From an international bestselling author, this modern romance story explores whether distance and separation can ever keep true love apart.Published for the first time in English, One Step to You has captured the hearts of millions and garnered a dedicated fan base across the world. The Romeo and Juliet of their time, Babi and Step spend the best days of their lives together, but belonging to opposite worlds may eventually tear them apart forever.
Just as in every other place in the world, teenagers in Rome, Italy, forge their own path separate from their parents. Some are hardworking and studious like Babi, a young girl waiting to find the love of her life. Then there are bad boys like Step, who are from the wrong side of the tracks.
The Romeo and Juliet of their time, Babi and Step are from different worlds, want different things, but cannot help falling in love. Although their relationship won't be easy, their love may be the best thing to ever happen to them.
Release date:
March 2, 2021
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
384
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Sophia’s ass is Europe’s finest. That bright red graffiti, the work of some stealthy hand armed with a can of spray paint in the dark of night, now gleamed in all its brazenness on one of the massive columns lining the Corso di Francia bridge.
Nearby, a Roman eagle, carved long ago, had doubtless seen it all, but wasn’t about to name the guilty party. Just beneath the fearsome bird of prey’s marble talons, like a baby eaglet sheltering in its protective shadow, sat the boy.
His hair was short, practically a buzz cut, with a high fade at the nape of the neck like a US Marine.
His dark Levi’s jacket was missing a button, scraped off along with a stretch of blue paint when he and his motorbike had wiped out on the asphalt of a curve that turned out to be tighter than expected.
Collar turned up, smoldering Camel dangling from his lips, and a pair of wraparound Ray-Ban Baloramas—these accessories all buttressed his tough-guy pose, but none of it was really necessary. He had a dazzling smile, but only a select few had ever had the pleasure of seeing it.
He glanced down the span of the bridge to the cars poised menacingly at the stoplight. Lined up, waiting motionless, like race cars at the starting line, except no racetrack had ever seen such a motley assortment of makes and models—a Fiat 126, a VW Beetle, a Ford Fiesta, some other nondescript American car he couldn’t identify, and an Alfa Romeo 155.
He smiled.
A few cars back, in a Mercedes 200, a slender finger with a badly bitten nail gave a gentle push to a cassette tape protruding slightly from the latest-model Alpine stereo. The sound of a tiny motor seized the tape and drew it into the tape deck. From the twin Pioneer speakers in the doors, a young female vocalist’s voice burst suddenly to life.
The Mercedes gently moved forward, following the flow of traffic. The scent of the driver’s aftershave wafted through the air in the car’s interior.
The girl in the passenger seat mused to herself that, even if she’d wanted to, there was no one she could tell, “Go away, love,” like the words to the song. If anything she’d have happily kicked her sister out of the car rather than listen for one more second to her pestering demands for a different song: “Change it to Eros, come on, I want to listen to Eros.”
The Mercedes rolled past precisely as the cigarette, smoked down to the butt, was hitting the sidewalk, propelled through the air by an expert flick of forefinger against thumb and lofted a little bit farther by a chance gust of wind. The boy strode down the marble steps, adjusted his 501s, and swung one leg over the saddle of his dark blue Honda VF 750 custom motorbike, with a few slight dents and scratches on the front mudguard. He twisted the key, barely tapped the ignition button, and pushed down hard on the kick-starter.
Suddenly the green light vanished from behind the NEUTRAL on the instrument cluster and, as if by magic, he found himself moving through the line of cars. His right boot shifted through the gears, reining the engine in or letting it roar, as its torque shoved him powerfully forward like a breaking wave, sliding now right, now left. He leaned gently into each curve, slaloming through the narrow spaces between one car and the next like a series of ski gates.
The sun was rising, it was morning, a bright beautiful morning. She was on her way to school; he was still up from the night before. It would have been just another day if that morning, at that stoplight, they hadn’t come to a halt side by side.
Red light.
He glanced over at her. An ash-blond lock of hair fluttered out the open car window. As the hair tossed gently in the morning air, it intermittently left her neck uncovered, revealing a faint golden down that followed the direction traced by the wind. Her determined profile was punctuated by the blush of her cheeks and the blue of her eyes, gentle and serene, as she listened dreamily, half-lidded, to the second song, “La vita mia.” The sight of such tranquility struck him forcefully, and maybe that’s why:
“Hey!”
She turned to look, caught off guard, opening her large, innocent bright blue eyes a little wider. She stared at him. A stranger, stopped beside her on a motorcycle, with broad shoulders, his hands too tan for the mid-April sun. His eyes, concealed behind sunglasses, would surely have had something to add to the already utterly shameless face.
“You want to go for a ride with me?”
“No, I’m on my way to school.”
“So just pretend to go, why don’t you? I’ll swing by and pick you up out front.”
“Pardon me.” She gave him a tight, forced fake smile. “You must have misunderstood. What I meant to say was, ‘No, I do not want to go for a ride with you.’”
“No, listen, you’d have fun—”
“I very much doubt that.”
“I’d solve all your problems.”
“I don’t have any problems.”
“Okay, now it’s me who very much doubts that.” Green light.
The Mercedes 200 shot forward, leaving the boy’s confident smile anchored to the spot. Her father turned to give her a glance. “So who was that? A friend of yours?”
“No, Papà, just some idiot…”
A moment later, the Honda motorbike pulled up next to the pretty girl for a second time. This time, the boy reached out and grabbed the open windowsill with his left hand, revving the motor slightly with his right hand, just enough to keep from having to lean too hard on the moving car, though that shouldn’t have been a challenge for those sixteen-inch biceps.
The only one who seemed to be struggling with the situation was the father. “Hey, what’s that reckless fool up to? Why is he driving so close to the car?”
“Don’t worry, Papà. Let me take care of this—”
She swiveled decisively around to glare at the boy.
“Listen, don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Nope.”
“Well, find something.”
“I already have.”
“You have?”
“Yes. I want to take you for a spin. Come on, we’ll go for a fast ride on the Via Olimpica, open her up so you see what this bike can do, then I’ll take you somewhere nice for a quick breakfast and drop you off right in front of your school. I promise.”
“I doubt your promises are worth very much.”
“True, true.” He smiled. “So you see, you already know all about me. Admit it, you like what you see, don’t you?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“All right, that’s enough now.” She opened a book she’d just pulled out of her Gherardini bag. “I need to think about my one and only real problem.”
“Which is what?”
“My Latin test.”
“I thought it was sex.”
She turned toward him, shocked. This time, without a smile, not even of feigned courtesy.
“Get your hand off my window.”
“Why, where do you want me to put it?”
She pressed a button. “I can’t tell you, my father’s listening.”
The power window started to close. He waited until the last second and then, yanking his hand out of the narrowing gap and shooting her one last glance, pulled away from the car. “See you later.”
He didn’t stick around to hear her curt reply: “Oh, no you won’t.” He leaned slightly to the right and veered away. As he took the curve, he shifted gears and revved the bike’s engine, accelerating sharply until he’d vanished into the line of cars. The Mercedes continued straight ahead, with no one left to interfere as it carried the two sisters to their school day.
“Wait, you know who that guy is?” Her sister’s head suddenly popped forward between the two front seats. “They call him A-Plus.”
“As far as I’m concerned, he’s nothing but a moron.”
Then she opened her Latin textbook and started reviewing the construction of the ablative absolute. Suddenly, though, she stopped reading and gazed out the window. Was this really her only problem? Certainly not the one that guy had said. And anyway, she’d never see him again. She went back to her textbook with renewed determination. The car turned left, on its way to Falconieri High School.
“That’s right, I have no problems, and I’m never going to see him again.”
Little did she realize how wrong she really was. About both things.
Chapter 2
Their motorcycles were powerful and so were their muscles. Step, Pollo, Lucone, Hook, the Sicilian, Bunny, Schello, and lots of others. All with unlikely names, and challenging histories. Statuesque and smiling, quick with a wisecrack, their rough hands bore a few extra marks, reminders of past brawls. Okay, so maybe some of them didn’t have much money in their pockets, but they knew how to have fun and they were friends. That was enough.
They were stopped there, in Piazza Jacini, most sitting on their Harleys, old 350 four-strokes with the original array of four exhaust pipes or with the classic four-in-one, which made a lot more noise. Motorcycles dreamed of, yearned after, and finally obtained from their parents after endless, relentless begging. Or else by making sacrifices out of their own pockets.
Step smiled. “I hear that there’s a party on the Via Cassia.”
“Where?” the Silician asked.
“Number 1130. It’s an apartment complex. Wanna go?”
“But will they let us in?”
Schello reassured them. “I know a girl who’ll be there.”
“Who’s that?”
“Francesca.”
“In that case, they won’t let us in,” the Silician said.
Everyone broke out laughing.
“Oh yeah? Wait and see. We’ll get in, and we’ll liven up the place!”
“Come on! That’s the spirit,” Schello shouted like a lunatic. “Let’s go!”
Everyone in the piazza exploded in tune with that shout, starting up their motorcycle and Vespa engines, honking horns, shouting.
The windows of the buildings all around the piazza started creaking open. A distant burglar alarm began to blare. Old women in their nightgowns shuffled out onto balconies, shouting in worried voices, “What’s going on?” A voice yelled for everyone to shut up. A woman who believed in law and order threatened to call the police.
As if by magic, all the motorcycles moved at once. Pollo, Lucone, and the others took running starts, leaping onto their seats as the mufflers spewed out white smoke. A few beer cans rattled and crashed as they rolled along, and the girls all went home.
The other motorcycles joined formation, occupying the whole street, indifferent to the occasional car that ran up fast next to them, overtaking and honking loudly. Schello stood up on his beat-up oversized Vespa. Laughing, they all downshifted, practically in unison. Slamming on brakes, fishtailing across the asphalt, they all turned a sharp left. One or two popping wheelies as they went, all of them ignoring the red light. Then they roared up the Via Cassia at top speed.
* * *
At the sound of the buzzer downstairs, Roberta, euphoric for her eighteenth birthday and for the party that was going perfectly, ran to the intercom.
“You’re here to see Francesca who?” Roberta asked the male voice over the speaker.
“Giacomini, that blonde. I’m her brother, and I have to give her some keys.”
Roberta pushed the button inside the intercom once and then, to make sure she’d opened the door, pushed it again. She went into the kitchen and pulled two big Coca-Colas from the freezer. They were cold enough, so she shut the freezer door with her right foot and turned to go back to the living room. There she crossed paths with a blond girl who was talking to a boy with his hair slicked back with gel.
“Francesca, your brother is coming upstairs. He’s bringing you your keys.”
“Ah…” was all that Francesca managed to reply. “Thanks.” The boy with the slicked-back hair lost a little bit of his stiffness and allowed himself a faint sound of amusement.
“France, is something wrong?” Roberta asked.
“No, nothing’s wrong, aside from the fact that I’m an only child.”
The Sicilian and Hook were the first to read the nameplate on the fifth-floor doorbell. “Here it is. This is the place. Micchi, right?”
Schello reached the doorbell and pressed the button. The door swung open almost immediately.
Roberta stood in the doorway and looked out at the group of young men, muscular and unkempt. They’re certainly dressed rather casually struck her as a good thing to think. “Can I help you?”
Schello stepped forward. “I was looking for Francesca. I’m her brother.”
As if by magic, Francesca appeared in the doorway, accompanied by the boy with the slicked-back hair.
“Ah, there you are. It’s your brother.” Roberta turned and walked away.
Francesca gave the group a worried look. “Which of you is supposed to be my brother?”
“Me!” Lucone put his hand up.
Pollo raised his hand too. “So am I. We’re twins, just like in that Schwarzenegger movie. He’s the dumb one.” They all laughed.
Francesca took Schello aside. “What on earth were you thinking when you invited all these people, huh?”
“This party strikes me as a morgue. At least we can liven it up a little bit. Come on, France, don’t get pissed off.”
“Who’s pissed off? I just want you all to leave.”
“Excuse me, coming through, pardon me…” Inexorably, one after the other, they all went through, Hook, Lucone, Pollo, Bunny, Step, and the others.
Francesca tried to stop them. “No, Schello, come on. You can’t go in.”
“Come on, France, don’t be like that. You’ll see, nothing bad will happen.” Schello locked arms with her. “In any case, you’re not at fault here. It’s all your brother’s fault, for letting all these people tag along.” Then, as if he were worried about letting in another group of party crashers, he shut the door politely behind him.
Almost immediately, Lucone and the others mingled with the real guests, or at least tried to. They spread out in the living room.
There are certainly some strange folks at this party. That was the most common thought but also the most secretly kept one. In fact, it passed through many heads but passed not a single pair of lips.
* * *
Expensive electric appliances had been arranged at the corners of a modern kitchen. The refrigerator door hung open.
“Remember to close the door after getting something out of the fridge…” That’s what Signora Micchi would always say, scolding her children when they loitered too long in front of the open refrigerator at snack time. If, however, Signora Micchi were to come face-to-face with the owner of these Adidas and his friends, sitting there with their feet up on the table and her daughter’s eighteenth-birthday cake before them, she probably wouldn’t have the nerve to say a word to either of them.
“No, I want to blow out the candles,” Hook said.
“What the hell right do you have?” the Sicilian asked. “I was the one who found the cake.”
“True, but I lit the birthday candles.” Hook proudly brandished his Zippo.
The Sicilian looked at him and then smiled. “But there’s one thing you haven’t considered.”
“And what’s that?”
“The fact that it’s going to be my birthday soon.” He blew hard on the cake, extinguishing all the candles. Admittedly, this wasn’t his actual birthday, and that was certainly not the appropriate number of candles. The Sicilian looked a far sight older than eighteen, but still a happy smile wreathed his face.
Hook flipped open his Zippo and almost simultaneously gave the flint wheel a sharp spin with his thumb. Then he ran the big flame over the top of each birthday candle, leaving a smaller flame flickering on the various wicks.
“What the fuck are you doing now?” the Sicilian asked.
“Now it’s my turn to blow them out.”
“Hey, no fair. You can only blow a cake’s birthday candles out once.”
“Says who?” Hook asked.
“Says me!” The Sicilian stuck his stubby hand into the icing, ruining the perfectly round shape of the eight marking Roberta’s new age, to lick the frosting off.
“But I’ve never blown out a cake full of birthday candles in my life.”
“Well, shit, why don’t you just blow out the candles on your own side?”
“No, now you’ve ruined it, and I don’t give a damn about it anymore,” Hook said.
“Here, why don’t you just take back your damned cake!” With those words, the Sicilian got rid of the clumps of frosting that still clung to his hand, flipping them accurately onto Hook’s jacket.
In response, Hook grabbed a handful of cake and tried to fire back. Instead, it hit the housekeeper, who had just entered the kitchen.
Hook and the Sicilian called a truce to their cold war and burst out laughing.
* * *
Petty thief that he was, Pollo immediately went looking for the mother’s bedroom. He found it. It had wisely been locked. Double-locked, in fact, but unfortunately, they’d left the key in the lock. Naively.
Pollo opened the door. The girls’ purses had all been left there on the bed in perfect order. He started opening them, one after the other, taking his time, really. The wallets were nearly all full. It really was one fine party. All of these people were high class, no two ways about that, as far as Pollo was concerned.
He was just about to leave when he noticed a handbag dangling from the armrest of a chair off to one side, hidden by a jacket draped over it. He picked up the bag. It was a handsome article, elegant and heavy with a woven leather strap and two fine lengths of deerskin lacing to fasten it. It must be richly stocked if its proprietor had taken such care to hide it.
Pollo started unknotting one of the two deerskin laces, cursing his habit of chewing his nails down to the bloody nub as he did so. At last, he managed to get the knot undone. And just as he did, the door swung open. Pollo hid the purse behind his back. A dark-haired young woman with a dazzling smile walked in, unruffled. When she saw him, she came to a halt.
“Shut that door.”
The young woman did as she was told. Pollo swung the handbag around from behind his back and started rummaging through it. She put on a shocked expression.
“So, are you going to tell me what you want in here?” he asked.
“My purse.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go ahead and get it, why don’t you?” Pollo pointed to the bed covered with purses he’d already emptied.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“A young thug has it in his hand.”
“Ah.” Pollo smiled. He took a closer look at the girl. She was very attractive, with black hair and side-swept bangs that mirrored the twist of her mouth in a vaguely irritated grimace.
Pollo found her wallet and pulled it out of the purse. “Here…” He tossed her the purse. “You only had to ask…”
Pallina caught the purse neatly and started rummaging through it. “You know that you’re not supposed to poke through a young lady’s purse, right? Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”
“I’ve never actually spoken to my mother. Hey, you know what, you should have a chat with yours,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, there’s no way she should be letting you go out in public with nothing more than twenty bucks in your purse.”
“That’s my weekly allowance.”
Pollo pocketed the cash. “It was.”
“God you’re stupid!” She found what she’d been looking for and set down her purse. “Then, once you’re done, put my wallet back inside. Thanks.” She turned to leave.
“Hey, hold on a second.” Pollo caught up with her. “What did you just take out of your purse?”
“I’m sorry, I would happily have offered you one but…”
She showed Pollo the cigarette. “It was the last one…”
Pollo started laughing. “Oh, don’t worry…worst case, we can share it.”
“Ah, no.” And Pallina gave him a sarcastic smile before turning to leave.
Pollo stood there, unsure what to do now. In any case, it never occurred to him to put back the twenty bucks.
* * *
The DJ, a music-loving guy, whose hair was slightly longer than the others’ as a way of signaling his artistic temperament, flailed and shook in time to the beat. His hands moved the records backward and forward on twin turntables while a large pair of headphones over his ears let him hear first to avoid an awkward mix.
Schello walked over to him. “Hey, boss, would you put this tape on for me?”
The DJ, reading his lips more than hearing his words, took the cassette and slid it into the player next to him. He pushed a few buttons, sending the music into his headphones. Schello stood there watching him with a broad smile on his face. The DJ’s expression suddenly changed. The contents of the tape had just entered his headphones. He held out for just a handful of seconds.
“Are you insane?” he asked, taking the headphones off and, immediately afterward, removing the cassette from the tape deck. “That’s a tape by Anthrax. Most of the people in here would stampede out of the place, and the rest would have their hair standing on end. This stuff causes heart attacks. Here, take it,” he said, handing back the cassette. “Put it on at your house sometime, when you’re looking to cause yourself some harm.”
“You want to know the truth? I fall asleep to it.”
* * *
Step was wandering through the party, looking around him, distractedly listening to the stupid chatter of eighteen-year-old girls about expensive dresses they’d spotted in shop windows, scooters their parents had refused to buy for them, impossible boyfriends, definite betrayals, and frustrated aspirations.
Not far away, against a background of magnificent paintings and photographs of a healthy, wealthy society, someone was stumbling along as if wrecked. It was Bunny. Their eyes met. Bunny returned his smile and then stole an ashtray with a sudden move, just as a cigarette, with a long column of ash at the end, was coming in for a landing. The ash, which had teetered successfully in perfect vertical equilibrium, collapsed right where the ashtray had been until just a few seconds earlier. The smoker was embarrassed in front of the young woman he was talking to, and Bunny gained another piece of expensive silver. But the biggest loser was certainly the tablecloth.
Step crossed the living room. From the window at the far end, the one overlooking the terrace, came a breath of wind. The curtains were tossing lightly in the breeze, and then, as they settled back to vertical, two figures took shape beneath them. Hands could be seen trying to open the curtains. A handsome, well-groomed young man was soon successful, finding the right opening in the draperies. A few moments later, a young woman appeared at his side. They were laughing happily, amused by that minor mishap. The moonlight from behind faintly illuminated her dress, rendering it translucent for an instant.
Step stood there staring at her. The girl shook her hair, smiling at the guy. She displayed a mouthful of beautiful white teeth. Even from a distance, it was possible to sense the intensity of her light blue eyes. Step remembered her, remembered their meeting. Or perhaps, more than a meeting, their argument.
The young man and young woman near the curtains said something to each other. The girl nodded and followed the boy over to the drinks table. Suddenly, Step was thirsty too.
* * *
Chicco Brandelli led Babi through the guests. The palm of his hand barely brushed her back, and with every step, he savored a whiff of her light perfume. He and Babi greeted a few of their friends who’d arrived while they were on the terrace. They chatted at the table covered with drinks.
Suddenly a guy stood face-to-face with Babi. It was Step.
“Well, I can see that you listened to my advice, and you’re trying to solve your problems.” Step tilted his head in Brandelli’s direction. “I understand he’s just a first rough attempt. But he could work. For that matter, if you haven’t found anything better, he’ll have to do…”
Babi looked at him, faintly uncertain. She didn’t know who he was but she didn’t much like him. Or did she? What was familiar about this guy?
Step refreshed her memory. “I accompanied you to school one morning, not very long ago.”
“That’s impossible. My father always takes me to school.”
“You’re right. Let’s just say that I escorted you. I was holding on to your car.”
Babi realized who he was and gazed at him in shock.
“I see you’ve finally remembered.”
“Sure, you were the guy who was spouting all those dumb lines. You haven’t changed, have you?”
“Why should I? I’m perfect.” Step threw both arms wide, displaying his physique.
Babi decided, at least from that point of view, she couldn’t argue. It was all the rest that didn’t work. Starting with his clothing and ending with his behavior.
“You see, you didn’t say no.”
“Because I’m not even talking to you.”
“Babi, is this guy bothering you?” Brandelli had the ill-advised impulse to step in at this point. Step didn’t even look at him.
“No, Chicco, thanks,” Babi said.
“Well, then, if I’m not bothering you, it must mean you like me.”
“I’m completely indifferent. In fact, I’d say that you bore me and annoy me a little, to be exact.”
Chicco tried to cut off the discussion by speaking directly to Babi. “Would you care for something to drink?”
Step answered in her place. “Yes, thanks. Go ahead and pour me a Coca-Cola.”
Chicco ignored him. “B. . .
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