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I take a breath and compose myself. “I’m glad you like it. It’s from my father’s cellar.”
“Of course.” He takes another appreciative sip, then sets the glass down. Just then, Fay enters with the first course. “Buon appetito,” she announces as she sets it down.
“Thank you, Fay. This looks delicious, as always,” I say.
Antony nods and gives Fay a smile that could charm the pants off a statue. “It certainly does. I intend to take full advantage of the luck of having such a talented cook while I’m here. I’m afraid bachelor food isn’t quite up to par. This is a rare treat for me.”
Fay looks like she’s about to explode with pride. “Well, Mister Antony, you just have to tell me what your favorite dishes are, and I’ll make all of them for you,” she clucks. “It’s nice to have a man around with a hearty appetite and an appreciation for fine cuisine.” She pauses, and then lowers her voice with a wink. “Mister Carmine loves my food, of course, but he could eat the same thing every day and never complain. A cook likes a challenge, you know.”
“I’m looking forward to everything you prepare, Fay. But don’t make it too good, okay? I don’t want to get fat.”
Fay lets out a peal of suddenly girlish laughter. “Oh, Mister Antony, you’re not gonna get fat,” she giggles, touching her hair. You are in no danger. Trust me.”
Oh, brother.
13
SERA
As Fay exits the dining room, I give Antony an arch look. “Flirting with the cook?”
“That wasn’t flirting,” he protests. “Well, okay, maybe a little. But I wasn’t kidding about the food. Getting home cooked meals is definitely a perk of staying here.” His gaze slides lazily over me. “And not the only perk.”
I flush with pleasure and embarrassment. Not quite knowing how to handle the compliment, I decide to change the subject. “What was that music?” I blurt. “The music you were listening to when I came to your room?”
My face grows even hotter when I realize I have just reminded him of what an embarrassing scene I made when he answered his door.Truly, Sera, your awkwardness knows no bounds.
Thankfully, Antony has the grace not to comment on that. “Puccini,” he responds, his eyes dancing. “Are you telling me you don’t know your Italian opera?”
“Are you telling me youdo?”
He lifts a brow. “La Fanciulla del West. It’s one of my favorites. The song that was playing when you knocked was ‘Ch’ella mi creda libero e lontano.’”
I know enough Italian to understand what that means. “‘May she believe me free and far away’,” I translate.
Antony nods approvingly. “The main character is a bandit, who is about to be executed by a lynch mob of gold prospectors led by the local sheriff. In the aria, Johnson, the character, asks them not to tell his love, Minnie, that he has been killed. Instead, he asks them to let her believe that he is far away and on the road to redemption.”
“So it’s set in America?”
“Yes. He wants to protect her from the terrible reality of his fate. He calls her the only flower of his life. He wants to protect her innocence, and the purity of her love for him.”
As I listen to his words, I can’t help but see the parallels between the story of Puccini’s opera and the mafia life. “Sounds like the way the men inla famigliakeep information from the women,” I suggest. “But I’m not sure that protects them.”
Antony’s expression is unreadable. “You don’t approve of keeping things from people for their own good?”
“Not really. And I don’t approve of treating women like they’re delicate flowers who can’t handle the truth.”
I speak the words without thinking. By the time they’re out of my mouth, I realize I’ve been too frank. But Antony doesn’t seem bothered by this. “You, Sera are hardly a delicate flower,” he murmurs.
I exhale. “No. But tell that to the men. Especially my father.”
“I’m sure he knows as much.” Antony steeples his fingers in front of him, his expression growing pensive. “Many men in our world need what their women symbolize, to give them hope. Purity. Innocence. A defense against the ugliness and brutality of our world. A belief in… redemption.”
“But how can there be redemption?” I ask. “Made men take an oath. There is no going back.”
“Perhaps you are correct,” he nods. “Except, maybe… through the love of someone who sees deeper than the surface. Who sees something more in them.”
Antony’s eyes have left my face. He is staring off into the middle distance, his thoughts his own. This suddenly serious turn to our conversation unsettles me. The wordlove, appearing between us like this, feels confusing, given the performance we are currently playing for the world.
