“How tenderly the twilight falls
About our dear home’s flowery walls
Upon the garden bowers
The breeze sighs over beds of bloom
My darling, leave the dusky room
Come out among the flowers.”
The poetry hangs in the air between us, unexpected and beautiful. I’m transfixed, unable to reconcile this moment with everything else I know about him. His voice has a different cadence when reciting—softer, more melodic.
“What is that?” I blurt. Astounded that those beautiful words came from the same mouth that called me his “whore” not thirty minutes ago. “Did your mother write that?”
“No,” Giovanni says. “It’s something old. My grandmother, she was the gardener when I was little. She used to recite that poem. Often enough that it’s been burned into my brain, I guess. It’s long, but I don’t remember it all. It’s about the wisteria.” He beings reciting again before I can gather my thoughts:
“See, darling, in this tender gloom
The clusters of its purple bloom
Peep out amid the green;
A comely summer robe it weaves
Of sturdy twigs and tender leaves,
With splendid blooms between.”
He sighs. But it’s softer than anything I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth. “If you read all the verses, it’s about second chances.” Suddenly he’s looking at me. Those intense green eyes of his looking directly into mine as even more words spill out of him…
“How rich and full a life must beat
In its green branches! fair and sweet
It flowered in the spring;
And yet, ere summer days are done,
It spreadeth to the summer sun
A second blossoming.”
I can’t even breathe.
Giovanni begins to look uncomfortable. “Because… some species of wisteria bloom twice, right? If you prune them correctly. Once in the spring, one in the summer.”
“I… I didn’t know that.” What is happening here? Who the hell is this man? This mobster who recites his grandmother’s poetry from memory, who reminisces about his grandfather, who knows the blooming patterns of wisteria, who fucks me in public while maintaining eye contact with his enemy?
My brain starts spinning wildly inappropriate scenarios. Maybe he’s not really a mobster. Maybe this is all an elaborate act. Maybe he’s undercover FBI or something, playing a role. Maybe he’ll fall in love with me and whisk me away from all this. Maybe I’m his Pretty Woman and he’s my Richard Gere and we’ll end up on a fire escape somewhere while I overcome my fear of heights.
Jesus Christ, Emmaleen, get a grip. This isn’t a rom-com. This is real life, and in real life, men like Giovanni Bavga don’t fall in love with women like me. They use them, discard them, and move on.
I’m here for one reason only: $31,750. That’s the prize at the end of this fucked-up rainbow. That’s what I need to focus on. Not the poetry, not the sex, not the way his hands feel on my skin.
Just the money.
Once I get that money, I’m gone. So gone. I’ll leave Pennsylvania and never look back. Never think about Cleveland again. Never be at anyone’s mercy again. I’ll go to Florida or California or fucking Alaska—somewhere warm or interesting or just far away from all of this.