Chapter 6: Bathing Beauty
The villa at Lake Como was Alessia’s favorite place on earth. It wasn’t just the staggering beauty of the centuries-old stonework draped in wisteria, or the way the morning sun turned the lake into a sheet of hammered turquoise. It was the profound, cellular silence of it. Here, the roar of the F1 world faded to a distant whisper, replaced by the lap of water against the dock, the hum of bees in the lavender, the rustle of cypress trees in the mountain breeze. Here, she could breathe.
Her days fell into a blissful, self-directed rhythm. She would wake early, pull on a simple swimsuit, and slip into the cool, clear water of the lake from their private dock, swimming strong, confident laps until her muscles sang. After, she’d wrap herself in a thick linen towel and plan the day’s menu, her mind dancing between cookbooks in Italian, English, French, and Spanish, pulling flavors from memories of their travels. She’d walk into the bustling market in Bellagio, chatting easily with vendors in rapid-fire Italian, selecting sun-warmed tomatoes, fragrant basil, and creamy mozzarella di bufala. She explored the boutique shops, not to buy—Carlo had closets full of gifts for her—but to touch the fabrics and imagine the stories behind the handmade leather journals and delicate ceramics. In the afternoons, she’d curl in a shaded lounge on the loggia, a novel in hand, losing herself in other worlds while remaining perfectly, peacefully, in this one.
Luca’s presence for that first week was a welcome burst of familiar energy. He’d join her for swims, challenge her to ridiculous diving competitions, and devour her elaborate meals with theatrical groans of appreciation. But the testing schedule called, and after seven days, the private jet returned to spirit him away to a Barcelona circuit.
“You’ll be bored without me,” Luca said, hugging her at the villa’s grand entrance, his racing kit bag slung over a shoulder.
“I’ll manage,” she teased, squeezing him back. “Try not to crash the prototype.”
He grinned, kissed her forehead, and nodded at Carlo, who stood a few steps back, hands in the pockets of his tailored linen trousers. “Look after her.”
“It is my only purpose,” Carlo said, his tone light, his eyes steady.
And then it was just the two of them.
Carlo indulged her every want and need. It was a silent, total policy. If she mentioned a craving for torta della nonna from a specific pasticceria in Menaggio, it appeared at breakfast the next morning. If she idly wondered about the history of the villa’s boathouse, a renowned local historian was invited for dinner that week to elaborate. When she spent a morning painting watery landscapes at the easel he’d had set up for her, he had the best of them framed and hung in his study by sunset. Her happiness was the axis his world turned on, and she adored him for it. His attention was the sun in her gilded sky.
“You spoil me rotten,” she laughed one evening, presenting a dinner of handmade squid ink tagliatelle with lobster, a recipe she’d painstakingly translated from a Provençal cookbook.
“You deserve to be spoiled,” he replied, pouring her a glass of crisp Vermentino. He watched her across the candlelit table, her face glowing in the soft light, the diamond bracelet a constant, glittering presence on her wrist. She hadn’t taken it off since the flight. “The meal is a masterpiece. As is the chef.”
She blushed, dipping her head. “It’s just pasta, Carlo.”
“It is your pasta,” he said, as if that explained everything.
His days were a structured mimicry of leisure. He took calls, reviewed holdings, made decisions that shifted millions. But the architecture of his time was built around her. His study had a direct line of sight to the dock. His morning coffee was taken on the terrace where she liked to read. He was a constant, protective periphery.
One afternoon, he found her in the library, standing on her toes, struggling to reach a volume of Petrarch’s sonnets on a high shelf. She was stretched out, the hem of her thin cotton sundress riding up the backs of her thighs.
“Allow me,” he said, his voice close behind her.
She jumped slightly, turning as he reached over her. His body caged her against the shelves for a moment, his chest brushing her shoulder. He smelled of soap and the faint, sharp scent of the lemon grove he’d walked through. He plucked the book easily and handed it to her.
“Grazie,” she said, clutching the leather-bound book to her chest. Her eyes, he noticed, didn’t quite meet his. A faint pink tinged her cheeks.
“You’re quiet today, cucciola,” he observed, not moving away. The library was hushed, steeped in the smell of old paper and beeswax.
She shrugged, tracing the gold lettering on the book’s spine. “Just thinking. It’s so peaceful here. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to… I don’t know.
She looked past him, out the library’s tall windows to the serene, unchanging lake. “To have a life that’s just… mine. A schedule. Not the next race, the next party, the next flight.” She finally met his gaze, her expression earnest. “I love Luca, you know I do. But I miss the quiet sometimes. The real quiet. When it’s just us, and we can just… be quiet together. Like this.”
Carlo felt the words settle in him, warm and perfect. This was everything he’d wanted to hear.
“You want to stay here,” he said, not a question. A confirmation.
“Not forever, but… more. A home base. Maybe volunteer at the restoration society in town. Have a routine that doesn’t involve a passport.” She bit her lip, worrying it was a betrayal. “Does that sound awful?
He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the arch of it. The gesture was possessive, tender. “It sounds like you’ve found your center. This is your home, Alessia. It always has been.”
Relief washed over her features. She leaned into his touch for a second, a silent thank you.
“Then it’s decided,” he murmured, dropping his hand. “You’ll stay. I’ll have Maria draw up a proper schedule for you—tutors, charitable commitments, whatever you wish. No more chaotic travel unless you desire it.” He made it sound like a gift. It was, in fact, a beautifully crafted cage.
“Really?” Her smile was incandescent.
“Really.” He plucked the Petrarch from her hands and slid it back onto the shelf. “Come. The light is perfect for a walk, and you’ve been hiding in here all afternoon.”
They walked the terraced gardens in a comfortable silence that was everything she’d just described. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine. He pointed out a new planting of peonies, his hand lingering on the small of her back to guide her down a narrow stone step. His touch was a constant, casual punctuation.
That night, after another of her exquisite dinners, they sat on the deep-cushioned sofa in the living room. A fire crackled in the hearth despite the mild evening, because she loved the way it danced. She was curled at one end, sketching in a notebook. He was at the other, pretending to read a financial report.
He watched her over the top of his tablet. The tip of her tongue was caught between her teeth in concentration. The firelight played in her curls and gleamed on the diamonds at her wrist.
“What are you drawing?” he asked.
She held up the notebook. It was a detailed, skillful sketch of the villa’s boathouse, the water dark and scribbled beneath it. “Trying to get the perspective right on the arches.”
“It’s perfect,” he said. He meant her.
He set his tablet aside and moved. He didn’t go to her, but he shifted closer, stretching his arm along the back of the sofa behind her head. It was a territory-claiming move, casual but expansive. She didn’t flinch; she just sighed, leaning back slightly, her head almost touching his arm.
“This is nice,” she whispered, her eyes on the fire.
“It is.” His fingers, dangling near her shoulder, brushed a stray curl. He didn’t move it. He just let his fingertips rest against the side of her neck, feeling the steady pulse there. It was an intimate, testing contact.
She stilled, but she didn’t pull away. She simply closed her eyes, a small, contented smile on her lips. She interpreted his touch as paternal, safe. A part of the quiet.
His thumb began a slow, barely-there stroke against the sensitive skin just below her ear. Her breath hitched, just a tiny catch. Her eyes remained closed. The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
“Daddy?” Her voice was soft, drowsy.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you. For listening. For letting me stay.”
His thumb paused. He let his gaze travel over her face, the sweep of her lashes against her cheek, the full curve of her mouth. The desire to close the final distance, to crush that mouth under his, was a physical ache in his gut. He pictured the notebook tumbling to the floor, his hands in her hair, the shocked sound she’d make before he swallowed it.
Instead, he just let his hand fall fully to her shoulder, a heavy, comforting weight. “You never have to thank me, Alessia. This is where you belong.”
She nodded, nestling deeper into the sofa, into the shadow of his presence. The moment stretched, thick and warm as honey. The only sounds were the fire and their breathing, slowly syncing.
He had given her the quiet she wanted. Now he owned every silent second of it.