La Donna

Four

Sunday.
Sunday was when I got to enter the local church and not feel like a complete outsider.
I walked in with my two guards, who were constantly armed and Sundays were no exception, we genuflected, I sat in a pew in the middle of the church and waited for mass to begin. Thankfully, Pasquale and Ottaviano sat in the row behind me, so we wouldn't tip anyone off by sitting together. Although, I think the guns on their shoulders weren't any help. There was something amusing about two men with guns on their backs sitting in a church. The blatant expression of sin in a House of God. Nobody batted an eye. Not even the priest. He acted as if the rifles weren't there when he gave my men communion.
I sat at the end of my pew with my rosary in-hand, silently reciting the prayers I had been taught throughout my life. I mainly prayed for my father and his recovery. A world without Daddy is not a world I wish to be in. I prayed for my mother, so she may find strength in these dark times. Gianni, to grow patience and mercy. Olivia, I prayed for her to find the courage to leave Vincenzo. He had beaten her multiple times and she blamed herself. A prayer for Dominic, so he can stop being such a pig and can become a better husband to Vera.
Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art-

"'Scusi,"
A soft male voice broke my concentration. I opened my eyes to see the stranger from the market looming over me. He made a loose gesture to the empty space on my right; I think he wanted to sit down next to me. For all the months I've been here in Vicari, my Sicilian isn't where it should be. I can hardly understand the priest during mass, but what I can make out is very little. I speak Italian. Tuscan, to be more precise, but Italian all the same.
The sounds of Pasquale and Ottaviano adjusting their rifles to scare the man caught my attention.
"Stop it." I whispered to my guards. The cute stranger from the market glanced at me with a smirk and a knowing gleam in his honey colored eyes.
"You speak English?" His accent was thick and it made his sentence seem a little rougher than it needed to be. Everything within my body lit up with excitement.
"Yes." I nodded. He nodded back with a soft hum between his lips.
"You look so native, beautiful; I thought the two men following you yesterday was normal for you." He paid me the compliment.
"Oh," I blushed, catching his unspoken message. He thought I had two men following me around because I'm beautiful. Me, Bennie Vicari, a woman with a string of suitors always at my heels? How novel.
"No, these men are my," I paused for a moment to think of how I'd explain my need for guards without giving too much away. This handsome man could be a spy for Ludovico and I can't run the risk.
"Cugini. I miei cugini." I sold him a lie and he bought it at full price.
"Why do they have guns?"
"Don't ask questions." Pasquale gave a curt response in Sicilian. I didn't need to know the language to understand his tone. I've used that very tone with Adam.

Adam.

No. I can't think about Adam. He's not here and we're not together anymore. I can't feel guilty for breaking his heart now.

"You are Benedetta, correct?" The stranger knew my name. I inhaled sharply and shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
"That's a question you can't ask." I frowned.
"Cugina, it's okay. I told him your name yesterday at the market." Ottaviano stated softly while playing along. I shot daggers at him with my eyes in response.
"Your secret is," The man on my right touched my hand and lighting bolts sprang all over my body. "How you say," He hesitated to mentally translate the words.
"Safe with you." I finished his sentence and he nodded.
"Sì, safe with me." He concluded.
"You owe the lady your name." Ottaviano poked his shoulder. The perfectly made stranger agreed emphatically.
"Yes, I am Michelangelo DiNicosia." The stranger has a name- And he's the namesake of the most famous artist ever. Fitting. Every single piece of art done by the one and only Michelangelo paled in comparison to this man. He made The David look like a hunk of rock and I adore him.

[...]

Our hand never stopped brushing against each other during our walk up the small hill not far from the church. My guards trailed a good fifteen feet behind, muttering to themselves about something else. I didn't care. I only wanted to be with Michelangelo. We spoke of our interests and dreams for our lives. When he asked me questions I couldn't answer, I'd gaze at him apologetically.