Page 3 of Darkest Kiss

"We'll take the Barolo," Kathleen is telling Sherrie. "The reserve, not the pour by the glass. Veal for the table, the branzino, whatever's freshest." She orders for me without asking what I want. It’s not because she knows me well.

It’s because she knows I won’t push back.

Marc watches Sherrie walk off, then glances over his shoulder to the other booth. Andreas Vitelli sits in the booth, with his men clustered around him, chewing on an unlit cigar. The second Andreas notices my uncle’s attention, my uncle turns back fast.

Interesting. Marc is friendly with Leo Vitelli. I guess that’s not the case here.

Marc clears his throat. “How’s the book business?”

I light up. Poor Yorick Books was my parents’ baby. There’s nothing I love more than strategizing how to bring more customers through the front doors.

"So I've been thinking about starting a romance novel book club. Once a month to start, in the evenings? It wouldn't cost a thing, but it might pull in some foot traffic on a dead night."

What I don’t say is that it would give me somewhere to be on a Tuesday. We might even get some repeat customers. Maybe some friendships could blossom out of it. It’s a little embarrassing how quiet and frankly dull my life has been these past few years.

“Noemi.” Kathleen sets down her glass. "That’s such a boring idea. Who would even sign up? No one reads those trashy little books but you."

My cheeks heat. I don’t think that she’s right. I’ve seen other bookstores having successful romance novel events. But with my snooty aunt staring me down, all I can manage to say is, "It's just an idea."

She rolls her eyes.

"Strangers in the shop after dark? You alone with whoever drifts in off the street? With your nerves the way they are, Noemi, you'd land yourself back in the hospital inside a month. Honestly, I only say it because I love you."

And there it is. Her reasoning for shutting down any kind of group I might join or friendship I might make is always the same: if I push too hard or open myself up too much, I’ll end up right back in the hospital. It’ll be just like the months following the death of my parents.

Maybe she is right. I might be lonely, but at least I’m not having the constant panic attacks that landed me in a six-month long stint in the psychiatric unit.

“Right,” I say softly. “There is that.”

“Yes. We don’t want anything to happen to you, Noemi. It’s not worth another hospital stay over something as silly as a book club.” She pats my hand and then turns back to Marc.

The word silly sticks with me. I folded because I always do, but my idea wasn’t silly. It could work. I’ve stayed up late at night, watching TikToks of other bookstores running such events.

I sigh. Something needs to change. My life can’t go on being lonely and empty of pleasure.

The food comes and buys me twenty minutes of not talking, which is the most generous thing anyone's done for me all evening. Around the time Kathleen starts in on a cousin's divorce, I set down my fork.

"Going to find the restroom," I say. I slide out of the booth, but my aunt is too deep in her gossiping to even spare me a glance.

The hall to the restrooms runs behind a half-wall by the kitchen, close enough to our booth that voices carry when the people making them assume nobody's nearby. I take my time washing my hands, then play with my hair in the mirror. On my way back, my uncle’s voice carries from the booth.

"...haven't you done enough to that poor girl?" Marc hisses, low and pulled tight.

I stop with one hand flat on the half-wall.

Kathleen's answer comes out as an answering hiss. "It's this or something worse, Marc. Someone else has been watching her. Skulking around in the shadows. You want to sit on our hands and find out who gets to her first? At least this way we’ll get something out of it."

“You’re talking crazy, Kathleen,” Marc says. “You’re beginning to sound unhinged.”

“We should tell them where to find her. We get paid and we finally get what should've been ours. The building. The store–"

Marc cuts her off, leaning down and whispering while he grips her arm.

My pulse goes loud in my own ears. Who is her? Me? It has to be me, unless I'm the particular flavor of self-absorbed that hears her own name in every conversation she stumbles upon.

But what could they be talking about? Some kind of event, no doubt.

Stepping out, I pin Kathleen with my stare. She notices that I’m returning and smiles. "There you are. I was starting to wonder if you’d run off."