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It’s nearly dinnertime when we pull onto the property.
“Wow, this is gorgeous, Daddy.”
Oh my God. Hearing her call me Daddy makes my skin crawl. And not in a good way.
I lean close to her ear. “Maybe you’re the type of daughter who calls me by my first name. I prefer Don.”
Mia breathes out. “Thank God. That felt so wrong.”
“I agree.”
“Lots of daughters call their fathers’ by their first names.”
Mia nods. “Maybe you can call me Gia? Because Gia is a nickname for Gianna and it’s close to my name.”
I smile. “Yes, I like it.”
The car pulls up to the main house just as the sun sets behind a mountain. It’s as if a famous artist has painted a picture of a small Italian vineyard, complete with a two-story mansion in the middle of it all.
Soft pinks and vibrant oranges decorate the sky as the sun says goodnight over Italy. There’s a small group of people waiting by the front door of the home, all smiling, waiting for us to exit the vehicle.
“Game faces on,” I whisper to Mia.
We step out of the vehicle, and I’m able to pick Mario out of the crowd instantly. His large frame demands attention. He’s got dark hair, and even darker eyes that hide what he’s thinking. I head in his direction, getting into the character of Don.
“So happy you’re here, Mr. Sabatini.” Elena Grotto, Mario’s wife, greets me. I’m assuming it’s her, due to the graying hair and his hand on her shoulder. It’s confirmed when Mario introduces himself and his wife to me.
We’re bombarded with introductions. His son, Bruno, an exact replica of his father, only taller, and his wife, Amelia. Lucia, his daughter, is petite with red hair and shakes my hand for far too long, and smiles at me even longer.
“This is my beautiful daughter, Gianna,” I say, freeing my hand from Lucia, “but she likes to be called Gia.”
Everyone embraces Mia, and they’re all so warm and inviting, it makes me relax a bit, which is never a good idea.
“This is my son, Enzo.” Bruno pushes his son toward Mia, and I know what he’s trying to do—he’s hoping Mia and his son, Enzo, hit it off.
Ha. Double fucking ha. I’ll never allow that to happen.
I’m about to roll my eyes when Elena ushers everyone inside her spacious home.
We file through the front of the house, into an entryway made from Mistretta stone with rustic tile floors. The architecture here is a bit different from the rest of the country, and has traces of Arabic heritage. As the property is on a hill, the view of the coast out the large glass windows is a sight to behold.
They lead us to an enormous dining room with high ceilings and a long table set with dinnerware and fresh flowers.
Yellow tiles hang from hooks to decorate the walls in fun patterns. It’s a charming home, and while they chatter, I glance at the selection of wine on the table, picking up one to inspect the family label on the bottle.
“We make everything here on site,” Mario says, stepping up behind me.
We’ve had this same label in my restaurant back in New York, but I pretend it’s new to me. “Can’t wait to try some.”
Mario chortles, slapping me on the shoulder. “I know that’s a joke. How could you never have tried our wine?”
Ok, so I’m a bad actor. I smile, trying my best to stay in character and fix my faux pas. “Yes, I’ve tried it. It’s smoky with hints of cherries and black currants. I always have a glass with my steak. I meant try it here, in Italy.”
Mario smiles, like I’ve given him the right answer on a test.
“Something smells delicious,” Mia says, thankfully, changing the subject.
“It’s pasta. You like pasta, right?” Elena asks Mia.
“Love it,” Mia says.
“I hope you enjoy my nona’s recipe. Sit, please.”
Elena directs everyone around the enormous table, and once we’re seated, she takes the hand of her husband and with her other she grabs Bruno’s.
“Let us give thanks,” she says.
We bow our heads as she says a brief prayer. Seems a bit brazen to give thanks for a bounty obtained with money from illegal activities but who am I to judge?
After the first course of antipasto, they serve the main dish, pasta con le sarde.
I have to say, I’m not a big fan of sardines, let alone anchovies, but this is delicious.
Conversation flows throughout dinner, and I decide the time is right to gather information.
“So, where’s your other son?” I ask Mario. “Oliver,” Mario grumbles out his name like it’s bitter on his tongue, “can’t be here.”
For now, I ask nothing else about Oliver because the glare Mario gives his food lets me know the subject is off the table.
I take another bite of pasta as Lucia turns a bit in her seat to face me. She’s eyefucked me throughout dinner. And by the way Lucia licks her lips each time I raise my wine glass, I know she’s after my goods.
