Jane studies the eyes that have bewitched her for the past two weeks, watches them as they watch her, as they open, then flutter, then shut. Maura's head presses against the pillow, creating a crisp ruffling sound in hotel sheets, and Jane studies that, too.
She studies how Maura's throat elongates and stiffens, exposes smooth and pale skin to her, with a plump vein just underneath. She runs her tongue over it, tracing its raised and slithering bloodflow downward from Maura's jaw, following the wet trail with nipping teeth and supple lips.
Maura puffs a moan into the air above them as Jane winds toward her heart, and the sound drops Jane's hips so that they rest heavily between Maura's bent legs. Jane tastes perfume and sweat on her way to a nipple, a tangy salt that makes her whimper: she and Maura are calling out to each other, twisted in the Italian bedclothes of Villa Monreale, with everything but words. In fact, since their previous night out, words have been scarce, mouths much more preoccupied with other things.
Jane reminisces, thinks on the things that they have done, in this room, in the previous few days. She thinks of when she broke in last week, sitting on the modest wooden chair near Maura's hotel room window, her elbow against the matching table, waiting for Maura to walk through. She thinks of the thrill jumbling her insides when Maura had jumped, frightened at first, terrified, and then turned on. Jane still is not sure if it was a result of her Sicilian good looks or her skill with a lock. It doesn't matter when she pictures stripping Maura's white coat away, gripping Maura's hips when Maura jumps into her arms and expects to be carried into bed, saying she isn't looking for a relationship in between each kiss. Each scene in Jane's mind pushes her further into the arms around her, and then she bites that nipple, softly, quickly, repeatedly.
"Don't be cute," Maura warns. "Be intentional. Be wicked."
Jane loves Maura's vocabulary, how it defies initial expectations. Maura, contrary to the veneer she presents to the world, doesn't speak in million-dollar words all the time. What separates her is her evocative, sensual use of the words that everyone owns, proving that it's not the size, but the flair, that counts. "How do you want me to do that, huh?" Jane says into the breast just against her lips. She knows that Maura feels every word, because Maura's body writhes beneath hers. Skin rubbing skin makes Jane wonder if it's possible to come just by being with someone else - if it's possible to come by splaying your hand on a back that's arching just for you. She drags her tongue further south, over every sporadic freckle on Maura's belly, and sighs into each kiss.
"I'm going to teach you," Maura growls, scratching blunt nails against Jane's shoulders. "Look at me," she says. Jane's head snaps up, because that tone of voice sounds like it would make her regret not doing so. "Look me in the eye when you go down," Maura elaborates. Jane obeys again, and her movements become sinister as if in response to Maura's desires. She presses her palms on the bed when she slides down Maura's body, and it outlines her scapulae, exposes her vertebrae under tan skin. She raises one eyebrow and the gesture calls forward into the future, to a Jane that does not yet exist, one that dips into the darkness to get what she wants. Both she and her tongue are dipping into the darkness now, into a bare, wet, swollen paradise that she can't see because the taste of it, changed since she first kissed it by a robust diet of the local Sicilian citrus, makes her shut her eyes and moan. Thighs slam against her ears and she yips. "The whole time," Maura insists, and Jane's eyelids fly open.
What she sees when they do, Maura's sternness and the naked arousal on her face, calls on a Maura that does not yet exist either, one that commands more than just a large vocabulary and encyclopedic memory. She is staring at Maura the empire-builder, the one that will emerge over the years to come, the Maura who runs the Rizzoli show.
Jane wants nothing more than for Maura to run the show now. " Dimmi ," she pleads in between licks. Tell me, order me. Maura bucks forward, but their eyes remain locked.
" Baçialu ," Maura commands, kiss it, and Jane does just as told. Three times, five times, ten times, and then she awaits further instruction. "Until you feel like you're about to drown, Jane," Maura orders.
Jane has been given a green light. So, she indulges, until her chin is wet and it really does feel like if she continued, and Maura continued the vicegrip on her head, she might drown.
Maura listens to Jane's aorta thump after they finish making love. It pounds in the gentle rhythm of almost-sleep, and she can hear Jane's breath evening out above her on the pillow, head close to the nightstand.
Maura does not want to say good night yet. Her ear rests against Jane's belly and the hard muscle feels good. She doesn't ask about the pucker-mark scar under her right hand, on Jane's left side. She doesn't ask about the long jagged one on her back, either, and as far as she can tell, they are the only two that Jane has. Maura wants to ask, though. She wants to ask many things as she strokes soft waves over the built-up tissue with her thumb. She feels the compulsion to kiss it, so she lifts her head and presses her lips a few inches from Jane's belly button.
" Jo ti dicia si putissi," hums Jane, in that irresistible scratchy depth. I would tell you if I could. Maura hears the smile in her voice.
"I'm not asking," Maura asserts.
"Hmm," Jane sounds unconvinced, but says no more. She runs her fingers through Maura's long, wavy hair instead.
"I want to know," Maura confesses. "But I'm not asking. I respect that you can't say. And I suppose the mystery makes you sexier."
Jane chuckles mostly because in her gangly twenty-three years of life, she has never thought of herself as sexy. Maura doesn't need to know that, however. "Maybe one day."
"When it wouldn't be a liability to share Patriarca family secrets with the Winter Hill Princess?" Maura teases. She scoots up Jane's body until she can rest on her chest, within her embrace.
Jane stiffens, but softens just as quickly. "Honestly? Yeah. And I'm away from home, Maura. Isolated. Here, I depend on everyone else to protect me. Maybe if we were in Boston it would be a different story."
" Capsiciu ." Maura's tone is quiet and sincere. I understand. There are a few moments of silence, and she does not want to leave the conversation there, with a wall up, instead of a wall down. "Jane?"
"Yeah, kid?" Jane answers.
Maura drags nails down Jane's side in retaliation for the Bostonian endearment. "What did I say about calling me kid?"
"If that's supposed to be my punishment, it's just turnin' me on," Jane says.
Maura huffs, but snuggles closer to the body next to her. "Maybe I should just kick you out."
"Please don't. I sleep on a fucking cot in my apartment," Jane whines. "The biggest of all favors and they couldn't even get me a queen bed."
Maura laughs, lifts her head up so that she can look at Jane's face properly. "Tell me something," she demands. Her hand is flat against Jane's upper chest, and back to rubbing.
It nearly puts Jane to sleep. "What?"
"What do you miss about home? Besides a big bed," asks Maura.
"Honestly? Diner food."
Maura laughs again, but Jane looks serious. "Wait, really?"
"Oh yeah. I'd kill for a burger and fries," Jane says. "Add in a milkshake? Forget it. Chocolate, of course."
"I'm shocked. You have access to the best, freshest southern Italian cooking and you miss… nitrates?" Maura replies.
"I shouldn't be telling you this because you're a heart doctor, but there's this place over in your dad's neck of the woods called Dan's on Third, and when I was… researching for this most recent job, I'd stop in from bein' out all night. This one waitress, Jenna, she'd have my coffee ready as soon as I sat down at the counter. And I'd get a short stack with some over-easy eggs, and mmm." Jane loses herself in the fantasy of buttery, syrup-drenched pancakes.
She doesn't even notice Maura's silence until she feels a fiery stare on her. "I've been there," Maura says. "Seen her. She knows your order? How you like your coffee?"
Jane smirks, but when she realizes Maura is serious, she pushes up on her elbows, pushing Maura up with her. Maura doesn't release her hold, and remains heavy against Jane as they recline. Jane finds it titillating, the inability to get away. "You're not jealous , are you?"
"Depends," Maura answers, reddening at the implications of that very obvious jealousy regarding her previous statement about wanting no strings. "Did you sleep with her?"
"No…" Jane says, confused. "But Maura, we didn't know each other until a couple weeks ago. We're not…"
"I didn't say it was rational." Maura presses down on Jane's shoulder. "Lay down. I'm tired."
Jane scoffs both at Maura's temper and her audacity. "Yes ma'am."
"That's better than kid," Maura quips.
Jane turns out the lamp, still laughing lightly at their tiff. When she adjusts to the darkness, she thinks about home. About Boston. She thinks about what she's left behind and who waits for her return. Even though she only has three more months away, Maura has two weeks, and the image of Maura in Boston knocks against her heart, causing her to long for it especially strongly. "Maura?"
"Yes?"
"I miss my brother," Jane admits. "I miss Frankie."
Frankie carries Lola Rizzoli on his hip as he trots out to the Range Rover in front of his North End brownstone. A pink LOL dolls backpack hangs from his fingers just under her legs, and he mostly avoids getting them wet with rain, due to his speed. He puts her in the backless booster in the backseat, and then puts himself in the passenger seat. He wipes his crisp, white shirt, a few stray droplets having stuck to his shoulders and his rolled up sleeves.
"You're gettin' pretty good at that," Jane, the driver of the vehicle, turns to him and smirks. She has a black button-up on, but their gray slacks match.
"Seven years of practice," Frankie says as they pull away.
"How ya doin' this mornin', baby?" Jane asks Lola, looking in the rearview mirror. "Ready to kick ass at school?"
"Yeah, Aunt Jane," Lola answers happily and with a small smile despite her residual sleepiness. "Ready to kick school's ass."
"That's what I like to hear," Jane says. Frankie smacks her arm. "Ow, what?"
"When Teresa asks me where she learned to say ass, I'm tellin' her it was you," Frankie gripes.
"Go ahead. She already don't like me," Jane says, chuckling. "This your week with Lola?"
"No, but Teresa had to go out of town to see her Ma," Frankie explains. "So it's just you and me, right sweetheart?"
Lola pipes up from behind them. "Yes! Aunt Jane, why are you taking me to school?"
"Me and Daddy have a work thing in a few minutes. It was just easier," Jane answers just as they pull up to the elementary school where students are already heading either to the cafeteria or the playground. "Have a good one, okay?" she says as Frankie helps Lola get out and walk toward the front gates, and Lola waves. Soon enough Jane's brother returns.
"I'm serious, Janie. If Teresa rides my ass, I'm sendin' her straight to you. Things have been good between us lately." Frankie buckles his belt and then they are on their way to South Boston.
"Good like… gettin' back together good?" Jane chances, the question almost too revolting to say out loud.
Frankie scoffs. "God no. I'm never gettin' back with Teresa," he assures her. Jane visibly relaxes. "I meant, we've been coparenting pretty good, getting into a groove."
"Well, that's good to hear," Jane says, genuine in her pleasure. "You know I don't want you two to fight, even if she and I don't really see eye to eye."
"I know," Frankie acknowledges. "But I told you she could never accept that I wasn't made, anyway," he says.
"And she sees that as my fault," Jane responds. And it's true: Jane, being a woman, has never had an induction ritual into the Patriarca family, now run by the DiVincenzos. And because Frankie chose to run with his sister and her crew of soldiers, her shadow crew, he had never been initiated, either.
"Yeah, but I'm my own man who makes my own choices. So I never burned a St. Lucia card," Frankie says, looking out the window into the light rain. "I do everything her father does. I make more money than her father does. I'm a soldier in every way that counts."
Jane pats his knee. "Don't think I don't see you. I know you left that on the table to work for me. And I appreciate you. You're my eyes where I need to see, and my ears where I need to hear. This crew runs better because you and me are together."
"And you still live that Capo life," Frankie smirks, gesturing to her very expensive SUV, even with the little league equipment and the booster seat in the back. "You're a step and a half away from Tom and Mario, all without bein' sworn in."
"That's because I have a Capo wife," Jane says. She smirks. "I'd still be shovelin' shit, takin' care of guys like Doug Callaghan as favors for Paddy Doyle, if it wasn't for her… vision."
"Oh, you mean the guy who went into WitSec for rattin' on Paddy all those years ago?" Frankie asks cheekily, repeating the lie that Paddy and the DiVincenzos have told the streets since Jane shot Callaghan. "Wonder how he's doin' in Montana. Listen Janie, don't shit on the grind too much. That favor to Paddy sent you to Italy. Which is where you met Maura."
"Yeah yeah," Jane agrees, because she has to. Sicily is the best thing that has happened to her, even if all its bounty didn't reach her until she returned to Boston. "Now let's go make her some money."
Frankie nods. They pull up to a construction site in Southie: a tall, luxury apartment building still mostly exposed wood and metal. The rain has stopped, and his sister steps out of the vehicle. He takes a moment, surveys her, long and tall against the backdrop of the overcast Boston sky, and the building that will soon reach towards it.
This is what they have made.
Jane, as the foremost authority on this building venture, has cemented herself in the line of power as a shadow capo with as much earning potential as Carlo Talucci himself, who runs a crew of his own that is responsible for several nightclubs and a piece of the overseas action that Tom and Mario DiVincenzo set up with Paddy Doyle. Jane has the salon, a reputable community business that moonlights as a money laundering enterprise. She also had Desiderio, before Carlo made her give it to Teresa, and the football book her father used to run. Her lack of made man status and her role as a higher-up in the plumber's union provides her, her crew, and the DiVincenzo brothers with a fair amount of cover. Cover that Frankie is grateful for, because he has also moved in secret, earning for her and for the family, but with less federal heat.
He exits the car eventually, too, and Jane is already walking with Danny Calabrisi, the head of the plumber's union, toward the building. Frankie jogs a few steps to catch up. "Hey, Danny," he says. Both he and Jane accept hardhats from the middle-aged, salt-and-pepper haired Italian in construction wear.
"Hey Frankie," Danny says. "How's your ma doin'?"
"Pretty good, thanks for askin'. She'd be happy to hear from you," Frankie replies. They weave around some men carrying beams and take a freight lift up seven or eight floors.
Danny turns to Jane. "I'll bring her some of my mom's preserves," he says. "Now I know you wanted to inspect the work these guys are doin' before you deal with the builder."
Jane wanders into what is clearly a bathroom in one of the units, and bends down to look at the plumbing in the wall: a simple PEX-tube trunk and branch with connections to the shower and bath. "Looks good, Danny. You know these guys?"
"Yeah, I grew up with the guy who runs the morning crew. No licensing, but they do a hell of a job laying pipe. And they're quick," Danny answers.
"So they're worth what they're getting paid," Frankie expands.
"Yeah, and they're worth what we're gettin' paid to let them do the job. Builder didn't want to cough up union prices, and now he's bitchin' about how much he has to pay us to hire non-union guys," says Danny, crossing his arms.
Jane gets up from her squat and notices a sledgehammer leaning against the wall with the shower pipes running up it. "Dorfman, right? How late is the payment?" she asks Danny.
"Bout three weeks," Danny answers.
"Twenty-one fucking days?" Her brows slant forward, and her cheeks redden, just before she turns professional again. She smiles, her lips closed, and nods to Frankie. "Bring him up. I think we can talk some sense into him."
"I'd be glad to, Jane," Danny says. He turns back to the elevator and goes down.
"Hold him," Jane orders Frankie when they are alone. Frankie just adjusts his hard hat.
A few minutes later, a diminutive white Bostonian man approaches them, flinching when Danny claps his shoulder. He stumbles forward, just in front of Jane. He has to look up in order to meet her eyes, even when she places the weight of her left side on the sledgehammer that she has stood upright. "Jane Rizzoli," he says, too nervous to say anything else.
"That's me," says Jane. "You know, Mr. Dorfman, you're a pretty lucky guy. Usually I don't meet with the builders who pay me - that's Frankie's job. But look at you, huh? I guess the squeaky wheel gets the grease."
"I-" Dorfman starts, but Frankie steps forward.
"Why don't you tell us what's goin' on," he says. "Tell us why we haven't seen a cut from you in nearly a month. Things look like they're comin' along great." He motions to the building around them.
"Well, I… I just wanted to know if there's anything we could do about the price," Dorfman sputters. "I'm paying substantially more than I thought I'd be paying for the non-union workers."
Jane grips the handle of the hammer and throws it over her shoulder with nonchalance. "No can do. Price was decided on long before building started. You knew the terms when you agreed to them."
"But I'm paying-"
"Look Mr. Dorfman, you're saving about three grand a month, and the job's gettin' done in half the time. You know the pinch that puts Danny in? He's got union guys that need work and he's doin' us a favor by lookin' the other way. That's what you're payin' for," says Jane. When she steps forward, Dorfman steps back right into Frankie.
"Easy, there," Frankie says under his breath. He grabs Dorfman's shoulders and holds him in place.
"And I'm gonna give you a reminder, make sure the payment doesn't slip your mind again," Jane's syrupy-sweet tone drops away, and a tempestuous sort of fury falls over her face instead. In an instant, the sledgehammer is off her shoulder, in both of her hands.
She swings it with all her might into the side of Dorfman's right knee. She hears the patella splinter, almost better than she hears his high-pitched scream. She hits it again after he crumples to the ground, and spits when he grasps at it, made nauseous by how weak he looks. "I better see my cut in forty-eight hours," she growls. "My father-in-law is very invested in the development of this property, and I'd hate to have to give him bad news."
Danny laughs and Dorfman groans, because they both know immediately that she refers to Paddy Doyle. And if he has to get involved, Dorfman won't have his life for very long.
Jane lets the hammer clatter to the floor, and then tosses her hard hat next to him. Frankie takes his and puts it on Dorfman's head. "This is a construction site, Mr. Dorfman, you gotta take proper precaution. It could be dangerous."
Jane smirks, and then leads the three of them out of the building.
After the meeting at the Southie complex and a subsequent late lunch with Paddy Doyle to debrief him, she walks back through her front door at around four pm. She shrugs her black Burberry trench coat off of her shoulders and hangs it on the rack next to her daughter's gray one, both Christmas gifts from Maura. She hears Cristina milling about upstairs, with her signature Rizzoli stomp and her alternative music blaring. It pleases Jane.
She walks through the foyer and into the kitchen, and heads straight for the refrigerator. She opens it, grabs a Peroni and pops the top of it off with the bottle opener on the counter, and it is then that she sees Franciscu at the table, legos spread out before him in every direction, several storage boxes open by his feet, each containing a different color of brick.
She stops, arrested by admiration, because he is about halfway through a structure she recognizes very well: the Ancient Theater of Taormina. There is no instruction booklet in front of him, just clusters of beiges and greens and grays, arranged in a way that makes architectural sense to him. To her it looks like bunched chaos, and she swallows a lump in her throat before sitting next to him, all the more awed. "Hey baby," she greets him, careful not to startle him because of how intently he focuses on projects like these.
"Hi, Ma," he says without looking up. "Hand me the green slanted piece next to your bottle please?"
"Sure, this one?" she holds it up, and he looks quickly, nodding. "What're you makin'?"
His brown eyes twinkle, and he seems very happy that she has asked. "Remember when we went to Bova's the other day and got the ricotta pie? And you and T were talking about Sicily? I asked mom about it and she started telling me about all the things she saw while she was there, visiting you."
"She didn't exactly go there to…" Jane starts to explain, but then she thinks about how contradicting Maura's version of events would have to entail some description of how they actually did meet, and… "Anyway. What did she say?"
"Well she was telling me about all these cool, abandoned Greek theaters. I kind of went down an internet rabbit hole. This is the one in Taormina ," he turns back to his creation and begins building again, but he points to a thin binder by Jane's elbow. She thumbs through the pages, sheet protectors full of color photos of the theater, then she stares at her boy, her brother's namesake. He used the photos to create a mental, 3D representation of the theater, from which to build the model he is constructing now.
She corrects herself when she realizes that he's doing it entirely from his own mind. Maura's boy - he's Maura's boy. "You know what? I think we should take you kids sometime. Sometime soon."
"To Sicily?" Cicciu asks.
"Yeah," Jane answers. She clears her throat. "You wanna see the theater in person?"
He whips his head toward her. "Yeah," he says happily, "I do. I wanna see all of them. And I want to read some of the plays they did there."
"I'll take you all over the island, kid," Jane promises. "Consider me your own personal tour guide."
"No offense, but I think Mom'll be the better tour guide out of the two of you," Cicciu teases her.
"None taken," Jane chuckles. "I can't argue with that, but she'll be there, too, so no worries, huh? You're so much like her, Ciccinu . You're so much like her. You're a genius - you could do anything you wanted, and I'm gonna make sure that you get to."
Her sudden passion causes him to stop, to stare at her again. "I know. Mom says that, too," Cicciu says softly. "But it doesn't take much to be a genius. 140 IQ points and you're in."
Jane remembers a similar conversation with the woman in question, in the distant past, on another continent. "Humble, the both of you," she says. She couldn't stop Frankie from following her into this thing they had, but she'd do everything in her power to steer Cicciu toward larger aspirations. She stands, takes a sip from her drink, and then kisses the thick black hair on the top of his head. "Speakin' of, where is Mommy, huh?"
"Upstairs," Cicciu replies. He is already reabsorbed into the task at hand. "She said she's going to convince you to take her out to dinner."
Jane laughs on her way back out to the foyer and towards the stairs. "Won't take much."