Chapter 15
“I’m going to see how they make the pizza,” I tell Cec, leaving him alone in search of one of the other restaurant employees.
Cec responds, but I don’t hear him.
I approach the man beside the pizza oven as he removes one with a wooden pizza peel.
Though dressed nearly identical to Gino, he’s close to half his age and half his weight.
This close, the heat from the oven blasts me, and I’m definitely sweating through my dress.
Pivoting toward me, dark curls fall into his face, his eyes widening at my presence.
He places the peel down on the counter with the pizza still on top and wipes his hands on his apron.
“Posso aiutarti?” he asks, tone clipped.
“Inglese?” I ask, holding out my hands in a gesture to show me mercy for not knowing his language.
He sniffs. “Americano?”
“I see my reputation already precedes me,” I say, leaning my hip gently on the counter.
His mouth ticks in an attempt at a smile. “I went to Wharton School of Business for a year; I can recognize the accent easily.”
“Then how did you end up working here?” I wonder, leaning closer still.
He gestures at the owner. “Gino is my uncle. He has no sons and his daughters are all married now, so, here I am.”
I look him up and down. “Don’t tell me you’re not married.”
Heat reddens his cheeks and he ducks his chin slightly. “Not yet, signora.”
I gesture at the restaurant, still just as full as when I walked in. “You’ve never met anyone here worth considering.”
“My place is behind the counter,” he says, straightening. “Unless you need something, I have to get back to work.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he turns away from me. Well, that was a bust.
Seeing I won’t learn anything from him, I head back to Cec.
“Now, what did you do to Gino to garner such ire?” I ask, sitting down across from him.
Cec taps a finger on the eye of the raven on his cane. “Put it this way, he has three daughters and I know them all… intimately.”
“Cecilio!” I exclaim. A few patrons nearby glance over; I lower my voice. “You cad, I had no idea.”
“Yes, well, neither did I at the time. They don’t look alike at all, and, lucky for them—unlucky for me—none bear the face of their father.”
I scoff. “Ah yes, how sad for you, getting in trouble for being with three separate women.”
He grips the cornicello beneath his shirt. “Believe me, Tennyson was wrong in this case. It would’ve been better to have never loved any of them at all. If only to avoid Gino’s wrath.”
I’m grinning like a madwoman when Bes finally decides to join us. He places his jacket on the back of the empty chair beside his cousin before sitting.
“What are you grinning about?” he asks, not unkindly.
I lean back and cross my arms. This chair, too, groans from my shifting weight.
“Oh, enjoying my new familiarity with Cec’s misery over his sordid past.”
Bes grimaces. “Not too familiar, I hope.”
Cec winks at Bes. “Jealous?”
“Of course not.” Bes presses his hands together and clears his throat. “I’m simply worried for Miss Hawkins’ honor.”
“You’re a couple years late on that one, give or take,” I say.
I also want to say it’s not his to protect, but I don’t.
Bes blinks at me, and I can see he’s trying to decide if I’m being serious or not. Keep wondering.
He opens his mouth, but before he can question me further, Gino sets down three plates, each one laden with a hot, steaming slice of pizza. I examine mine closely, unsure.
“Why is this pizza slice square?” I’m used to round Neapolitan pizza.
Gino’s affable smile drops and he grunts. Clearly, I’ve offended him. I glance at the others, wondering what I could’ve said to upset him.
“Come now, Miss Hawkins, don’t insult the man,” Cec chides. Gallant, this one. “Haven’t you ever had Roman pizza?”
“Can’t say I have.”
I poke at what I believe to be a thin slice of grilled eggplant on top with my fingernail. Nonna has been trying to get me to eat eggplant for years with no success. When she finds out a stranger achieved what she never could in twenty-two years, I’ll never hear the end of it.
“We aren’t as… sophisticated with our pizza in the States.”
Cec laughs. “There are many things you lot aren’t as sophisticated with.”
I roll my eyes. “Calm down, King George.”
“é buona!” Gino assures me. “Trust the chef.”
I nod, swallowing the slight queasiness bubbling up in my stomach. When Nonna’s the cook, I love trying new things. But while I’m sure Gino is talented in his own right, I’m very particular about my pizza.
Picking up the thin slice, it holds its own in my hand, and I take a bite.
“Goddamn.” I groan at the explosion of flavors in my mouth.
I taste the eggplant, yes, but it’s seasoned and cooked to perfection—not rubbery at all, like I’d been led to believe. The thin layer of sauce packs a sweet and savory punch without being too tangy, followed quickly by the creamy taste of the fresh mozzarella and the earthy-sweet hint of basil.
Gino’s eyes widen and he fervently makes the sign of the cross. “Non sa cosa dice. Non sa cosa dice.”
She knows not what she says. I only recognize the phrase because Nonna used to utter it when I took the Lord’s name in vain, which was often. Now when I do it, she simply rolls her eyes and reminds me the Lord forgives all sins only if you pray for it.
“Perdonatemi, signore. My Nonna would have my head if she knew I’d soiled the Lord’s name in public.”
He brightens, my heinous blasphemy already forgotten. “Your nonna, is she here?”
“No,” I start. “I wouldn’t want her within a thousand miles of me at the moment.”
He clucks his tongue. “Too bad. If she is as beautiful as you, I’d be in trouble.”
Without waiting for my response, he hobbles back to the kitchen.
By the time I’ve turned back to my companions, they’ve nearly devoured their slices. I take another bite of mine, savoring the flavors once again.
“Gino may be a master at holding grudges,” Cec says between chews, “but he makes the best pizza in Italy.”
Bes wipes his mouth with a red cloth napkin. “I’m going to tell Nonna Alessa you said that.”
Cec gapes at his cousin in horror. “Please don’t—death by rolling pin bludgeoning is such a shit way to go.”
“There are far worse ways,” I counter, wondering if their nonna is anything like mine.
Just then, a bell slightly deeper than the one above the door rings out.
The restaurant quiets in that moment. I don’t dare speak to ask why, and instead strain to listen. Not long after, a set of uniformed footsteps pass by the front door. The black shadows they’re attached to march by the heavily-obscured windows without pause.
Bes holds out a hand for me to keep my silence and mouths, “Blackshirts.”
I nod, not wanting to speak despite others quietly picking up their conversations again once the footfalls disappear, as if nothing happened. As if this were a normal occurrence. I’m sure it is.
Swallowing the last delicious morsel of my slice, I lean in close, curious about our next move. “So, how do we plan on getting into Club Sotterraneo?”
Bes’s gaze flicks around the restaurant to ensure no one is listening in.
“The man I finished speaking with just then imparted upon me the riddle we need in order to get in tonight.”
“Another one of Arturo’s friends, I assume?” I ask sharply. “What about fuel and food and drinking water? You know, things to keep us alive and get us the rest of the way to the Dolomites?”
Bes casually lifts a shoulder. “That’s being taken care of as we speak.”
By whom? Another friend? Who else knows we’re here? I take a calming breath. Staying my voracious curiosity has become an impossible task.
“I’m growing tired of being kept in the dark, Bes.”
He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Believe me, I take no joy in keeping you there. Once we’re safe, you’ll know everything. I promise.”
I take stock of the small pizzeria. More people have left than were here earlier, and the stragglers appear to be engrossed in each other.
“It seems pretty safe here.”
Bes snorts softly, pressing his hair behind his ears.
“Have you already forgotten what happened at the Temple of Seti the First? You’re far too trusting.
I know for a fact one of Mussolini’s OVRA soldiers frequents this establishment, though we pay Gino well enough to leave a signal outside to warn us. ”
The sign balancing on the single hinge, I think.
“I haven’t forgotten what happened at the temple, Bes,” I tell him.
“And likely won’t for the rest of my life.
But I distinctly remember doing my best given the situation, breaking in and out of the Osireion with the Amulet of Amun in hand, saving your life.
” I lean forward. “And if I’m far too trusting, then that means I shouldn’t trust either of you. ”
He stares straight into my eyes, and I fight the urge to flinch away from the intensity there. Or to sock him in the face for being an asshole. Possibly both.
“We needed to eat and I needed to know how to get into the club tonight, so we came here.” He places his hand centimeters from mine.
“I’ll never forget how you saved my life outside the temple, but we’re not in Egypt anymore.
We’re in a fascist country, and for good reason—to learn about the God Men’s involvement in the Third Reich. We cannot falter.”
“And what can we do with this information?” I wonder. “What can your Uncle Arturo do with it?”
“Something more important than any one of us.”
Jesus Christ.
“I didn’t sign up for something more important than myself,” I argue, even as I remember my promise last night to help keep the amulet out of the hands of the Third Reich.
“Didn’t you?” Cec wonders. “What you and your nonna do, unearthing important historical artifacts and ensuring they have a place in their country of origin, is noble, and contributes to the conservation of the world’s history. If that’s not more important than yourself, then I don’t know what is.”
I don’t have an answer for that.