““Chiara! Pippas! Where you go?” “To sleep! You can handle it on your own.” Chiara shouts something else to him in Italian before she links arms with me. His eyes find mine through the dark and the corner of his mouth pulls up. I bite my lower lip and turn away, allowing Chiara to lead me up the steep hill. We walk in silence for several minutes until she says, “You know what he is, do you not?” Italian? Hot? “You Americans call him a player.””
