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My mother was barely Italian, mostly in name only, her heritage fully Americanized as a third-generation Sicilian. We never ate good Italian food unless we were in the North End of Boston, but that was so rare I’ve forgotten everything.
Some pastries I’m not familiar with, but I recognize biscotti, thick slabs of fresh bread, and brioche nestled beside something that looks like a flaky croissant drizzled with chocolate and sprinkled with snowy flecks of powdered sugar. I swallow. Another uniformed waitress or something comes up beside me and smiles.
“Coffee, Miss? Espresso?”
“Yes, please.”
She takes a delicate light blue coffee cup and pours dark, fragrant espresso in it, then politely points to small pitchers of milk and cream. I take it with a grateful nod, then pour cream and sugar into it.
I sip. Oh, God, it’s divine. Dark and almost bitter, if not for the chocolate undertones. I wish I could take a whole plate of these pastries back with me. I’d eat them for days. For now, I’ll eat as much as I can to tide me over to my next meal.
I take the flaky croissant, a buttered slab of bread, and a cookie that’s shaped into a figure eight, then find a vacant corner of the room so no one sees me stuff my face. It all smells heavenly. I don’t care why I’m here anymore. All I want to do is drown myself in pastry and espresso. I already love the Montavio family, and all they’ve done is woo me with baked goods and coffee.
Sigh. I’m a woman with simple needs, really.
I eat the bread and cookie quickly, savoring every decadent morsel, then chase them with coffee. By the time I get to the croissant, I’m full. I glance around the room. No one’s close by. I can’t let good food like this go to waste. I wrap it in a napkin and tuck it into my bag, then sit up straight like it never happened.
My belly feels pleasantly full, something I haven’t felt in so long I almost forgot what it’s like.
“Good, isn’t it?”
I nearly drop my cup when I see a young woman sitting only inches away from me. She moved like a cat, nearly silently. Oh God, I hope she didn’t see me swipe the croissant.
“Delicious.”
She smiles and extends her hand to me. Younger than I am by a few years, she’s a beauty with thick, dark brown wavy hair that hangs all the way to her waist, heavy brows over luminous blue-gray eyes that look eerily familiar, a delicate Grecian nose, and a small, almost whimsical chin. She wears a red, off-the-shoulder cocktail dress and death-defying heels like she’s about to walk a runway.
She extends a well-manicured hand. “How interesting. My horoscope said I’d meet a stranger today and we’d become instant friends.”
I blink. “Oh?” How does one respond to that?
She smiles, and though she’s friendly, there’s something almost ruthless in her toothy grin. And I can’t place why she looks so familiar. So very, very familiar. Those eyes… I’ve definitely seen those eyes before.
“Yup. Mama says horoscopes are bullshit, but whatever. I love them.” She takes a sip from her little espresso cup. Looks like she likes it black. She waves her hand at the elaborate buffet. “We don’t really eat breakfast, to tell you the truth. But Mama likes to make sure we feed our guests.”
I nod. I have so many questions for her I’m not sure where to begin.
“Who are you?” the young woman asks, her head tipped curiously.
“My name’s Vittoria.”
She smiles. “And I’m Marialena Rossi.” She pauses as if to wait for recognition, but when I don’t respond, she continues. “And thank you for telling me your name. But you still haven’t told me who you are.”
I don’t know how to respond, but I’m fabricating some sort of response when a man in a suit walks into the room.
I… recognize him. I know I do. He was one of the men accompanying the others at the bar last night. Not the one who met me in the alley, the avenging angel, but one of his friends. An older one who sat with him behind me in the bar.
No.
No.
I can’t… surely those men had nothing to do with this letter.
Did they?
I’m so stupid. Oh, God, I’m so stupid.
Why did I come here? I don’t belong here. They don’t know me, and I don’t know why I’m here, and this is all a terrible, terrible mistake.
I remember the icy voice of the man who saved me. The chilling tone. His ruthless gaze.
This never happened. If I hear even a whisper on the breeze about this unfortunate turn of events, I promise that whatever this fucker was going to do to you will seem pleasant compared to what I will do.
I shouldn’t be here.
I shouldn’t be here.
