Massimo’s inviting voice tugged her back into that dream state. There wasn’t a hint of the cool remove he demonstrated in the board room, or the following morning. Isotta stopped herself. Better not to think of that. He was just tired from their night, she was sure. Anyway, the dominance he exhibited was not only justified, it was passing. Far outstripped by the pleasure of his fingertips stroking her face and neck, his warm kiss on her lips when he said goodbye. That canceled out the pluck of worry at his aloofness as they sipped their espresso, him flipping the pink pages of the sports news while she looked around casually and tried not to care.
Now his deep voice filled the space of her ribcage. She imagined his firm and gentle fingers. From above a deep well she heard him say, “I told her about you. She can’t wait to meet you.”
Isotta startled. “I’m sorry. Who can’t wait to meet me?”
She could hear him bristling in the silence. “Massimo? I’m sorry, the phone, um. The connection isn’t great.”
“I said my mother can’t wait to meet you.”
“Oh!” Isotta tapped her teeth while she considered what to say. Really, what can one say when suddenly confronted with the reality that their lover has a mother?
Massimo sighed and added, “So when are you coming?”
“You’re not coming here? I thought you wanted to meet my family?”
“Yes, I do.” A pause. “But it is important that my mother meet you as soon as possible. Next Saturday, there is a train from Firenze to Perugia at 8:45, where you can change for the train to Girona, arriving at the station at 13:05. I can meet you then. You can spend the night, and I’ll put you on the first Sunday train.”
Isotta’s thoughts swept into a cycling eddy of confusion. Only one thing was clear—her desire to see Massimo again. “I would love to.”
Massimo intoned, “Excellent,” as Isotta rushed on, “But I’m not sure how I would explain this to my parents.”
Isotta was sure Massimo’s exhale was the tonal version of an eye roll. “What do you mean?” He asked.
“I don’t think they would take well to the idea of their youngest daughter traveling across Italy to spend the night with a man they’ve never met.” Isotta gagged out an awkward laugh.
“I see your point. But it is imperative that you come soon. I cannot wait any longer.”
“Is there a hurry?” Isotta wondered why they couldn’t conduct their courtship like other couples, talk by phone and send texts, visits planned and anticipated.
“I am not like other men.” He seemed to have read her mind. “We cannot be like other couples. The sooner this is clear between us the better. I don’t waste time. I know what I want. I want you. I want you in my bed. I want to hold you in the darkness, to run my lips down your collarbone, and run my hands down your body.”
Isotta fought back a moan. Massimo added, “Don’t you want that, too?”
Isotta was ashamed of how quickly she felt flames of desire licking from the base of her spine. “Yes.”
“Then come.”
In Isotta’s hesitation, Massimo added, “I have an idea, tell your parents you have a training at the Perugia branch. You are new, this is plausible.”
She closed her eyes, imagining being in Massimo’s arms again. He hadn’t mentioned getting married. Had he forgotten? Changed his mind? Realized it was foolish? Realized she was foolish? Was she just a fling after all? She needed to see him, she needed to know.
“Sì. Okay. I’ll try,” Isotta paused. “But I’m not good at lying. They may not let me come.”
“You’re an adult, Isotta. Nobody can tell you what to do.”
“I know. But you know how parents can be. With the church, and the family—”
“Yes, that’s true.” Massimo considered. “But you’ll be fine.” His voice grew softer, more playful. “Now, tell me what you’re wearing.”
Elisa rubbed her eyes until yellow splotches exploded against her darkened lids. Then she blinked rapidly to regain her vision. Nope, it didn’t work. She couldn’t focus. She rubbed her scratchy sweater against her thin arms vigorously. But the burn subsided quickly, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion.
She caught Fatima watching her from across the classroom as she pinched herself all over her arms and wrists. Her friend frowned in concern. Elisa just shook her head, and redoubled her effort to crowd all the thoughts out of her mind. Her teacher’s voice strengthened, as if she had aimed an antenna at him. But she caught no more than a sentence or two about decimals before the voice faded back out.
And the ugly sounds took over.
Her father, barking at her mother, his voice deep and rasping.
Her mother’s voice high in apology and pleading.
The sound of a belt withdrawing from belt loops like a snake loosed from its skin.
Then banging on her parents’ bedroom door as her brother demanded their father stop, STOP!
The sound of leather, slicing through the air and landing with a sickening wet sound.
Her brothers, sobbing, sliding their backs down the door to huddle on the floor.
Her thrashing bedclothes as she tossed furiously on the bed, trying to muffle the rhythmic cries of pain interspersed with rough moans from her parents’ bedroom. Her name muttered in anger, and then shouted, once.
“Elisa!”
Her attention snapped into place.
“Sì, Maestro.”
“I asked you to demonstrate this problem on the board. Didn’t you hear me the first time I asked you?”
Elisa hung her head, “No, Professore, mi dispiace.”
“Huh. And how about the second, third, and fourth times I asked you?”
“Mi
