LUNCH WITH A LIAR
Tre Limoni is empty when I enter. I glance around the interior of the restaurant a second time. It was named as a nod to the lemon grove located behind my father’s villa, and there are potted citrus trees arranged throughout the main dining area. Paper lanterns hang from the beams of the high ceiling, unlit since sunlight streams in through the street-facing windows.
Everything looks the same as the last time I was here. With the glaring exception of there being no one in what’s normally a bustling space.
I surreptitiously dry my damp palms on the skirt of my cotton sundress, the unease that always appears during these trips hitting me in full force. My life in Chicago is all a routine. That becomes boring sometimes, but I prefer monotony to my family’s dark chaos.
“Carina!” booms to my left, making me jump.
I square my shoulders and turn, watching Salvatore Caruso stroll this way with his tanned arms outstretched. His tone is warm, the voice of a loving father. When I was younger, this welcome was all it took to wash away the resentment that hadbuilt up during the rest of the year. At twenty-eight, I have to force my lips to lift into a smile that I doubt is very convincing.
“Hello, Papà.”
He embraces me, kissing both cheeks before gesturing toward the nearest table. “Sit, please! Sit!”
I obey like a well-trained dog, sinking into the cushioned chair he pulled out for me, happy to have a solid surface under me. I didn’t get much sleep during the overnight flight. I dozed during the drive from the airport to Isabella’s family’s home, but remained awake for the final stretch of the trip. The driver brought me to Salvatore’s villa, not the smaller cottage nearby, where I normally stay. My stepmother showed me to an upstairs room I’d never slept in before and informed me I was expected to meet my father for lunch. I showered, changed into an unwrinkled outfit, and wound up here.
A waiter deposits a bottle of wine on the table, setting an opener beside it and disappearing without a word. Salvatore works the cork free with a practiced tug, his wide smile remaining and aimed straight at me the entire time. My father’s attention is like the sun—warm when it’s directed at you and noticeably cold when it disappears.
“Why isn’t the restaurant open?”
“I didn’t want any distractions,” he replies, setting the cork on the table. “I haven’t seen you since last summer.”
I hide a frown. That’s always the case, yet he’s never closed Tre Limoni before.
“How are you?” he asks.
His intent interest is uncomfortable. Blinding.
“Good,” I answer, suppressing a yawn. “I’ve been busy.”
A lie. I have yet to shake the melancholy that appeared in Lev’s absence. But I’m not close enough to my father to confide in him, and I guess I’ve never fully lost some impulse to impress him.
“Try this.” Salvatore fills my glass with the Chianti he opened. “One of my favorites.”
I take a tentative sip, pleasantly surprised by the taste. My father owns a nearby vineyard—another one of his legitimate businesses. I don’t share his fascination with wine, but I’ve sampled enough varieties to recognize this is an expensive bottle. I have no idea why it would be wasted on a solo lunch with me.
“Delicious,” I say, setting the stemmed glass down, and Salvatore beams with approval.
“Here’s the tagliatelle al ragù.” A steaming bowl of pasta is set in front of Salvatore first, me second.
I glance up. “Buongiorno, Luca.”
My brother nods in acknowledgment of my greeting. “Ciao, Carina.”
“This smells amazing,” I state, leaning over the dish and inhaling some steam.
Leo, my oldest brother, and Lorenzo, my youngest brother, both work for Salvatore, doing things I’d rather not think or know about. I assume Luca is also involved in the criminal side of the family business, but he serves as Tre Limoni’s head chef as well.
No reply. When I look over, Luca is staring at our father.
“Leave us,” Salvatore says in a dismissive tone normally reserved for me.
I rank last in more than birth order. There’s an inevitable stage during these visits when something urgent arises and our quality time together becomes an inconvenience.
“Enjoy,” Luca says, then disappears back into the kitchen.
My stomach gurgles as I pick up a fork, twirling it in the pasta.
