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A few moments pass and I take his silence as an answer in itself. For what it’s worth, at least now I have closure. Wiping my eyes, I sniff and raise my chin, determined to keep my head held high despite such emotional devastation. I make my way to the office door, open it and step into the small vestibule of the Staff Only quarters, then reach for the outer door and open that too. The smells and sounds of the restaurant fill my nose and ears and I feel like I’ve just broken the surface of the sea after being underwater. Back in the real world, not the imaginary one I’ve been living in since I last saw Michael, before Gianni drove me away from him. I glance up and see that Connie and Raphael are waiting for me at the end of the bar, both looking pensive. Connie spots me and waves, her smile fading as she reads my face.
“Cecelia, wait!” I feel a tug on my arm and turn to see Michael’s strong hand wrapped around it. I flinch as if he’s scalded me and twist away. He looks hurt by this and I’m glad.
“What? What is it, Michael?” I say, yet again waiting for an answer, yearning to hear what he’s got to say. But he remains mute, his intense gaze blazing, first at me then at the restaurant around us, full of diners and staff and noise. He closes his eyes briefly and shakes his head, appearing to think better of it, whatever it was.
“Goodbye, Michael,” I say, with as much dignity as I can muster, then I walk away from him towards my sister and our best friend.
“Get me out of here,” I plead as I reach them.
Raphael puts an arm around me as Connie goes ahead of us to collect our bags from the booth and pay for the meals and drinks.
“Come on, Cece, this place is a dive anyway,” Raphy sneers, looking back over his shoulder to where I can sense Michael is still standing. Knowing Raphael like I do, this will no doubt lead to a few ripples over the coming days, but all I care about now is putting as much distance between myself and Michael Luciano as possible.
Seven
RAPHAEL
From my vantage point in the café across the street, I see her pull up. She checks her make-up in the rearview mirror—not that she needs to because she always looks hot—and gets out of the car. She’s wearing a red silk shirt and tailored white trousers and I give a low whistle of appreciation, even though she’s too far away to hear it. I chuckle to myself as she knocks on the window of the new restaurant on the corner and startles Connie, knowing exactly how funny she finds it, while I wonder what color underwear she’s chosen today, as I do every day. It frustrates me that I don’t get to see it, to touch it, to touch her underneath it, because for as long as I can remember, I’ve been insanely in love with Cecelia DeMarco. Through school, through our teenage years, through all our adolescent firsts. I was her first proper kiss, at her request when she was thirteen and I was seventeen; typical Cece, too impatient to wait for it to happen naturally. Of course, I was only too happy to oblige and as she giggled against me afterwards, I knew then she would be my wife one day.
I watch her go inside and greet her sister, and then I go to the café’s counter and order myself a cappuccino. May as well settle in and get comfy until it’s time to play chauffeur. I told them I had business in the area, and I’d collect them afterwards, but the only business I’m interested in is whatever Cece is doing. They’ve never invited me to join them for their yearly remembrance lunch, even though their mama was like a second mama to me, but I don’t mind. I know how important it is to them. Maybe next year. So instead, I’ve offered to pick them up so they can both have a drink. Things are always more fun when they’ve had a drink. More relaxed.
When the barista calls my name, I take my coffee over to the armchair beside the low table in the window. I add brown sugar and stir the hot liquid, watching my girls clinking their cocktail glasses across the street. It reminds me of that day nearly five years ago when we were all clinking champagne flutes on a yacht in Naples for Cecelia’s eighteenth birthday. Before she was taken from us. I have never felt so impotent as I did that night, or in the days that followed. Latent fury rises within me, as it always does when I remember her disappearance. Connie and I alerted Dante immediately, of course, but no matter what we tried, who we asked, where we looked, we just kept hitting brick walls. Just over two weeks she was gone, and then when she finally returned, she was a shell of her former effervescent self. All her light had been extinguished, replaced with darkness and sorrow. She was in a worse state than she had been after her mama’s death, and that was bad enough. I was there for her, obviously. I always have been, and I always will be, but she kept me at arm’s length for a long time. Understandable considering what we eventually found out she’d been through, but it hurt. Always the voice of reason, Connie told me not to worry, that Cece just needed time. So, I gave her time.
And then four months after we got her back, she brightened. Some of her light started shining through her cracks again and I regained hope that she would let me in. But finding out she was pregnant with another man’s kid nearly killed me. She wouldn’t tell me who the father was, and I couldn’t get it out of Connie or Dante either, whether they knew or not. I thought I’d be the one to deflower her. Be her first—and only—lover as well as her first kiss. I’ve fantasized about it a thousand times, and our wedding day, including my father finally standing beside me with pride in his eyes. I know it’s what her father wants too. I need to make it happen, and I won’t stop until I do.
My phone buzzes with a text from my mate Rocco, asking if I’m up for a poker game tonight. It’s an itch I desperately want to scratch but I’m seriously out of funds and I’m not passing up planned time with my favorite girl. I message him back and take a sip of my now lukewarm cappuccino. I look back across the street and frown as I see Cecelia return to Connie at the table then leave again a minute later. She’s like a jack in the box and an unsettled feeling unfurls in my stomach. I hate not being ringside and knowing immediately what’s going on where she’s concerned.
As I set my cup down and lean back, waiting for her to reappear, one of the young café workers tries to scoop my cup up, assuming I’m done with it. Impulsively, I reach out to stop her and the cup wobbles over onto its side, dribbling its remaining contents over the edge of the table and onto my shoe. I jump up and my knee bangs against the table, causing the cup to clatter to the floor.
“Fucking watch it!” I shout at the now crouching girl, hastily trying to mop up the mess with her cloth.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she says, glancing up at me like a chastised dog.
I’m aware of the other patrons twisting their necks to gawp at the commotion as well as the flaming heat in my cheeks and remind myself that I’m in a public place and I need to keep my quick temper contained.
I huff out a sharp sigh. “Just be more careful in future,” I warn her as I yank open the door and stride out of the café. It’s time for me to go anyway.
As I cross the street, I can see that Connie is still sitting alone and as I arrive at the table inside, I register the fact that Cece’s plate of food is still untouched. Connie’s has been picked at, but her knife and fork are now placed neatly in the middle, signaling that she’s done.
I overcompensate for my bad mood and beam at her. “Raphael Lombardi, chauffeur extraordinaire at your service,” I say, bowing with a flourish in front of her. I usually like to save my jokes and ‘Raphaelisms’ for when Cece’s around too, but Connie looks like she needs some light relief, especially considering it would have been her mama’s birthday today. She looks worried, and her eyes keep straying to the rear of the restaurant.
“Where’s Cecelia?” I ask, still standing. I don’t want to take Cece’s seat in case she comes back any second. I might even be able to wangle joining them for dessert.
“She’s in the back. In fact, I think I might just go and stand over by the bar in case she needs me,” Connie says.
Now I’m perplexed. “She’s in the back?” I repeat. “What? In the bathroom? Is she ill?”
“No, nothing like that.” She scoots round and out of the booth. “Wait with me?” she asks before turning and heading towards the back of the restaurant.
Dutifully, and out of curiosity, I follow her, and we position ourselves at the end of the bar next to an archway that leads into another corridor, where I assume the bathrooms are. There’s also another door labelled Staff Only in my eyeline.
“So, where’s Cece?” I ask Connie, wondering what the hell this is all about.
Connie nods towards the staff door. “In there,” she confirms.
“What’s she doing in there? She’s not after a job here, is she?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how stupid the question is. Dante happily supports Cece and Micah, and Cece would never want to be away from her son for hours at a time, especially not while he’s so young. Besides, a goddess like Cecelia is not meant to wait tables, regardless of how upmarket the restaurant is. I know Dante wouldn’t allow it, and neither would I.
“No, Raphy, of course not,” says Connie with a gentle laugh. “Now shush please, will you?”
