She was tall and elegant, her blonde hair coiffed in an avant-garde style that seemed fit for a Parisian runway. Her smile was professional, but not overly familiar—perfect for a high-caliber boutique like this one.
“Good day, Don Fortunato.” She gave him a warm smile. “It has been a very long time.”
Oh. He used to be a regular customer?
She glanced at me, blinked, and then fixed that expression fast. “How may I assist you today?”
“My wife is cold.”
She blinked again and then cleared her throat. “Well. . .of course. I will have Cindy get several furs for you to browse.”
“Good.” Gianni checked his watch. “And be quick.”
She hurried away.
Gianni led us further in the back and then stopped at a plush velvet seating area like he was right at home.
I perched on the edge of the seat, looking around at the beautifully displayed furs. Some were as white as snow, others a rich, deep mahogany. But all oozed extravagance.
I glanced at him. “You come here a lot?”
“I used to, when my mother was alive. She was obsessed with furs. I would buy her a new one for her birthday which happened to be on Christmas.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “I wish she was still alive to meet you.”
“How did she pass?”
“Heartbreak.” He frowned. “When my father was killed, she held on for another year, but. . .the light in her eyes was gone, the joy in her voice. . .”
I watched him.
“One night, she called me and my brothers over for dinner. She told her chef to take off and she made this amazing dinner.It was a feast, the kind only she could create, filled with love and tradition.”
I smiled. “What did she cook?”
His face brightened like he was a little boy on Christmas morning. Those sculpted cheeks lifted with his huge smile. “She started withantipasti, a spread ofbruschettawith fresh tomatoes and basil,prosciuttodraped over sweet melon, andCapresesalad with thick slices of mozzarella, ripe tomatoes, and a drizzle of her best olive oil.”
“Oh my. That’s quite a start.”
“For theprimo, she madelasagna al forno, layered with her secret Bolognese sauce, creamy béchamel, and sheets of her homemade pasta, each bite a perfect blend of flavors and textures.” He closed his eyes. “Then came thesecondo, and. . .I remember feeling just like my brothers and I were all back in her kitchen as kids. She servedosso buco.”
“Mmmm.”
“The veal shanks were braised to perfection. I actually fought my brother, Corrado over the marrow in the bone.”
I chuckled.
“Of course, there were endless side dishes where she was trying to get vegetables in us.”
I switched to Italian.“And for the dessert?”
The line of his jaw twitched. “Anyone ever tell you that your accent is perfect?”
“I’m surprised. I’m still rusty.”
He licked his lips.
I nudged him.“What did she make?”
“Tiramisuand then she poured us all a glass of her homemadelimoncello.” He touched his stomach and rubbed it as if he’d just ate all of that right then. “I almost fell asleep at the table.”
