The Italian Ballerina by Kristy Cambron

Author:Kristy Cambron
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2022-07-12T00:00:00+00:00

18 October 1943

Tiber Island

Rome, Italy

Court had a false name to go with Rossi. And AJ would hate it because it came from the kid.

It might have hurt to stretch his neck because the nurse had nicked his skin with the straight blade during his shave that morning, but even then Court couldn’t feel that bad. They were alive. And Calla was safe. They just had to figure out a plan to keep things moving in that same direction.

Even if they couldn’t talk, it seemed the kid liked him.

Court awoke from a fog earlier that morning to find her still in his room. Snacking on an apple. And nose pressed up to the window as she watched something beyond the glass. An Italian primer had appeared on the bedside table. Probably AJ’s doing, after their last conversation. Court struggled to sit up in the hospital bed, his back propped against the metal headboard as he thumbed through the pages, trying to find a way to communicate with her.

He tried words like le mela—the apple she ate. Valigia—that little suitcase she always kept close. And ciliegie—the cherries that decorated the outside of it. And he’d started to give his name by saying, “Mi chiamo . . .”—my name is—and was going to try to find out hers. But she pointed at him and dubbed him “Salvatore” with a firm interruption.

It sounded like a fine name to him. So Court gave up. Tossed the primer on the bedside table just as the door opened and AJ walked in. A man with round, wire-rimmed glasses and a doctor’s coat came in behind. They both wore white surgical masks. But AJ had said something that morning about a sickness in the hospital. And a quarantine. Must have been why.

More interesting, though, was the pretty woman who entered on the doctor’s heels. That and the fact AJ was acting off. He waited until she walked in and lowered her mask, revealing a stunning smile to Calla, and then he double-checked, looking out into the hall before he clicked the door closed. AJ stuffed his own mask in his pocket and stood like a stone, as if he were some sort of personal guard assigned protection duty.

Okay . . . Extra protective. That’s new.

“You can speak freely,” AJ said to Court from his post by the pretty lady. “These are friends.”

“I am Dr. Emory. I performed the surgery,” said the lab coat—obviously Italian, too, given the accent—and began a quick check of Court’s vital signs. “You are making good progress, Mr. Rossi. Sì? And how do you feel?”

“I don’t like to say, sir, with a lady present.”

Court glanced over to Julia, who seemed to take issue with the insinuation of a fairer sex, even though he was trying to be polite, knowing his tongue could sometimes be on the brash side. But her quick response was sure interesting. In fact, he understood it. Penn might have done the same thing.

“But I’ll just say feeling a little rough yet.

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