On Friday evening I found another letter from Ferraro tucked in my notebook. I unfolded it on my dorm bed like it might bite.
Isabella, you possess a rare intelligence. Your insights show a maturity beyond your years. You see patterns others miss… I find myself thinking about our conversations long after they end. —L.F.
My stomach did a gymnast routine. The door buzzed; my phone lit: Matteo.
“Bella!”
“Ciao, Matteo.” I tried to focus on his voice, but my eyes kept snagging on “I find myself thinking…”
“I miss you. I’ll pick you up next weekend. Just the two of us on the drive home.”
My gaze clung to another line I shouldn’t have loved: “You’ve awakened something I thought I’d lost.”
“Bella?”
“Sì?”
“Are you listening?”
“Matteo, I… met someone new.”
Silence pulled tight. “I’m glad you’re meeting people,” he said carefully. “That’s growing up.”
“Matteo—”
“Right then. We’re waiting for you at home.” He hung up.
The next day: another letter.
Isabella, your candor moved me. I want to continue our conversation somewhere private. Tomorrow, 20:00. Via Margutta 15, terzo piano. —L.F.
I read it twice; my pulse did the same.
“Want to get out of here?” Luisa appeared in sneakers and purpose. “Prep group’s shooting hoops. Exercise = recall.”
“Va bene.” I slid the letter into my pocket like a guilty cookie. Decision postponed by cardio.
The courts were chalky and sunlit, all bounce and brag. Someone tossed me a ball; I dribbled badly but with conviction. Luisa stretched like a small general.
“Teams?” a guy asked. “Marco.” His eyes did the quick-up-quick-down thing boys think is subtle. “You play?”
“I run in a straight line and hope.”
“It’s Rome,” he grinned. “Confidence counts.”
We split 4-on-4. I was scrappy and weirdly fast; I even scored once and shrieked like I’d invented physics. At water breaks Marco hovered, offering me his bottle like a proposal.
“She has her own,” Luisa intercepted, swapping his bottle for mine. “And she cools down or her ankle rolls.”
“It does?” I blinked.
“It would,” she said dryly, shepherding me away from the circle of boys who suddenly loved basketball a lot.
We walked back the long way, espresso and laundry soap in the air. A cornetto became a shared treaty on the Tiber wall.
“So,” Luisa said, licking cream. “Tell me about ‘someone new.’”
“It’s nothing,” I lied in a voice that ousted me.
“Professor?” she pressed, gentle and relentless.
“The tutor,” I sighed.
“Bella. He’s forty.”
“I know.” Heat climbed my cheeks. “He says age doesn’t matter. That there’s…connection.” I produced the letter.
She read and her mouth thinned. “His apartment. Late.”
“He wants to talk. Away from distractions.”
“Mmm.” She slid the note back like it might sting. “You draw attention without trying. Please don’t test gravity because it looks like flying.”
“I’m in control,” I insisted—flippant on top, shaky underneath.
“Then be in control,” she said softly. “Set the rules before the room does.”
That night I dreamed in split screens: Matteo’s hands freeing a tendril; Ferraro’s pen cutting fog into corridors. I woke flushed and wanting and annoyed at myself for both.
At 19:45 I stood on Via Margutta. Narrow, quiet, illegal-level romantic. Number 15. Third floor. My feet, traitors, kept moving.
He opened immediately. “Isabella. Come in.”
The apartment: bookshelves, leather sofa, small kitchen. Curtains drawn. My warning bells pinged; I pressed snooze. “Sit.” He poured wine without asking. “One glass helps the nerves.”
“I don’t really drink.”
“Then sip.” He sat very beside me. “You got my letter.”
“Sì.”
“And?”
“I don’t know.” The wine made my head floaty. “You’re my professor.”
“Does that matter?” His hand settled on my knee, warm through denim. “Age is a number. Connection is real.”
I should have moved his hand. I didn’t—I wanted him to see me as a woman who could rattle him. I wanted to rattle him.
“You’ve been caged,” he murmured. “I see the wish to be free.”
He leaned in and kissed me. Soft became deep with unnerving speed. His hand slid to my waist, up my ribs; fingers skimmed the side of my chest.
Too fast. Not this. Not like this.
“Wait,” I breathed.
“What’s wrong?” His mouth found my neck.
“I just—I need a minute.”
His weight pressed me into the cushions; the room tilted. His hand went higher—
“No.” I pushed hard, voice loud. “I said no.”
He froze, then peeled back, face cooling like a blown-out candle. “What the hell, Isabella?”
“I want to study. Not—this.” My voice shook like a leaf.
He stood, jaw set. “You led me on. The letters. The looks. You play sophisticated and then act like a child.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Get out.”
I grabbed my bag and ran. Hall, stairs, street—air. I didn’t stop until the dorm swallowed me.
***
Luisa took one look, hauled me inside, locked the door. “What happened?”
“I went to his apartment. He—” The words broke. “He wouldn’t stop. I said no.”
“That’s assault,” she said, furious and tender. “We report him.”
“No.” Panic surged. “I went. I drank the wine. I wrote back. It’s my fault.”
“It isn’t,” she said, steady as a lighthouse. “He’s the adult. He’s the professor.”
“I can’t report him. Papa—” I saw my father’s face, all fear and fury. “I can’t.”
She held me while I cried. When the tears ran out, she made tea and put it in my hands like a life jacket. Later, with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking, I wrote:
Dr. Ferraro, I’ve decided to prepare for the entrance exams independently. Please don’t contact me again. Thank you for your time. —Isabella Moretti
Send. Block. The screen glowed back at me like a receipt for nothing.
My phone rang. “Ciao,” I croaked.
“Are you okay?” Matteo asked. “You sound—”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You’re not,” he said softly. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m coming home soon. The campus visit is almost over.”
If I told him, he’d tell Papa, and Papa would salt Rome to the cobblestones.
“Good,” he said, relief and worry braided. “I’ll be here.”
After we hung up, I lay on my back, counting the tiny cracks in the ceiling paint. Two kids under a fig tree. A gardener’s son who knows you can smother a vine if you love it wrong. An actress who chose classrooms over cameras and never got her chance because a stranger’s knife chose otherwise. A professor who talks like clarity and behaves like weather.
I felt stupid. And stubborn. Like a vine hunting for the trellis after a storm.