CHAPTER 10
1179 Words
//CLASS//
“Before we resume our descent into the Baroque period’s delightful excess, an announcement. We have a new student joining us, transferring mid-semester. Please make him feel welcome.”
The door at the back of the sloping auditorium swung open.
He was tall, with the kind of lean, athletic build that spoke of expensive sports, not gyms. His hair was dark, swept back in a way that was perfectly in-between careless and precise.
His features were sharp, almost severe, saved by a mouth that promised a dangerous smile.
“Elio Amerigo,” he said, introducing himself. His voice.
A collective, nearly inaudible sigh seemed to ripple through the female—and a few male—students in the room. Chloe, sitting next to Raphaella, stiffened.
Professor Almeida gestured to an empty seat. “Welcome, Mr. Amerigo. You’ll find Caravaggio a fittingly dramatic introduction to our program.”
Elio’s gaze swept the rows. For a fraction of a second, it passed over the students, a disinterested scan. Then it stopped. It landed on Raphaella.
There was no flicker of recognition, no smile. It was a simple, arresting focus. Those pale eyes held hers, just for a beat too long, an acknowledgment that felt less like ‘hello’ and more like ‘there you are.’
Raphaella’s breath caught. It wasn’t attraction, not exactly. It was a primal, unsettling awareness, like sensing a predator enter the clearing.
Then the moment broke. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, not to her, but as if confirming something to himself, and moved gracefully to the empty seat.
“Holy hell,” Chloe muttered under her breath, leaning into Rafe. “Who is that? And why did he look at you like you were the only painting in the museum?”
“I don’t know,” Rafe whispered back, her skin prickling. She forced herself to look down at her notes, at the slide of Caravaggio’s Judith Beheading Holofernes. The violent drama on the screen felt suddenly, eerily pertinent.
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//AFTER CLASS//
“Okay, I’m officially declaring a state of emergency,” Chloe hissed, shoving her own notebook into her bag. “That guy is a whole mood, and the mood is ‘will probably poison your drink to see what color you turn.’ Be cool. I’ll be your wingman… or your human shield.”
They filed out into the hallway, joining the river of students. They’d only taken a few steps when that voice, the one that had silenced the lecture hall, spoke from just behind Rafe’s left shoulder.
“Raphaella Scarlatti.”
She and Chloe turned in unison. Elio stood there, his bag slung over one shoulder, looking utterly at ease amidst the chaos. Up close, he was even more striking. The pale eyes were more green than hazel, and they held an intelligence that was disconcerting.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Rafe asked, summoning every ounce of the cool indifference she’d used on Ethan. It felt flimsier here.
A slow, deliberate smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Not yet. But our families move in similar… circles. My father, Lorenzo, often speaks of Salvatore Scarlatti. With great respect.”
He gave a slight, graceful tilt of his head. The name Lorenzo meant nothing to her, but the invocation of her father’s name sent a jolt through her.
“When I learned I’d be attending this university, he insisted I introduce myself to Vincenzo’s sister. He said you were the family’s most prized treasure.”
Chloe, sensing the undercurrents, put on a brilliant, fake smile. “Well, isn’t that sweet? Family networking. I’m Chloe, by the way, the best friend and unofficial treasurer of the ‘Don’t Be Weird Around Rafe’ club. Membership is closed.”
Elio’s gaze flicked to Chloe, acknowledging her with the same detached courtesy one might give to an interesting piece of furniture.
“A pleasure.”
His attention returned to Raphaella, unwavering. “I was hoping you might be able to give me some… orientation. The campus is larger than I’m used to. Perhaps you could point me toward a decent coffee? I find the local offerings somewhat… bitter.”
He was asking her to walk with him. Alone.
“Chloe, I’ll catch up with you at the studio later,” Rafe said, her voice steady.
Chloe’s eyes widened in a silent ARE YOU INSANE? but she played along.
“Sure, yeah. I’ve got that… thing. With the… stuff.” She gave Rafe a meaningful look that promised a severe debriefing later, and melted into the crowd, though Rafe knew she wouldn’t go far.
As they began to walk, Elio fell into step beside her, his pace matching hers perfectly. The noise of the hallway seemed to fade around them.
“Your reputation precedes you,” he said, glancing at her. “The artist. I’ve heard you have a remarkable talent.”
“You seem to have heard a lot about me,” Rafe replied, keeping her eyes forward. “I’ve heard nothing about you.”
“Perhaps your brothers keep you well-insulated from the business of our families.” There was no judgment in his tone, only observation. “A wise policy. The world of our fathers can be… corrosive to beauty.”
“I’m not made of glass, Mr. Amerigo.”
“Elio, please.” He smiled again. “And I can see that. The glass has already been tempered, I think. One can see the strength in it.” He gestured vaguely. “So, the coffee?”
She led him toward a quieter campus café, not the one she and Chloe usually frequented. The whole interaction felt like a carefully choreographed dance, and he was leading, even as she chose the direction.
“Switzerland, then?” she asked, making conversation.
“For a time. Then Florence. My father believes in a classical education. Art, history, language.” He looked at her. “He would approve of your course of study. He often says beauty is the only true legacy.”
“And what do you say?” she challenged.
He looked at her, that assessing gaze sweeping over her face. “I say legacy is written in blood and loyalty. Beauty is just the frame we put around it.”
They reached the café, but neither made a move to go in. They stood under the awning, an island of tense quiet.
“It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Raphaella,” Elio said, his voice softening just a fraction, making it somehow more intimate. “I look forward to seeing more of your… art.” His eyes lingered on her face, as if memorizing its lines. “Please give my regards to Vincenzo. Tell him Elio Amerigo sends his family’s respects.”
With a final, slight nod, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the flow of students without a backward glance.
- Writer
