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A wedding? Whose wedding?
We drive back to the club in silence for a while. He seems as if he's seething about something, and I don't want to ask questions. I give him the silence that he needs.
Finally, about ten minutes into the drive, when we’re almost back to the club, he turns to me. "What did you think?"
Hmm. What did I think? Never one to lie, I tell the truth.
"Ricco seems wounded, which makes sense because Marialena told me that his wife is sick. I imagine it's a hard burden to bear. Timeo is kind of a wise guy, but he's loyal to you guys. I can tell he’s smart. Is he close to Tosca? I saw them talking.”
He nods.
"Your mother seems as wounded as Ricco, and I'm not sure she liked me. But then again, I’m not sure she likes anyone. That made me uncomfortable, but the others made up for it. Tosca is lovely, and so is Nonna. I never had a grandmother, and I…" My voice breaks off. I think before I speak. "It seems she easily adopts the role of everyone’s grandmother. I like that.”
"Alright,” he says with a tone of finality that tells me he’s made up his mind. “That’s it.”
Did I say something wrong? I look at him in surprise. "What?"
"We're not going back to the club. Not tonight. I want to be alone, and I don't want anyone interrupting us."
Oh. My heart beats a little faster. What does he… plan on doing when we’re alone?
I'm curious as to what he has in mind. But I like the idea of not going back to the club. I love some of the people there, but I don't want to answer questions, and I don't want anyone interrupting us, either.
"Where are we going?"
“You’ll see.”
As we drive toward Boston, a warm wind welcomes us. It's unseasonably warm tonight. Sergio rolls down the windows, and I love the feel of the fast car, the wind in my hair, his warm, comforting hand on my knee. I can’t remember the last time I felt so carefree and lighthearted. So… alive.
We're driving deeper into the heart of the city. Even though I haven't been here before, I can tell by the way traffic thickens and all evidence of residential living falls away. We're driving closer to the ocean.
I've never been to the ocean. I've heard of it, and read about the smell of the salt air, seagulls flying overhead, the waves as they crash on the shore. I’d like to see it firsthand before I have to go—
No, I won't think of that now. I know I have to go. I know I can't stay here forever, but I don't want to even think about it.
Sergio speaks thoughtfully as he gives his personal rendition of Bostonian history. "The wharf in Boston is kind of famous," he says proudly. I nod, remembering the history about the Boston Tea Party, how the rebels refused to pay taxes and instead tossed the British tea into the Atlantic Ocean. It feels fitting that when Sergio wants to be alone, he takes me to such an iconic place of rebellion. It's so him.
"I own a boat."
That's all he says.I own a boat.
So when I catch sight of a massive yacht large enough for a small party, and bigger than my childhood family home, I shake my head.
With a laugh I mutter, "You own a boat. Why yes, you do."
I'm unprepared for what we see onboard because this is no little boat, but an actual yacht. Multiple living areas, a dining area, a relaxation area that looks like a sitting room. The rooms are spacious and sprawling with high ceilings and large windows, moonlight dancing on the floor in front of us as the boat gently rocks. Everywhere around us is gleaming marble and matte leather, durable yet beautiful.
I take in every detail when he gives me the tour.
State-of-the-art entertainment systems. A gourmet galley. A luxury stateroom, a spa and wellness facility. It's the most perfect, luxurious place, and we’re on a boat. In the middle of the water.
Even though we're docked at a pier, Sergio has somehow quietly called his staff to join us.
The boat crawls slowly away from the pier, out into the vast ocean.
Sergio’s phone rings. He silences it with a look that would make a dog tuck its tail between its legs.
Stubbornly, it vibrates and lights flash.
