Page 55 of Alessio

Present.

Unashamed, maybe.

Cara waved a hand, and the woman that had been standing at a table nearby, but without staring at them, made her way over with the crystal pitcher of a pinkish liquid. She poured the juice—at least, that’s what Ginevra assumed it was—into the two glasses on the table, and then turned to give Cara her attention.

“The usual, Mrs.?”

Cara nodded. “Yes … gives us a few options.”

“Sure.”

It was only once the server left around the partition wall that Cara turned her attention on Ginevra again, a glimmer in her eye as she asked, “And how are the boys?”

Boys.

As in, both.

Ginevra didn’t miss that.

Cara smirked when Ginevra didn’t answer right away. “I know about them, you know, and about things I am sure Corrado would tell me are none of my business, too.”

Great.

Ginevra’s cheeks heated, but still she answered with, “It’s complicated with the three of us.”

“I imagine.”

“I’m not sure what else to say about this other than that.”

“Nothing,” Cara replied, winking. “Complicated sums it up pretty well.”

Didn’t it?

Conversation turned to a safer topic as they waited for their food. The designer of the dress Ginevra was wearing, one of the many outfits that were delivered to the penthouse from the same boutique that Corrado seemed to favor when she needed something special to wear.

“Why all the gold?” Ginevra asked.

“Oh, that’s just a Guzzi thing.” Cara shifted in her chair, flicking out one napkin to ready it on her lap. “Blood made of dirt and gold, they like to say. It’s been a thing for a few generations, and started before they were … a famiglia,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “the family had made their money in black gold.”

“Oil.”

“Yes.” Cara peered around their private section with a soft fondness in her gaze. “And as much as this restaurant seems like too much, I still love it the most out of all the ones in the city.”

“Why is that?”

“My husband bought it after a date we had here, although back then, it didn’t look like it does now. They had the best poutine I had ever tasted, and Gian took that to heart. As he does with most things.”

Ginevra laughed lightly. “Really?”

“Yes. Have you ever had it—poutine?”

The memory of the one time she had tried the French dish of fries, cheese curds, and dark gravy seemed to come to the forefront of her mind with a heaviness, taking with it all of her happiness.

Cara didn’t miss Ginevra’s change in expression. “Something wrong?”

A typical mother.

Caring.