My Amoretto: Guardian Angel . . . Italian Style

By D. C. Cowan

You’ve heard of the movie 'Divorce Italian Style' and the book 'Love Italian Style', but you’ve never heard of 'Guardian Angel ... Italian Style'! Introducing 'My Amoretto' a new adult, paranormal romance about a multiethnic American girl named Galatea who studies abroad in Rome, Italy. From childhood until college, her guardian angel appears in times of trouble. And she’s going to need his help if she wants to escape all of her stalkers!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483533414

Book preview

Page

Title Page

My Amoretto

Guardian Angel … Italian Style

D. C. Cowan

Black Rose Legend

Bibliographical Note

D. C. Cowan

Author of

Angelic Heroes Trilogy

Elemental Angels Series

Quote

And I myself, in Rome, heard it said openly in the streets, If there is a hell, then Rome is built on it.

Martin Luther

Chapter 1

Nightfall darkened the streets of Rome. The air felt still and not a soul strolled along the streets of the Vatican except me. St. Peter’s Cathedral peered down at me from over the rooftops. I hurried towards my hotel. After weaving through the streets, I found my hotel’s sign. A taxicab stopped in front and three men in suits stepped out.

Oh no . . . Oh God no . . . don’t let it be them.

When I saw Luigi’s face, I froze.

Luigi grinned at me and pointed to where I stood.

I took off running.

They chased after me.

No matter how fast I ran they were always behind me in the distance.

I sprinted into a clearing. It shocked me to see the area void of people. There should be tourists everywhere. There was not a soul there to help me.

The hard bottoms of my shoes clicked and clacked against the cobblestone path. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, but I saw them turn the corner. I just had to get away before they caught me. I dashed down the street parallel to the Tiber River.

I headed towards the Angel Bridge.

Then I saw it—the brilliant white angel wings in the distance.

I had to flee towards it. Perhaps the angel I met so long ago as a child returned.

When I approached it, the bright wings turned to stone and all my hopes crushed. How could I be so foolish to think that one of the stone statues was a real angel? Wait, what was this? I saw someone else there. Maybe he was the angel I saw. Could he be the one? Maybe he can help. Then again, maybe I was still just seeing things.

No, a man really did stand on the bridge, no, on the railing! There he was on the Angel Bridge ready to jump and there I was running for my life. How could this man give up everything when I was fighting so hard to preserve it?

The man on the railing stared down at the water with his gentle blue eyes. Once I closed in on him, I could see how solemn and forlorn his eyes appeared. I started to cry for him as well as myself. I raced up to him, sobbing and yelling at him. I felt more freedom to say as I pleased because this man could not understand me anyway.

Hey! I’m fighting for my life here and you’re just gonna jump and end yours?

He spun around. His eyes lit up when he saw me—infatuation glittered in them.

Don’t look at me like that . . . I hate men! I hate my life!

For a moment, I just wanted to escape my private hell in Rome. I climbed up on the railing beside him.

It’s okay . . . I’ll join you!

I held onto one of the angel statues. I leaned as far forward as I could—then I let go.

He caught me in his arms.

The three men ambled across the bridge towards us as if they took a moonlit stroll. Luigi put on leather gloves and slid his hand into his inner pocket.

The man gathered me up into his arms.

"Chiudi gli occhi . . . Fidati di me," he said and gently shut my eyes.

I had to trust him.

I wrapped my arms around his neck.

Then—we jumped off the bridge.

Before I go on, I need to take a moment to think. I have not thought about this night in Rome in seven long years. When I lived in Rome, I often strolled down the Angel Bridge. I even remember the statue I clung to that night; the artist Cosimo Fancelli created it and I always admired it. I remember because the handsome face of the angel matched the face of the Italian man with whom I jumped over the edge. I know you wonder who that Italian man on the bridge was, and who the men that chased me were. Perhaps you wonder if I published this story posthumously and romanticized about my suicide before I really jumped off the bridge.

You may wonder these things, but I wonder where it all started. Why was I in Rome in the first place? What initiated my interest in the eternal city? My love of Italy, my love of angels began when I was a child. Could my father be the reason? Yes, my father stirred my interest in Italy.

I remember the first day I saw Rome. Once our plane landed, I rushed off feeling as light as a feather. We had no bulky suitcases because my father arranged to send them by mail to our apartment in Rome. I ran so fast my father and uncles had trouble keeping up. My first steps outside of the airport brought my first sight of Rome.

Galatea! Wait for us, my father said as he ran with my three uncles. One of my uncles lifted me up and swung me around. I cherished the moment. With my father and uncles by my side, I felt safe, loved, and shielded from all fear of studying abroad. My amoretto, my father said to me. Being in my country again, it warms my heart. He clutched his chest. "I’m a little tired from our plane ride this morning. Ah, va bene, what we do now?"

I don’t have orientation until tomorrow. I have today free to do whatever.

We need to get a rental car. I want to see our apartment first; I heard from my friend Marconi that we stay in his apartment near, eh, San Giovanni.

Dad! I can’t wait any longer! Can we go exploring now?

I beamed at my father until he gave in. Va bene. We go to see the city now.

I jumped up and down. I’m so boosted! Ah, I’m in Italy!

Oh sì, bella Roma . . . I want to see the school you attend. I heard you were on the campus of the University of Roma?

Yep!

That’s my little girl! I’m, eh, so proud!

We can take the metro, one of my uncles said. Where we go first?

I want to see the Coliseum!

Colosseo, let’s a, go-go! my uncle said.

We hopped onto metro and exited at the Colosseo metro stop. We paused beside a vendor. My uncles ordered a drink and a panino for me. Ah! my uncle said when he found a hat he liked. He bought a cheap baseball cap with their flag and italia on it. I wear with pride.

My other uncle kept stopping to speak with tourists. He shook a man’s hand. I’m from Italia. Nice to meet you.

My uncle winked at me and I covered my face.

How embarrassing?

We entered the Coliseum and I flooded my camera with pictures. When we emerged from the Colosseo, there were hustlers everywhere around it—that is, men dressed as Roman soldiers hustling the crowd for money. Oh my God! my uncle said. If it’s hard out there for a pimp, it must be impossible for a Trojan to hustle.

I doubled over with laughter. What?

It is your lucky day, Galatea, one of my uncles said. You meet, eh, Roman soldier.

Looks like he really let himself go, I said and tapped the Roman soldier’s large stomach.

The Roman solider grinned and kissed at me.

Gross, I said and buried my face in my father’s shoulder.

My father snickered. I think his days of battling for the Roman Empire are long gone.

With soldiers shaped like this no wonder the empire collapsed, another uncle said.

Una foto a tutti e cinque? the Roman soldier said and pinched my cheek.

You want photo? my uncle asked me. A picture with the fat fake Roman soldier is only five euros.

I giggled and nodded.

We posed for the picture with the Roman soldier while another snapped it for us.

That’s, eh, twenty-five euros, the Roman soldier said and held out his hand.

Cosa?! my father said and started ranting in Italian while he took out his wallet.

We thought five euro for one picture? my uncle asked him.

Oh no . . . the Roman soldier grinned, showing his gold capped tooth. It’s, eh, five for each person.

The fat one pinched my cheek, This one is like sugar! He had to taste so he double kissed my cheeks.

Ugh! I shoved him back and my uncles nearly clobbered him.

Ha-ha, it’s okay, it’s okay, my father said and placed his arm around me. Where we go now?

Oh . . . the Vatican! I want to go there. Is it close by?

Um . . . no, but it’s okay. We have all the day so, why not? my uncle said.

My three uncles and I headed for the metro, but my father paused. Dad?

He did not respond. He stood still staring at his feet.

Dad, what is it? I shook him awake.

He shook himself out of it. Are you sure you want to go to the Vatican?

Yes, I heard about an Angel Bridge near a castle. I have to go see it.

Today? I mean you have all semester to—

C’mon Dad, humor me, okay?

Okay . . . my little amoretto, for you. He tapped my nose and we went to the metro.

From the Coliseum, we caught the metro out to Ottaviano to see Castel Sant’Angelo. 

Ah! The Angel Bridge! my uncle said. Saint Michael is there at the top of the castle, you know. He pointed to the top of Castel Sant’Angelo.

I counted the angels across the bridge. Hum . . . there’s ten angels.

No, there’s eleven, my uncle said as he finished counting.

I counted the number of them again. No, there’s only ten.

You forget one, he said and placed his arm around me. You are number eleven, amoretto.

Ha-ha, no not me. I am a diavolo, no angelo. I pushed his arm down. Did you all grow up in Rome?

We did not grow up in Rome, another uncle said. Your papà lived here for a little while. We all grew up in Naples.

Yes, but we visited your papà in Rome often, isn’t that right, Paolo? my other uncle said and slapped my father on the shoulder. Paolo, are you sure you are alright?

Sì, I am so happy to be back in Italy. Although I have seen it many times— My father started to sob. Sorry, it makes me cry to see it again.

My uncle punched his shoulder. Ah, Paolo . . . man up, my brother. We are finally back in Italia after all these years. It is a happy day, no?

It is, yes, so happy. My father wiped his tears on his arm.

I gaped at him.

I am sorry, Galatea, I know you never see your father cry. I am only human . . . I make mistakes.

Mistakes?

Nothing . . . nothing. Come my darling, let’s go on.

We headed away from the bridge towards the Saint Peter’s Basilica. Upon turning back for one final glance at the bridge, I saw one of the angels on the ledge moving. We were some distance away, but I saw a man in a black suit with brilliant white wings walking between two stone angels.

Am I seeing things?

After rubbing my eyes, I gazed again, but the angel vanished leaving the other ten behind.

Strange.

I shook it off for nonsense and followed my family.

Chapter 2

Oh, the people you will meet in a lifetime. I wonder, depending on how long we’ve lived and how many places we’ve been to, what is the average number of people someone sees, or meets over the course of their whole life. I enjoyed people watching. When you meet a stranger’s eyes, you have no idea what they have seen or how much distance they’ve traveled. And I certainly saw enough strangers on the buses.

While I headed with my family to the car rental place, we rode the bus along the way. As soon as I stepped on, many eyes fell on my father and I. I suppose there aren’t many interracial people in Italy. My uncles, fit in fine, but my father and I were half-Black and perhaps stood out a little more.

As the Italians stared at me, I thought what they must think about me. Then again, perhaps no one even noticed me. Maybe I was just paranoid and thought they stared at me.

It was a long trip to the rental place so I studied the eyes of each stranger. I always believed that you could tell a person’s story from his or her eyes. When my eyes closed, I drifted off to sleep. But once I awoke, the eyes of everyone on my bus focused on their own story, but one set of eyes fixed on me. A man’s beautiful blue eyes twinkled as he smiled at me.

I saw him for the first time there.

I did not know who he was, but his handsome face mesmerized me. I could see fine lines around his mouth, narrow crow’s feet by his eyes, and some sunspots on his tan skin; he seemed to be a man in his thirties. He fixed the collar of his black suit, and smoothed back his pompadour.

I tried to look away, but I couldn’t help but stare. And he didn’t seem to mind it. He almost laughed a little as I struggled to avoid staring at him.

Do all Italian men dress like him? I asked my father. If so then it’s no wonder why you guys have a fashion capital.

Like who?

The man over— Gone—I turned my head away for only a moment and he was gone. Where did he go?

I see lots of people on this bus, which one are you talking about?

Nothing, never mind.

We’re here, my uncle said.

Oh . . . I slept that long?

Yes. My father smoothed back my hair. You were so excited running around Rome. You must be tuckered out now.

I can’t wait to get to the apartment. I yawned and dropped my head on my father’s shoulder.

Come on, get up, my uncle said and lifted me to my feet.

Okay, okay, I said and stretched my arms out.

My father rented the car under his name and paid for it. We loaded it with our carryon bags and my father designated me as co-pilot. You will help me find my old friend’s apartment.

Okay, sure. I yawned.

But, don’t you fall asleep.

Bella Italia! one of my uncles said. How we wish we could stay the year with you!

No, no, my father said. You three cannot stay, but I am staying in Italia though.

Really? When were you going to tell me?

Ha-ha, I tell you now! That’s why I arranged for you to live with my friend. I stay there with you.

Oh . . .

You don’t want your papà there?

No, it’s not that. How can you stay here? What about your job, Dad?

The restaurant goes nowhere. It will be where I left it whether I return to America or not. I have three brothers to run it and I hire another man to watch it while I am away.

Good . . . as long as it’s not another Jeffrey.

Oh, don’t you worry about Jeffrey, my uncle said. He is away in jail for what he did. And if he ever comes back to get you we’ll pulverize him—Italian style! He pounded his fist into his palm.

Ah sì, Jeffrey was a mistake. My father petted my hair.

So Dad . . . you’re just going to lounge around the apartment while I go to school.

Ha-ha, no, no . . . I have a, eh, friend who I work for while I’m here.

Oh another restaurant?

Ah . . . no, but I work, don’t worry.

I haven’t gotten a plane ticket back to America yet, I said, Can we stay for a little while after the semester ends.

Sì, sì . . . I plan to travel in May when you finish. I want to see my stepfather. He lives near, eh, Napoli . . . you know Naples?

Oh yeah, I’ve heard of it.

Brother Drago is there and his best friend Luigi, one of my uncles said. He is black sheep in the family, no?

Drago is black sheep, yes, another uncle said. He is our notorious brother, rumored to be in the Camorra.

Omigod! Isn’t that the Mafia that’s in Naples?

Sì! And Drago is in the Camrorra there. He even went to prison for something, but he no tell us what.

Ah no way! I can’t believe—

Sì, sì, sì, my father said and silenced us all. We know, we know, okay? He lives in Naples and I will see him as well. Camorra or no Camorra, he is my full brother.

Um . . . Dad—

I don’t want to hear it.

But Dad—

Drago will be out of prison by the time you finish with the school. He is nothing to worry about.

Dad, I don’t care about some gangster uncle . . . As long as we don’t get shot up or anything, I think it’ll be cool to meet him.

You do?

Yeah, but I wanted to ask about a, um . . . a friend of mine.

What friend?

His name is Angelino.

He studies in program too?

No . . . he’s Italian; he lives in Italy.

How you know an Italian man other than your family, eh? How you know Italian man before you even go to Italy, huh?

Well I—

How old is he?

Um . . . he’s twenty seven.

Che diavolo! My father turned red in the face. You know a man seven years older than you? You flirt with this man, lead him on? And you wonder why Jeffery do what he do to you.

Dad! I jerked at the steering wheel to keep him from swerving off the road. Calm down or you’ll wreck another car.

My father started to curse and shout in Italian.

Stop it, I said and cried. Dad I never go out with a boy . . . I’ve never had a boyfriend. I met this man one night in Adams Morgan. We talk every once in a while, but we didn’t sleep together or anything. I swear!

You were out drinking?

How did you . . . I mean, no, no, I wasn’t.

I saw picture.

Oh that selfie I took with him?

He nodded and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. I see alcohol in the picture. I cannot believe you.

Dad, please—

So you know a man named Angelino? So what?

"So . . . I want to meet him after the semester. He’s getting a hotel room for just me to stay in. He wants to take me out on a date, that’s all. He’s really nice. I can’t meet him with you."

You no go alone with some man. I will be there to meet this man.

Ah Dad—

Why not meet your friend on weekend? one of my uncles asked me.

My father glared at him and shouted something in Italian to him.

C’mon Dad, don’ t be angry. I can’t meet him on weekends anyway; he works twelve hour shifts every weekend at a restaurant and they never give him time off before August.

Good! my father said. You no see him unless I see him too. We meet Drago in Naples and then we meet your friend in, eh—

Lugano.

Lugano! another uncle said. That is in Switzerland!

Switzerland!

No, no, my father said, more like the border of Switzerland and Italy.

Oh. . .

Do not worry, my amoretto, we all have the plans for Italy and all our plans will work . . . I promise.

On our way to the apartment, three boys on a three-person bicycle all called out to me. Ciao bella!

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I waved back. Three men on a bicycle . . . that’s a fairly funny sight.

My father pushed my hand down and shook his head. Don’t you wave to them or no man you don’t know.

I rolled my eyes.

It is a good thing I am here. You would get in trouble with all these men. Things are different in America, but here you find Italian men, they love the women of all colors.

I turned to my uncle. So, it is true that Italian men like black women?

Sì, eh, for some, but we just like the women!

Ah sì, my uncle said, A beautiful woman is a beautiful woman . . . color is no important.

I rubbed my hands together. I think I’m going to like it here.

We strolled into the apartment complex. I admired the plush green vines growing up the side of the buildings. Lovely purple flowers grew on the vine.

My uncle covered his face when a bird flew overhead. Watch out!

My uncle pointed to my jacket sleeve. Merda!

What does ‘merda’ mean?

It means, eh, shit and it is on your shoulder.

One bird decided that it wanted to make a small contribution to my sleeve. Yuck!

My uncle took out a napkin and dabbed it up. It must have been a baby birdie because its merda is big as nothing.

Ha-ha! Yuck, just get it off me.

Clean that merda up and come on, my father said with a grand smile. He knocked on the door of the apartment.

A middle-aged balding man opened the door for us. Oh my God! Paolo Granara! 

My friend Marconi! My father patted his shoulders.

Marconi shook the hands of all my uncles. When he came to me, he rubbed his baldhead to pat down his comb over. Ah, there is not much hope for me, but for you, ah! So lovely! He kissed both my cheeks twice. Diavolo d’un Granara, she is your wife?

Ha-ha! I wish I had a woman so young. Her stepmother is a blonde bombshell twice her age.

Yeah, the one you left Mom for. I folded my arms.

Ha-ha! He pinched my arm hard.

Ouch!

No, this one is my daughter.

Ah . . . then she will be my wife.

I thought you were already married, my father said.

"Ah no, my three wives, ah, they all