CinghialeThere was a knock on the front door of the villa. The sound was too soft to wake me, but Ilsa rolled over and pushed gently on my arm to get my attention.
“Filippo,” she whispered, “there's someone at the door.” There was a thin reed of concern in her voice as I realized that she was probably thinking the same thing I was: too much of that “pleasure thing,” and I bounded out of bed half expecting to find her father on the loggia. I pulled on some khaki pants and a wrinkled t-shirt and moved quickly to the door just as I heard another gentle knock.
Before reaching the threshold, I had already calmed down. If it was Ilsa's father, the knock would have been harder. So, without knowing who I'd face when I opened the door, at least I no longer feared finding an angry father.
Pulling
