People don't know what it's like.

What is it like, Giacomo?

He wanted Giacomo to tell him, to really tell him. But he didn't know what that would do to him, and so he let the question die unspoken.

Who had that man been back at the university grounds? The one who had spoken so quietly, so fearfully? Had that been the real Giacomo?

Whoever he was, Stefano never saw him again. Instead, there was only the man who kept his wide shoulders squared, his smile bright, and his laugh even brighter. It was the friend he had grown used to, the one that it was easy to be around.

Towards the end of Giacomo's convalescent leave, Stefano gave him something—a locket, albeit an unusual one. Instead of a flat pendant that could be opened, this one had a tube about the length and girth of a finger.

"Doesn't even hold enough for a shot," Giacomo joked after examining it.

Stefano sighed. "Just open it up." Giacomo unscrewed the tube and tipped its contents onto his palm. A rolled up photograph fell out. Stefano watched Giacomo unravel it. As his eyes fell onto the image, they brightened and he snorted loudly. "Dammit, Stefano, we're babies in this!"

Well, not exactly. But the picture had been taken six years ago, and it'd felt like a lifetime since then. It was of the two of them—two happy-go-lucky teenagers without a care in the world. Before they had been taken down the rapids.

"Look at this! I had hair!" He reached up and ran a hand over the short fuzz that covered his head. Then, he grew quiet. "Wish I could go back to those days," Giacomo said, still gazing down at the picture.

"At the very least, now you'll have a piece of it to carry around with you."

"What a poet," Giacomo replied sarcastically, rolling the picture back up and fitting it into the tube. "Maybe you should have ditched the camera and become Italy's very own Shakespeare, huh?"

"I've certainly got the head for it, don't I?"

"Ha, if you start spouting sonnets, I swear I'll put a hole in the wall with my head."

"You've certainly got the head for—." Unfortunately, the rest of Stefano's sentence never got the chance to be spoken as Giacomo quickly put him in a headlock—one he had deemed to be "gentle." Yeah, gentle maybe if people were made out of steel instead of soft tissue.

Jovialness eventually faded into a deep-seated sadness when Giacomo left. There was something final about this goodbye. Maybe it was because after he'd graduate, Stefano's last ties to Salerno would break. He'd have to leave home for that recognition he yearned for—it wouldn't come by staying chained to this city.

If I want that fame, he told himself, I'm going to have to leave some things behind. Even the things that mattered. I'm sorry, Giacomo. But you knew I wasn't meant to just always wait at the airport for you.

The journey wasn't easy, and his first steps were forced to be small. But eventually, the traction accumulated and left Stefano pleased that he was on the right track. Someone close to the president evidentially saw his pieces and liked the way he handled a camera. After a few exchanges, a few handshakes, and a few signatures scribbled across the bottoms of contract pages, Stefano had become the personal photographer to Italy's leader.

The work had its pros and cons. Stefano could no longer count how many times the president's personal security had rifled through his camera bag. Really, what did they think he was going to do? He was a man dedicated to his craft, and the fact that they suspected him of wrongdoing like some kind of criminal was rather insulting. But at least he had been given a badge he could flash at them to let him through to where the president was. Meanwhile the reporters, with their hungry cameras, were pushed back. Damn, did those moments feel good.

But this was not art. He wasn't allowed to be an artist. His compositions were governed entirely by those he worked for—the president and his PR assistants. Catch the president in his critical moments. Make him look good—strong—for the nation to see. And not just that—the world, too. His photographs would be evaluated, and the ones that met his employers' stringent criteria would get the green light to be published while the rest were barred from seeing the light of day.

Sure, it was an exalted position among photographers. It was an immediate signal, saying "You. You're worthy." He got to travel whenever the president did, and in the same fashion. First class—not bad. No one would pass up a bit of luxury. But Stefano felt that he had become as much a PR lackey as those who actually bore the title.

The president himself—he wasn't half bad. He was a man who knew what it took to be a world leader. He knew how to hold himself, how to look when there were eyes on him, which made Stefano's job a little easier.

It was after the conclusion of the press release when Stefano found himself with a chance to speak to the president directly. The Q&A session had ended, and security had cleared the room. They were just about to shoo Stefano out too when the president suddenly stopped them. He motioned for them to give the two a bit of space, but they still lingered on the other side of the conference room.

"Valentini," he addressed. "I don't think you've heard a word of appreciation from me for your hard work this past year. Let me voice it now—you've done a fine job. I don't think I'd look half as good as I do now without you."

"You're too kind, sir."

"Oh, no need for such modesty, son. Your youth belies a deep-rooted skill." He crossed his arms and surveyed Stefano with those eyes—those that seemed to have seen so much and so little at the same time. "I've heard that you're a Salerno boy. My brother met his wife there, you know."

"It's a beautiful city."

"Indeed. Nothing breaks a man's heart more than having to leave a beautiful home behind." He let a slow breath out through his nose. Stefano, not knowing how to pass the awkward silence, looked down and fiddled idly with his camera. "Well, Valentini, what did you think of today's address? Enough to appease the masses?" He snorted. "What am I saying? Nothing appeases the masses—I've been in office long enough to know that. Still, what did you think?"

The press conference today had been about Italy's overseas activity. Stefano couldn't help but feel it was fate that he had found himself in this moment—one where the president was asking Stefano's opinion about something he had a personal interest in. Trying to downplay the moment, Stefano gave a small shrug—more of a twitch of his shoulders—and said, "I guess I just wonder the same as the reporters. When are the soldiers coming home?"

"Have a friend or family member overseas?"

"A friend, yes."

"I see. Then you must've had one ear sharp while you were snapping those pictures today. I can only repeat what I said in the conference: it's uncertain when we can bring those men back. Things are heating up. We've officially made a stance in Afghanistan, and our country can't back down now." He patted Stefano's shoulder, an empathetic look on his face. "I wish your friend the best."

"Thank you, sir."

He stayed in the room while the president and his security left, camera still clutched in his hand. It had been over a year since he had spoken to Giacomo. In that empty room, nostalgia suddenly crept against his skin. Why was he here?

Because I want to be, he suddenly insisted to himself. Because it's time I move on and don't look back.

Verona—the city of romance, as seen by the rest of the world. After all, Shakespeare had chosen this riverside city to be the setting for the tale of his infamous lovers, Romeo and Juliet. But this city was just the same as any in Italy—thriving with culture, yes, but filled with people just trying to go about their everyday lives. And romance itself was just an everyday thing, really.

Life had brought Stefano here, though in hindsight perhaps the threads of destiny had had some part to play instead. He was on the cusp of concluding his contracted term with the president, and was already branching off to do other work. Work that more suited his tastes. A wealthy Frenchman had hired Stefano to take anniversary pictures of him and his wife during their stay in Verona. He'd given Stefano free rein to go wherever he pleased with the compositions. The freedom was refreshing.

These two—they were old enough to be his parents, though the signora had found ways to keep herself glamorous despite her climbing age. Her husband, however, looked as though the age gap between the two was stretched a little farther than the norm. You can get away with quite a bit with deep pockets, Stefano mused to himself.

Even though it was his job to capture the quintessential moments of their anniversary, the couple hadn't hired Stefano to constantly follow them around. Thus, one quiet evening, Stefano found his schedule quite empty and took the time to stroll through the city. He was still in his work clothes—a gray, single-breasted waistcoat and blue tie.

Stefano was passing by the open patio of a café, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, when he heard a familiar voice exclaim, "Oi! Stefano?"

He stopped. Who'd be calling out his name here? His eyes fell on the one who was running up to him. Immediately, he recognized her. But by God…

Lucia had become beautiful—an absolute stunner. These past three years had been very good to her, sanding away the last traces of youthfulness into the curves and swells of a woman like an expert sculptor. And just the sight of her had nostalgia strike him like a train. Then he remembered, and he kept silent as she stopped in front of her.

She knew, and immediately her face became sheepish. "I know how you must think of me," she said. "And I'm so sorry—I was stupid, I'll admit that. But we were kids, Stefano, and I'm… I'm just glad to see you again."

"I'm glad to see you too, Lucia." It was strange how automatic those words were. And oh how it made Lucia's face light up, like she thought they were actually true. "Long time no see. What are you doing in Verona?"

"I could ask you the same thing!" Lucia replied. "Though I suppose it's because you're so important and all." At the puzzled look that crossed Stefano's face, she continued, "I saw it in the paper, that little caption underneath the picture of the president—'taken by staff photographer Stefano Valentini.' I know that name, I told myself when I read it. So you're cozy with il presidente, huh? You're popping the corks out of prosecco bottles with a new supermodel every night, aren't you?"

"No, Lucia, that's just silly," Stefano sighed. "I'm a photographer, not an actor or something."

"Yeah, yeah," Lucia giggled. "You haven't changed a bit." She held her hands behind her back and swayed gently. Fuck, she was cute. "So what's the occasion?"

"Hmm?"

"You look like you're dressed for a wedding." She nodded towards him, a lock of her hair falling over her shoulder. Stefano looked down at his vest. "Someone you know getting married in Verona?"

"No, just trying to keep it professional at work."

"Oh." Her voice curled flirtatiously. Lucia peered at him with those pale blue eyes. "Hey," she said, "did you want to, maybe, get coffee tomorrow? And just… I don't know, catch up?"

No, something in him said. Say no. "Sure."

Lucia's face brightened. "Great," she said. "There's a cute little place right on the river—I think you'll really like it."

Coffee shops held their own little bubbles of magic—the way the espresso machines perfumed the air. And then there were the undertones of candied fragrances, the syrups and sweet toppings to be added to the drinks to take the edge off the bitterness.

Lucia was there, dressed in a bright yellow sundress. A picture of innocence. She sat down across from him at the small, metal lattice table. They chatted idly for a few minutes, skimming over how life was currently treating them. Lucia had apparently taken up a modeling gig—doing fashion shoots for a designer's latest styles. It didn't surprise Stefano at all. A studio director would've had to be blind or stupid to turn a girl like Lucia away.

A server came with their coffees, setting the drinks down first before tucking small silver spoons on their saucers and leaving. Lucia immediately took up her spoon, swirling it inside her coffee. It had been saturated to a light, creamy tan—more a milk drink with a touch of coffee in it, Stefano thought.

"And I've met this other model," Lucia said. She paused to take a sip out of her cup. "An American girl—she's wonderful. Oh, you should see her when she's in front of the camera, Stefano. I'm a little jealous."

"Sounds interesting. I'd like to see that."

"I can introduce you some time," Lucia offered. "But…" She giggled. "She already has a boyfriend, okay? Don't get in over your head."

"That's not what I meant. What's her name?"

"Emily Lewis. But whatever—we're getting off track. This moment is supposed to be about us."

Stefano was caught off guard. "Us?" he echoed.

"Yeah, you and me. Catching up—that's what I said, remember? The 'how do you do's and 'how have you been's?"

"I thought that's what we just did."

"Well, just barely." Suddenly, Lucia scooted forward in her seat. Stefano had a feeling the real reason she had gotten him out here was about to surface. "So, um, how's Giacomo?"

Ah. He should have known. Poor Lucia—she never did learn, did she? "Don't know," Stefano answered. "Haven't spoken to him in a while."

"Is he still, you know, out?"

"Yeah."

"Are you two still friends?"

The question made Stefano pause. He took a second to deliberate. "Not like we used to be," he admitted quietly.

"Oh." Lucia's response made him look up. He could have been imagining it, but had she sounded… satisfied?

The rest of the conversation steered away from Giacomo and back to Stefano. He answered her questions, trying to keep the frown out of his face as he watched her. What was she playing at?

When the coffee was finished, they left the little riverside café. Over the next few days, Lucia took Stefano to the studio a couple of times. There, he met Emily. The sight of the dark-haired beauty flooded his mind with a flurry of ideas, creations screaming to be composed. Art that just couldn't be left unmade. It nearly made him lightheaded in that moment. Lucia saw that look in his eyes, and her brow furrowed.

It took just another second for Stefano to regain his composure. He shook Emily's hands with some cordial words spoken in English. She laughed airily and told him that his accent was delightful. Lucia quickly interrupted the two of them to ask Emily how her boyfriend was doing.

Always, there was a part of Stefano's mind that wondered where this was going. And it didn't just wonder—it seethed. After those few days, and after introducing him to Emily, Lucia began suggesting they get together more often. Stefano warned her that he wasn't staying in Verona for long. She brushed it off, saying there was still time.

Time for what?

It was what that part of his mind wondered that evening when they went out for drinks—the kind that preluded an intimate night. They chatted. They laughed. Lucia challenged him to take a shot of Amaro Montenegro, and he wasn't about to pass it down. Then, he followed it up with a cognac cocktail. The buzz Stefano got from his drink loosened him up and quieted that part of his mind. Then Lucia pointed out that it was getting late and they ought to take off. So they left the bar together, still chatting. Still laughing. They walked down a street, surrounded by the few night owls that were still out and about. Cars passed on the road next to them, reduced to nothing but blurred shapes behind glaring headlights. In the distance, the hotel loomed over the heads of the buildings around it.

Suddenly, on that dark street, Lucia stopped. Stefano did too. The girl turned to him. "Don't take me back home," she said. "Take me to your hotel room."

"What?"

"I know you want to." Her breath smelled fruity and alcoholic. "You were just waiting for me to say it, weren't you? Well, I'm saying it. I've always wanted you, Stefano. Even when we were kids."

He couldn't understand what he was hearing. "But… you were dating Giacomo."

"Because you never went after me, and he did." She took a step towards him. Her face was too close. Too close. "I called him cute, but you were too. You still are." She was so pretty.

That part of his mind stirred awake.

"Lucia—."

"Kiss me, Stefano." She leaned towards him.

He caught her by the shoulders before she could reach him. "You never cared about Giacomo?"

"It's not like that," Lucia said. "I'm in love with you."

But he loved you! With all his heart! And you broke him—more than you realize, because you never saw him on that wharf! Every man you had between your legs was another blow to him, and you—you almost had me added to that collection, you vile bagascia!

His hands, still clutching Lucia's shoulders, squeezed down. "Lucia," he said softly. "I lied."

"Stefano? What are you doing?" Her eyes were wide. She reached up and took his wrists, trying to pull his hands away. A smile, nearly maniacal, curled his lips. Lucia looked scared, and it only served to make her look even more beautiful.

"I told you Giacomo and I weren't close anymore, but that…" He let his words end in an airy scoff before continuing, "was a lie. Giacomo is still as much my friend as he was when we were young, and I…" He leaned forward, letting his lips come intimately close to Lucia's ear. His eyes flickered up past her head, watching the pair of blinding lights come closer. Softly, he finished, "I'd kill for him."

He stepped forward, letting their bodies touch for just one second—one sweet, sweet second—before he pushed his arms forward and shoved her.

In that subsequent second, it was a shame he had no camera to capture the absolute splendor he saw. But at least he had his eyes to take in the breathtaking moment. Lucia was a picture of perfection as she fell back. The illumination from the headlights embellished each strand of copper hair thrown out around her terror-lit face. Her eyes were wide with desperate confusion as her body flew helplessly back in the path of the car—the harbinger of her doom. It was too much. It was so good.

It was art.

The screech of brakes split the air, followed by a satisfactory thud. Shrieks peppered the night, and people rushed to that segment of the sidewalk to behold the tragedy. Horror was shared in all faces but one as they looked out to the girl on the road.

She was on the news that morning. News anchors with grave faces explained the story of a young woman who had been struck by a vehicle in the early hours of that day. She had been rushed to the hospital. Based on the last update that had been released, her condition had been stabilized, though she had yet to wake up.

Stefano was worried. He didn't know what had come over him that night. It had been seductive, overpowering. It had filled every vein in his body until he was almost sure that it was him. But it wasn't him… was it?

Whether it was or wasn't, Lucia had seen it. And now she was safe inside the hospital where he couldn't reach her. Wait, had he really just considered finishing her off? That was… that was the thinking of a lunatic! A psychotic killer! Not him—he was just a man. An artist. Really! That was it! That was it!

He needn't have worried about Lucia. Justice caught up to him even before she had the chance to open her eyes. It was that very afternoon when police were knocking on his hotel door and escorting him out. At the detention center, Stefano learned that the driver of the car that hit Lucia had identified him. He'd told the police that he had seen a man with black hair in a gray vest push the girl into the road. They had gone to the bar and interviewed the bartenders, who all confirmed Lucia had been with a man who fit that description. They procured one of the receipts he had signed, and the police were able to easily get a name from the neat penmanship—Stefano Valentini. The rest was history.

Stefano responded to the questions made by the police by saying that the story had been warped to put the blame on him. He said that he had been walking Lucia home. She had gone past her limit at the bar. When she stumbled off the curb and into the road, he'd tried to do all he could to save her but the car was moving too fast. The hospital would have confirmed that Lucia had been intoxicated that night, corroborating Stefano's story. He knew this when he saw the uncertain look cross the officer's face.

It was the driver's word against Stefano's. Both were detained while the police continued their investigation. It was on the second day that Lucia woke up. But lady luck was on Stefano's side—Lucia had no recollection of that night whatsoever.

Still, Stefano had been careless. The police were pulling in witnesses to interview, and it was only a matter of time before they'd find out which story was the truth. The clock was ticking and all Stefano could do was sit and wait.

Then, one day, the impossible happened.

Stefano heard voices out at the front of the police station. Two men were talking, and their voices grew louder as they moved towards the back of the detainment center. Stefano could just make out their words.

"The driver saw him—he pushed the girl." Suddenly, the door at the end of the corridor opened, spilling light over the dim cells. Stefano squinted at the sharp intrusion and took a step back from the bars.

The two men standing at the far end were nothing but dark silhouettes. Stefano stared, but he couldn't make out any detail on either of them. He could tell they were looking at him.

Suddenly, one of the men turned to the other wearing the police cap. "Driver's wrong," he said. That voice…

The police officer sounded skeptical. "We've got a witness giving the same story."

"They're wrong too. She tripped—it was an accident." Suddenly, the man lifted his hand and offered it to the officer. Stefano could make out a handful of bills. "That's the story. He goes free."

The officer paused. Then, he took the notes, crumpling them in his fist. "How afraid are you of loose lips, Damiani?" He sounded amused.

"As much as you are," came the steadfast reply. More silence—a stalemate between the two as both refused to back down from their locked horns. Then, the police lifted his hand, bobbing the crinkled notes up and down. "Feels a little too light for letting a dangerous man go."

More bills were handed over. Finally, the officer seemed satisfied. He walked over to Stefano's cell while the other man lagged behind. Stefano heard the cell door shrill as it opened.

"You know how to choose your friends," the officer told him, holding the door open. "Get out of here." Stefano walked out of the cell, passing the officer, and headed towards the man at the end of the corridor. As he neared the light, the man's face became clear. Stefano's steps slowed.

"Giacomo," he said. "How did you know?"

Giacomo didn't answer. He turned and walked, his gait quick and firm. Stefano followed after him. They left the police station behind, but still Giacomo didn't slow down.

"Giacom—."

He whirled around, suddenly confronting Stefano. He felt palms strike his chest and stumbled back when Giacomo shoved him. "Did you really do it?" he snapped furiously.

Out of everyone, Stefano thought he would understand. "She told me herself—she never cared about you! Not one bit! How do you think I'd react to that?"

"Not with attempted murder!" Giacomo hissed, stepping forward to close the distance between them. "Not like someone I hardly recognize! I haven't seen you in years, Stefano. I don't know what paths you're walking down without me, but I'm begging you—don't walk down this one. Don't become a man that forces me to tell myself, 'Not Stefano. Not him.' I'm begging you." He suddenly clutched the thin chain around his neck and tugged it up. From behind his collar, his dog tag rose. Jingling against it was the small, cylindrical locket. "What happened to him, Stefano? What happened to my friend? Tell me!"

Stefano didn't know how to respond. Attempted murder… Giacomo knew. He knew there had been intent. He was a soldier, and yet he was defending a criminal. After all these years—so much time to erase it all and yet Giacomo was still looking out for him as though they were still boys in Salerno.

"Nothing to say?" A bitter smile crossed Giacomo's face. He let go of the chain. The dog tag and locket dropped against his chest. He turned away, letting out a hollow laugh. "Maybe I'm already too late." His wide shoulders dropped. Giacomo's voice was heavy when he asked, "But now we're here, face-to-face again. How have you been, Camera Boy?"

"Alright. And what about you, Dock Boy?"

Giacomo looked over his shoulder at him.

They traveled back to Salerno together. Never again did either of them bring up what happened in Verona. Stefano was relieved. The words spoken outside that police department still stung. When they arrived back in Salerno, Stefano silently implored his hometown to remind him of who he was.

Giacomo's mother's cataracts had gotten to the point where she had been assigned a caretaker. Stefano saw the sadness in Giacomo's face when he realized his mother could no longer meet his eyes, but he put up a smile for her so she'd be able to hear it in his voice.

Giacomo couldn't stay—he never did anymore. Stefano did what he'd told himself he would stop doing. He went to the airport. There was no way he couldn't. Not when it was Giacomo.

He hugged his mother. She told him that she'd heard of how activities overseas was heating up and pleaded for him to be careful. Gently, Giacomo reassured her. He told her, like always, not to worry.

"Wait for me, Mamme," he said. "I'll be home before you know it." Finally, he broke away from her. He turned to Stefano, but found his friend's eyes lowered. "Hey," he said. Stefano found it in him to look up. He saw Giacomo smile wide. Suddenly, Stefano felt himself being pulled into a tight hug. "Promise me," Giacomo said, "that you'll keep snapping those pictures, Camera Boy. They're what brought us together. They're what makes you you. Just remember that, okay?" He pulled back, his hands still clasped over Stefano's arms. With a coy grin, he joked, "Sorry, did I hurt you again?"

Instead of answering, Stefano began uneasily, "Giacomo…" He had to bring it up. He couldn't push Verona back any longer. What Giacomo had done for him at the police station… Stefano wanted him to know that he was grateful for that. And that he intended to keep that promise, as he had always done. He had to tell Giacomo all this—let him know. "I—."

The intercom overhead cut him off, announcing that it was time to board. Giacomo's eyes flickered up. He let go of Stefano and took a step back. Already, the distance was unrecoverable. "Hold that thought," he said. "Tell me next time we see each other." The duffel bag was snatched up. Stefano watched his back shrink as he jogged towards departures. Before he disappeared out of sight, Giacomo turned one more time to give Stefano a little wave.

Goodbye.

In the fall of 2002, Capitano Giacomo Damiani was awarded the Gold Medal of Military Valor in public honor of his heroic military acts—his last. The award was bestowed posthumously. When Giacomo came home, and when Stefano saw him next, there was an Italian flag draped over his coffin.