lips, his tongue, gently sliding the narrow line that divided her rib cage. He could feel her heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird, so rapid he thought she might take flight. As she quivered and moaned softly with his every touch, he continued along his path of discovering his bride.
“Dalia,” he whispered, as he lifted one leg over his shoulder.
“Where do you begin and where do you end?” he whispered into her skin. Her body was a map of hidden pathways each interconnected to make an exquisite whole. He took his fingers and traced the line from her ankle to her calf, circling behind her knee, then continuing up her thigh. He paused. He circled. He inhaled her, cradling her pelvis like a basket of fragrant blooms.
“My love,” he said, and kissed her.
She opened her mouth like an orchid.
And he sealed her kiss with his lips.
Angelo now knew the answer to a question his classmate had once challenged him with: “At what point is a woman most beautiful? When you first see her body? Her heart? Or her soul?”
It was at that rare moment when you hold the woman you love in your arms and you see all three at once.
THIRTEEN
Verona, Italy
J UNE 1943
Elodie was not so beautiful that the other girls were jealous of her. She dressed so modestly, and her body was so slender and without curves that her only striking feature was the intensity of her eyes. But this was a benefit to her work for the group—a cloak of plainness that enabled her to walk undetected through the streets of Verona, not a single man lifting his head in her direction. For Lena, it was far more difficult. She was harassed constantly. The soft, protruding pillow of her breasts, the roundness of her hips, and the elevated shelf of her buttocks, were all physical attributes that made her far more likely to draw attention. Aware of this, Lena tried to dress as modestly as possible, choosing primarily drab shirtdresses or the standard white blouse and navy skirt. But still she caught the eyes of the men who sat in the café calling out to girls as if it were a sport.
Most of the other girls who volunteered were handed books that contained small coded messages, just as Elodie and Lena had first been given. The others, who traveled on bicycle, were able to carry their messages in other clever ways. The men removed the rubber stops at the end of each handlebar and inserted the scrolled paper. The girls pedaled through the streets, committed to their delivery. They were never told the content of the messages, even if they asked.
“We’re doing you a favor, by maintaining your ignorance,” the men told them. “We can’t take the risk that you might divulge something if you are ever interrogated. It’s best to keep you in the dark.”
The girls did not insist, and continued to do as they were told. They reveled in the excitement of having an assignment for the cause, which contrasted so sharply to the routine of their lives. At home, their mothers expected them to help with the laundry and do schoolwork. They felt a freedom, and even a sense of power, when ferrying secret information that needed to be delivered to help liberate Italy.
A few weeks later, the girls entered the back of the bookstore to attend one of the meetings, but arrived in the middle of a heated discussion. “We’re hearing from our comrades that we should be expecting a German invasion by the fall and that we need to be prepared. Our men are starting to get ready in the mountains. We’re going to start organizing delivery of guns, ammunition, and more supplies to them,” a voice said from the crowd.
Luca agreed. “My brother’s already scouting the mountains with Darno Maffini. Berto is arranging contacts in France. All of us here in the city need to be efficient and organized. They’re counting on us to get them what they need.”
A large, stocky man in overalls was standing in the front, trying to get his point across. “Yes . . . Luca’s right. We need
“Dalia,” he whispered, as he lifted one leg over his shoulder.
“Where do you begin and where do you end?” he whispered into her skin. Her body was a map of hidden pathways each interconnected to make an exquisite whole. He took his fingers and traced the line from her ankle to her calf, circling behind her knee, then continuing up her thigh. He paused. He circled. He inhaled her, cradling her pelvis like a basket of fragrant blooms.
“My love,” he said, and kissed her.
She opened her mouth like an orchid.
And he sealed her kiss with his lips.
Angelo now knew the answer to a question his classmate had once challenged him with: “At what point is a woman most beautiful? When you first see her body? Her heart? Or her soul?”
It was at that rare moment when you hold the woman you love in your arms and you see all three at once.
THIRTEEN
Verona, Italy
J UNE 1943
Elodie was not so beautiful that the other girls were jealous of her. She dressed so modestly, and her body was so slender and without curves that her only striking feature was the intensity of her eyes. But this was a benefit to her work for the group—a cloak of plainness that enabled her to walk undetected through the streets of Verona, not a single man lifting his head in her direction. For Lena, it was far more difficult. She was harassed constantly. The soft, protruding pillow of her breasts, the roundness of her hips, and the elevated shelf of her buttocks, were all physical attributes that made her far more likely to draw attention. Aware of this, Lena tried to dress as modestly as possible, choosing primarily drab shirtdresses or the standard white blouse and navy skirt. But still she caught the eyes of the men who sat in the café calling out to girls as if it were a sport.
Most of the other girls who volunteered were handed books that contained small coded messages, just as Elodie and Lena had first been given. The others, who traveled on bicycle, were able to carry their messages in other clever ways. The men removed the rubber stops at the end of each handlebar and inserted the scrolled paper. The girls pedaled through the streets, committed to their delivery. They were never told the content of the messages, even if they asked.
“We’re doing you a favor, by maintaining your ignorance,” the men told them. “We can’t take the risk that you might divulge something if you are ever interrogated. It’s best to keep you in the dark.”
The girls did not insist, and continued to do as they were told. They reveled in the excitement of having an assignment for the cause, which contrasted so sharply to the routine of their lives. At home, their mothers expected them to help with the laundry and do schoolwork. They felt a freedom, and even a sense of power, when ferrying secret information that needed to be delivered to help liberate Italy.
A few weeks later, the girls entered the back of the bookstore to attend one of the meetings, but arrived in the middle of a heated discussion. “We’re hearing from our comrades that we should be expecting a German invasion by the fall and that we need to be prepared. Our men are starting to get ready in the mountains. We’re going to start organizing delivery of guns, ammunition, and more supplies to them,” a voice said from the crowd.
Luca agreed. “My brother’s already scouting the mountains with Darno Maffini. Berto is arranging contacts in France. All of us here in the city need to be efficient and organized. They’re counting on us to get them what they need.”
A large, stocky man in overalls was standing in the front, trying to get his point across. “Yes . . . Luca’s right. We need
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