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I spent a few minutes petting them before pouring some feed into their small container. They dove for the food, ignoring me, their heavy coats keeping them warm in the frigid temperatures. After they finished I talked to them in Italian and gave them more attention. But soon they lost interest in me and wandered away.
Sighing, I started back toward the house and thought about the long night ahead of me. I had nothing to do but read boring poetry books. There was only so much iambic pentameter I could take.
Cazzo. I longed for a proper Italian cocktail or glass of Ravazzani cìro. The farmhouse had only whisky.
I found myself walking in the direction of “town,” which consisted of a building with a combined pub, general store and grocery. I went there every week for provisions. But today I felt the need for something other than whisky.
The pub was empty, so I sat on a stool at the bar. “Hello?” I called.
An older woman came out from the store area. Mrs. Campbell, the owner. She reminded me of a younger Zia, and a wave of homesickness settled in my stomach like a stone.
“Mr. Drakos,” she said in her thick Scottish brogue. “Didn’t expect to see you sitting here.”
Everyone believed I was Nick Drakos, a Greek writer who needed the solitude and quiet to work on his next novel. “I decided to get out for a bit today.”
“That’s good. A young laddie like you needs exercise. How long before that book of yours is finished?”
“It’s hard to say. I am not a fast writer.” Or a slow one. I wouldn’t know the first thing about writing a novel.
“It’ll come along. A bevvy for you?”
“Campari and soda.”
She began bustling behind the bar. “Of course.”
A deep male voice said something in Gaelic as he sat on the stool beside me. Mrs. Campbell smiled at him and nodded, returning in the same language.
I expected to find a local sitting next to me. Who I did not expect to find was Alessandro Ricci.
Madre di dio!
I flew off my stool and faced him warily, my muscles tight in readiness. “Che cazzo?” I barked. “What are you doing here?”
Instead of standing, he pivoted on the stool to face me and propped his arm on the bar. In Italian, he continued, “The same as you, no? Buying a drink.”
Was he planning on killing me here? In this pub, in front of a witness? “I know who you are, Ricci.”
He appeared unsurprised. “I assumed. Otherwise you would not have disappeared from Santorini.”
“I also know why you are following me.”
“Again, I assumed.”
Mrs. Campbell set two drinks on the bar. Ricci slipped over a large bill and spoke to her in Gaelic. Of course this stronzo spoke Gaelic.
I stood perfectly still, wondering if I could get past him to escape out the door. How the fuck had he found me? He was not a man who could blend in, especially here. Ricci was big and intimidating. Handsome. He would attract attention anywhere.
Mrs. Campbell wandered away, leaving us alone. This was the moment. It was me or him. I took a threatening step in his direction.
“Sit down,” he said quietly. “I am not going to kill you right now.”
Right now. So he was toying with me? Following me, sucking my dick. Watching me. “I don’t give a fuck what you want. We will finish this here.”
Sighing, Ricci reached behind his back and took a pistol out from the waistband of his jeans. He put it on the bar. “Is this what you wish? To die in this little shit hole in the middle of nowhere?”
“Fuck off.”
“Sit.” Ricci kicked my empty stool. “I promise you won’t die today.”
