Elsa

We take a French leave then, nearly running out. Marcello drags me along hotel corridors without a word, his fingers clamped around my wrist like a vise.

“Marvelous show,” I hear someone say. A woman. Marcello stops, as if rooted to the spot.

Slowly he turns around, keeping me at his side.

In the center of the hall there was a beautiful woman with blond hair, wearing a short golden dress. Her long legs ended around the level of my first rib. She had gorgeous fake breasts and an angelic face. She approached us, kissing the Marcello.

“It's nice to see you here, Don Marcello,” she says her eyes...