Shadows of the Past (SEAL Brotherhood: Shadow Team #1)

Chapter Ten

H e woke up with an announcement about turbulence and the approach to landing in Naples, the captain asking for seatbelts and seat backs to be returned to their upright positions.

The steward picked up his warm whiskey glass, something apparently given to him while he was sleeping, and he never knew it. He also returned the grey blanket they’d covered him with.

He’d never slept so soundly on a plane before. Even when he was dead tired from ops in Africa or the Middle East, riding in those big transport planes that droned on and on and left him practically deaf when they landed, he couldn’t sleep.

Out of his window, he could see the picturesque Italian coastline, dotted with colorful buildings built into and on top of steep cliffs. Below, there wasn’t much beach, just a thin strip here or there. Most of it was harbor. Hundreds of small fishing boats and charters, as well as expensive yachts were parked in rows or free floating, anchored in the bright deep blue water. Farther down the coastline, some larger commercial ships and two cruise ships were docked, along with several small Italian military gunboats, built for speed.

Dimitri had met Italian Special Forces teams, even trained with some occasionally, as they did with all their allies and neighbors. Being a smaller country with a huge coastline, their Navy was one of the most advanced, and the single- man submarine vessels created during WWII were legendary for sinking ships and navigated undetected all throughout the Mediterranean, causing loss of life for the Allied troops.

Their advanced technology was second to none. Italy’s economy, both for shipping and for tourism, was forever tied to them having a safe coastline and navigable seas.

They landed, and he was directed to the baggage claim terminal, keeping his duty bag slung over his shoulder with the overflow.

Being Business Class had its perks and his bag was the first off the conveyor. He picked it up, turned, and nearly bumped into a skinny teen holding a card with his name on it. His real name.

“Dimitri?” the kid said.

“Yes.”

“Here, I will help you with this,” he said as he leaned forward to take his suitcase.

“Not necessary.” Dimitri grabbed it first. He was shown to a waiting van with an electrical contractor’s information painted on the side.

He added his luggage to the supplies and material in the back of the van, then slid next to the driver in the front passenger side.

As they pulled away from the curb and into heavy traffic congestion, the kid spoke rapidly in Italian, which did Dimitri no good. He shrugged. He thought he heard Moira’s name, but he couldn’t be positive.

The young man made hand gestures like a fish, until Dimitri realized he was talking about the ferry to take him to Capri, but he kept calling it Anacapri, which confused him. He just nodded his head, copied his hand motions.

It was as close as they’d get to communicating during the forty minute ride over to the ferry terminal, where he was dumped off after being shown ten fingers. Dimitri was to take the ten o’clock hydrofoil ride to Capri. That he could follow.

He thanked the kid, who wouldn’t accept a tip, and again he heard Moira’s name, or so he thought.

The terminal was filled with mostly workmen bringing tools to the island, pieces of equipment or parts in boxes, even some office furniture on dollies. Several families rode together, perhaps coming back from a stay on the mainland. A small group of tourists were led by a uniformed guide carrying a little red sign with the number ten written on it, probably from one of the two cruise ships he saw berthed.

He attempted another call to let her know he was on his way and again left a message.

His curiosity was making his blood pressure spike. Nothing was familiar. Even the language wasn’t familiar. He heard no English spoken. The hydrofoil was fast and very loud. A faint water mist covered everyone on the outdoor seating area in front, which is where he sat so he could get a good view of the island as they approached. They were followed by sea gulls, just like the ones in California. The smell of the salty ocean, that fishy smell, was everywhere.

At last, the island rose in front of them, like a big crystal teeming from the bottom of the ocean floor, encrusted with shells and rocks, which turned later into little houses and shops. It was the island where King Kong lived. It was Bali Hai, all rolled into one. It was just as stunning as the pictures he’d seen on his computer. Even prettier, he thought. Just as the articles said, he was experiencing a piece of history revealing itself before his eyes. Two thousand years of history and counting. He could only imagine how tired the crews rowing the ancient Roman rulers across this channel must have felt when they arrived, rowing against the tide and the rolling sea, banners and flags flying in the breeze, the ancient ruler sitting back on his silk pillows, enjoying the view and anticipating all the folly and games to come on his island paradise.

He did feel like he was escaping civilization, heading toward a whole other culture and the mysterious woman who had stolen his heart, just like Antony and Cleopatra.

Okay, that was being corny. But it felt epic. If it was a movie, it would have a rousing score and choirs in the background, announcing his arrival.

And then the blast of the hydrofoil nearly made him fall off his seat. His ears rang afterwards. Searching around him, he noted no one else was up front with him. Maybe for the spray, but certainly that horn blast was enough to cause a permanent defect. He didn’t want to look behind him, because he bet someone was laughing at his expense.

What are you going to do? It is what it is.

The ferry turned around before it backed in to the pier. The crowd had gathered at the back, and as the huge metal drawbridge dropped down, the pedestrians were able to walk on the sides. The few cars and one tractor drove down the middle. The pier was long as he followed everyone else, buried in the throng of former passengers debarking.

He scanned the crowd waiting behind the fencing but saw no signs with his name, no Moira. He looked for someone who might be trying to catch his eye and found an older gentleman who was no more than five feet tall, wearing a grey tweed cap with a visor. He waved like Dimitri was his long-lost son. So he waved back and kept walking straight for him.

Again, the gentleman tried to take his suitcase, and once again, Dimitri declined. He judged they were about the same age, but the Italian looked much older, his leathery skin showing years of standing on a deck in the ocean, pounded by wind, salt water, and unrelenting sun.

“Amario,” he said as he slapped his chest.

“Dimitri. Nice to meet you.”

Grinning, the man said in fairly good English, “Welcome to my home, Capri.” And then he added an “eh” at the end of it.

He knew what yes was. “S ì, sì , signore .”

Amario erupted into smiles and chattered so fast Dimitri wouldn’t have understood him even if he spoke English.

“Me,” and he tapped his chest. “Home,” he said next and pointed to the top of the hill. Dimitri knew it wasn’t just a hill, but an extinct volcano. At least he hoped it was.

“ Grazie ,” Dimitri said carefully.

Again, the gentleman was impressed with Dimitri’s effort to speak the language he’d never spoken.

The tiny Fiat Amario owned was almost too small for Dimitri’s luggage, and at one point, he thought he would have to choose whether to send his bags and take a taxi to follow. But Amario was persistent, and finally, they jammed everything in. He sat down in the bucket seat next to Amario, the dash coming to his chin, his long legs sending his knees to his chest so tight he could feel his heartbeat against his kneecap on the left.

It was a strange sensation.

He’d driven Knob Hill and the Lombard Street snake street before, but the winding back and forth up this hill was worse. The occasional tourist bus, always rushing and always taking up two feet of their lane, would appear suddenly from around the curve in the road. Amario never slowed down, except to avoid hitting something. He had to tap the brakes several times, one time nearly hit a smoking older Vespa scooter with a rather large rear-ended woman on the back seat. Even without the heavy baggage, the thing would only go about fifteen miles an hour, so in no time, there was a long line of cars behind him.

As drivers lost their patience and started shouting from their windows, banging on their roofs, the Vespa driver turned around several times, surveying the commotion, and eventually pulled over. For his efforts, he was yelled and honked at by every one of the two dozen cars who had been so greatly inconvenienced.

Dimitri was wondering how anyone could call this a tourist mecca. There wasn’t anything relaxing about his ride, about this culture. He had no time to view the breathtaking vistas on the switchbacks because he kept his eyes on the road in case Amario needed help.

And then, all of a sudden the Fiat pulled off, drove down a side street not much wider than the little toy car, and stopped just before a turnabout.

“ Bella, bella. Bene ,” he said. His hand swished, flicking over to the right to draw Dimitri’s attention to the vision of Moira standing on the curb in a dark blue trench coat, big floppy rain hat, and dark glasses like Audrey Hepburn used to wear as Holly Go Lightly.

He was stunned to see her at last. He couldn’t move.

“Sì, sì, sì,” Amario shouted, almost angry.

Looking at his knees, Dimitri wasn’t sure he’d be able to get out of the car, but he did it in stages. It probably didn’t look very graceful. But he wasn’t going for graceful. His heart was beating so hard he didn’t care if he dumped himself on his knees on the cobblestone street. First one long leg and then the other. And then he hoisted himself up tall and just stood there, taking it all in.

She lowered her chin, embarrassed, pulled her hands together in prayer, and touched those beautiful bright red lips with the tips of her long second fingers.

Amario was still shouting. Moira leaned over but stayed on the curb, put her forefinger to her lips, and frowned at him.

Dimitri this time had to retrieve his luggage and his duty bag all by himself. Amario was done with the whole thing. He set his bags on the street and leaned to give the driver some money but wasn’t fast enough. Amario took off with the passenger door still open. He could hear the man still swearing, in Italian of course.

He knew he shouldn’t run up to her and hug her, and she turned her back to him just in case he had those unwise thoughts. He picked up the bags and followed a few paces behind her, never having a formal greeting. Like she was just one of the messengers sent to direct him to his hotel or to his waiting party.

He watched her torso, studied her tiny waist cinched by the belt of the trench coat. The breeze flew at the back of her neck, sending some reddish-brown strands to the side. From behind, he smelled her perfume, that mixture she said was specially formulated for Audrey Hepburn.

So many things roamed in his head, visions of past days of sunshine, all the laughter, when the world was alive. It was like stepping off the ferry suddenly turned the world to living color from black and white. He heard traffic, talking, and ringing of bicycle bells. In the distance, he heard the ferry horn again. It made pigeons foraging on the red tile roofs fly off in a flock, dart around and come back to the same spot again.

At a large wooden door that looked hundreds of years old, she turned a key in a lock, heard it click, and pushed hard as he was ushered into a living room space. It was a small apartment with a kitchen, and on the left, a sliding glass door looked out on a balcony overlooking the whole island and the sea below. But he was following her until she stopped next to the couch.

His mouth was parched as he watched her slowly remove the hat, and beneath the bug-eyed glasses, her beautiful brown eyes flashed a bigger smile than her lips did. He waited, not wanting to spoil the moment as she untied the belt on the trench coat and let it slide to the ground.

She wore something pretty for him. A little flowered dress with a button-down front that started low, showing her bosom, in a light turquoise with fuchsia and red flowers all over it. Her red toes were encrusted in sandals with a little heel, one red rhinestone on the strap.

He dropped his bags and ran to her. He picked her up when he swooped his right arm around her waist and held her in the air and then against him. She slid down the full front of his body, inching over him, her soft spots over his hard ones, some getting harder. He placed his hands at the sides of her face, leaned in, took a deep breath, and kissed her.

It all came back to him. He didn’t have to hold back anything, because he’d achieved what he’d only dreamed about doing for those past three years. He could let it all go as he tasted, inhaled, and lost himself in her scent, her hair, the fabric of her dress he was suddenly removing. She pulled his shirt up out of his pants and slowly slid her cool, tender hands and probing fingers along the flesh of his torso.

It was all so familiar. He’d played it over and over again in his mind, this moment, this miracle, the gift of rebirth, the solving of all his problems with the voids in his soul getting filled with the intensity and volume of emotional lust for each other. He’d been found. Her cries as he pleasured her, her tears he kissed away, the way her tiny rear was so light in his hands as he lifted her up so he could seat deep, hold himself there, then stop and kiss the tender nape of her neck while he slid to the side and brought her with him.

Her hair covered him. He wanted to drown in it. He squeezed her buttocks and ground her onto him, and much, much too quickly, he began to come.

“Oh, my God, Moira, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, my love. It’s perfect,” she said as she undulated against him as he spurt hard inside her. She held him in place as she rolled to her back again, taking him with her this time, her fingers searching for his root and feeling the place of their joining.

He kissed her neck, suckled her lips, and ran his canines over her nipples, making her jump with pleasure, but he was spent and exhausted.

He lay his head against her chest and listened to evidence she was a living, breathing person. It was so perfect. Everything fit into place. Just where he wanted to be.

And then, she said it.

“Dimitri, I love you. I have always loved you. Don’t ever leave me again.”

He arched up, looking down at her, his thumbs caressing the soft hairs above her temples. “Never. Never going to leave you, Moira.”

He kissed the top of her thigh perched over his right shoulder, kissed the white flesh inside above her knee.

“I have loved you ever since I first saw you wandering the beach at Coronado. You’d come out to watch us train. And then again years later, at that bonfire. My world is black and white without you, Moira. You bring me life. It’s more than love, sweetheart. It’s way more than love.” He was getting choked up. Hot tears flowed down his cheeks.

She watched him and brushed them aside with her fingers.

“I hope I haven’t put you—” she started.

“Whatever it is, we’ll get through this. Whatever it is, it’s worth it. I had no right to ever let you go. I won’t make that same mistake again, Moira.”

“There’s so much we have to plan.”

“Tomorrow, sweetheart. Tonight, no matter what, belongs to us. It’s just you and me. No past. No concerns for the future. Just you and me tonight. Let’s make some magic.”

“Yes!” she said, squeezing him, laughing. “Let’s make that magic happen.”