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“Don’t worry about me,” I said before I slid back under the car. “He won’t come around here again.”
A few moments later, someone tapped me on my boot. I slid back out and found Mattias still standing there, arms crossed in thought.
“Need something else, Mr. Zo—er, Mattias?” I asked.
He tipped his head and seemed to make a decision. “You’ll come to dinner tonight. My wife, she’s making manicotti. Very good. Better than you get anywhere else.”
Considering that, other than last night’s ziti, every meal I’d had since getting out consisted of grocery store slices and canned oranges, I had no doubt that was true.
But I wasn’t an idiot. This wasn’t dinner; it was some kind of test. Of what, I didn’t know, but one I couldn’t fail if I wanted to keep working here. I did know it would mean I’d be breaking bread with my boss, his wife, and his grandchildren—one of whom I’d been thinking some very indelicate thoughts about over the last twenty-four hours.
“I—you don’t need to—” I started to protest, but before I could get the words out, my stomach interrupted with a massive grumble.
Mattias looked at my stomach, then back to my face, and rolled his eyes.
“Dinner,” he repeated. “You’ll come. Tonight, seven o’clock. Capisce?”
FIVE
LOOK WHO’S COMING TO DINNER
Lea
“Someone answer the door.”
Nonno’s raspy voice was gentle while he poured himself a grappa from the brass drinks cart in the dining room.
He gestured vaguely with his glass. “We have company for dinner.”
I set the platter of spinach-filled manicotti in the center of the table, where the rest of my siblings had already taken their seats. Now that I was looking, I noticed an extra place set tonight. The most likely candidates for dinner on a Friday were Tino, Nonno’s best friend, or maybe one of Nonna’s Bible study pals, like Sandra Gomez or Alessia Piras. My grandparents still kept a close circle of the old guard within a few blocks of Arthur Avenue. Any one of them meant a lot of entertainment.
“I got it,” I called as I skipped toward the door, hoping it was Tino. He always brought a pan of tiramisu from his restaurant.
It was definitely not Tino. Instead of a beefy, sixty-something Italian cook, a lean, dark-haired Michael Scarrone was toeing a boot into the doormat while examining fingers that looked like they’d been scrubbed raw.
In fact, most of him looked like he’d made a considerable effort to clean up before arriving on my doorstep. His dark hair was washed and combed to one side, revealing a gold stud in his left earlobe. Yesterday’s stained coveralls had been traded for a clean, if faded, black wool coat, dark denim jeans, and boots that were well-worn but had clearly been polished recently.
When he looked up, his eyes were as dark as the shiny leather, fringed with lashes that almost made him look like he was wearing makeup. A flush crept steadily up my neck as he took in the purple knit dress I was wearing. It was church-decent, down to my knees, covering my shoulders and neckline, but somehow felt extremely revealing under that sooty black gaze.
“Hey, Lea. Ah, your grandpa invited me for dinner.”
The sound of his voice, low and rough, snapped me out of my daze. “You remembered my name.”
Those inky eyes sparked. “Of course I remembered your name. I know all about you and your sisters and brother. Your grandpa showed me your pictures the day I started. He’s proud of you.”
My mouth opened and closed. I didn’t know what to say to that. Of course Nonno would have shown my photo to Michael. All his drivers and mechanics knew us kids on sight, considering our pictures wallpapered his tiny office.
Michael shoved one hand into his pocket in a move so bashful and at odds with his powerful physique that I couldn’t help but want to hug him. “Anyway, he invited me for dinner. I, uh, brought this.”
Awkwardly, he held out a paper bag crumpled around what was obviously a bottle of wine. The neon green price sticker was still on the screw-top. Three dollars, probably from the bodega. Cheap, but likely all he could afford.
I took it and discreetly pulled off the sticker while Michael removed his coat. My grandparents wouldn’t care about the tag—Nonno bought all his wine wholesale from Tino’s restaurant anyway—but Michael already seemed nervous. I didn’t want him to be embarrassed about anything. Not when he was so obviously trying to make a good impression.
I couldn’t, however, quite stop myself from staring when he turned around in a clean, if slightly wrinkled, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos slithering down his powerful forearms. He’d even put on a tie, albeit one that hadn’t been tied very neatly.
Cleaned up, yes. But not even close to tame. The combination looked really, really good.
Before I could help myself, I set the wine on the sideboard, then popped up onto my tiptoes to straighten the knot in his tie.
