“Mi piacerebbe marchiarti, ma non così.” The melodic words spoken in his rugged baritone voice feel as intimate as a sensual caress. I get the sense he’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security. As if I’m going to realize I’m overreacting and laugh off the whole thing. He’s deranged. He has to be. My heart threatens cardiac arrest, a vise clenching tight around my ribs. He takes a determined step forward. “Maledizione, ti ho detto di smetterla.”
