bump enlarged with warmth.8

"Elina..." Father's desire, pain, and love were heard in this name he voiced so deeply. “Oh… Elina.” Elina was my mother.9

Occasionally on those mornings, he would take me out for a refreshing, reinvigorating walk. The local people who loved and so admired my father, of a quiet presence that nonethelessly requested respect, liked to tell him that his daughter was becoming so beautiful and sensuous like his wife. His hand that held my hand gripped tight and his eyes shone with pride and thanks. But at such a young age, I had always known it's not me he's proud of... And I despite him for not loving me as a daughter.10

As a reward for giving him kisses, he would get me truffles in the morning afterward. Two pieces on my plate, priced so dearly. I would slice them over an egg and watch it melts to no end. Truffle is my favorite in the world, as was my mother's. With his coffee mug, Father would have me seated across him on the dining table and watch me eat slowly the way he wants me to.11

After the old bastard became well-known businessman all over the world, reigning over five largest businesses, bodyguards were with me everywhere I go and every sec. of my life. As a child of ten, I used to make them play the tea with me. In my childish imagination, they were brothers. After I reached my teenage, I learned of all the wrongs Father did to me. The molesting was wrong. And every year as I grew as a lady, I became aware what of what I fear for my oyster's pearl, that I could lose it to Father. I knew I had to find a way out. And I succeeded when I reached my legal age at 16. I saved myself, escaped to Venice, and, the hardest I have ever done, I made a living on my own.12

It is this particular day I wish to celebrate myself for escaping to Venice where I have found life anew. A life that is my own.13

The night is, as always, alive like biting a bitter lemon slice. You can only suck as much as the lemon offers until the night is done. It's for today I feel, as anyone would feel, privileged to be here. I pulled out my night dress, pulchritudinous in its design as easy on the eyes. I put on a light coat. I picked a black purse, a usual asset that always goes with everything I wear. And a pair of white-diamond, dangling earrings that bring my face to fair attention. And placed the red lipstick over my mouth. A dress, a coat, a black purse, a pair of earrings, and a bloody red lipstick can be all that you need to put the whole world at your feet.14

The night is beautiful. I engage in a conversation with two ladies who live in the same piazza as I do. And have drunk a tasty, sparkling grape juice while walking in my favorite, busy alley in Venice. Then a man captures my eyes, walking the opposite direction. I have a ghost smile on my lip, I hope it didn't show. Several days ago, this man has been following me. In my imagination, he is pursuing me. I expected him to act as if I am a ghost. He stops walking and stands in my way that forced me to stop in his direction. We are no more than a yard apart.15

"My bella, may I consult to have your hand for the night?" He extends his hand, palm up. To my amusing surprise, his deep voice sounds with hints of power and sophistication.16

I chuckle in pleasure. "You may." I place my hand in his.17

"Excellent." While we are enjoying each other's company at a cafè, I find myself desiring him. And I have seen desire in his eyes as well. His flattering is not over the line, which I like because after meeting countless men I have grown tired of the exaggeration they made. I learn he comes from southern Italy. He is here for a business meeting. For two weeks, he says. I have told him short information that everyone in the piazza knows. I have thought of telling him that I came from Milano, but I resist. I mustn't tell my identity to a soul.18

After looking at his watch, he seems taken aback. He looks up and said. "Bella, it's two in the morning."19

"So, it's time to say our bye." I say it, making it sounds almost like a question.20

He smiles again. "Maybe." He stood up from seat and came to my seat to give his hand. I take his strong hand and rise. By then, we are walking on the same alley where we have met. We reach to the end of the alley where we will go our separate ways.21

As I turn to say, "Addio," he grasps on my wrist tightly.22

"Won’t you come to my place?" He gestures it through his neat eyebrows.23

My hesitant mind makes me pause, but I think of his short time here. "Mm, why not?" I reply with smile. After a long walk, we reached his stay. My friend had lent it to me, he explains to me as he unlocks the door. We enter in. He locks his door and takes off his coat.24

"Please allow me to place your things," he takes my purse and coat and hangs them on the hook of the door. Then he looks at me, with a dirty purpose in his eyes. We fully knew what will happen next. I turn away from him and look at his bed. He walks to me then placed his hand on my arm. My body anticipates with warmth. I hear him breathing carefully. He slides his fingertips to my dress straps, then pulls my straps from my shoulders.25

But not yet, I turn to him and kiss him on the lips. I kiss him with all that I am. Never again the way Father wanted me to kiss. He growls. He kisses me hungrily. He shoves me onto bed. I bounce. I am surprisedly amused by his aggressiveness. His hands moved from my thighs to my hands. Then an odd sound, a click of something, comes above my head. I look up and find myself at a loss. A cuff on both of my hands. Its chain is behind one of these parallel rails, part of the bedstead. I look with agitation at this man who now stood by the bed.26

Gone is his charm. Changed is his accent. Changed is his language. He says in English, “As much as I want to want fuck you, but your signor... I can't... Ms. Simona Conti.”27

Everything has become clear. And I am not surprised, rather angry. Father has sent him to bring me back home.28

29