Chapter 9
Antonio
Letting Isabella decide where we would have lunch was a mistake. Even before we get out of the car, I know I’m going to hate this place. There must be a dozen decent bistros to choose from in town, but my wife chose a red barn that’s been converted into a casual eatery. I should have put my foot down the moment she uttered the words ‘rustic charm’ as if that was supposed to be a selling point. She seems keen to eat here, though, and I guess I have to learn the art of compromise if I want our marriage to work. In important matters, Isabella will have to defer to me. The least I can do is eat at the restaurants she’s picked. It’ll make her feel less like she’s living in a dictatorship if I let her have her way once in a while.
“How did you hear about this place?” I ask as I help her out of the car.
“We drove past it the last time we were here. I thought it looked like a cute place to eat.”
Cuteis not high on my list of considerations when choosing where to have a meal. The quality of the food, the availability of superb wine, a guarantee of discretion—those are the things I care about.
As we walk through the wide-open barn doors, my worst fears are realized. There’s stripped pine everywhere, from the exposed beams on the ceiling to the paneling on the walls. The center of the room is dominated by long wooden tables for family-style dining. The seats running along their length are hay bales draped with red-and-white-checked clothes. Wagon wheels, loops of rope, and rusting spurs from cowboy boots decorate the walls. I want to turn around and leave, but when I glance at Isabella, who is beaming in delight, I don’t have the heart to insist we go elsewhere.
“Isn’t this place incredible,” my wife enthuses.
I’m saved from answering when a young server rushes over. With rosy cheeks and plaited blonde pigtails, she gives off a wholesome vibe that’s in keeping with our surroundings. Her uniform is a long plaid skirt and white short-sleeved sweater with a bow at the neck. She’s wearing white sneakers and ankle socks. I’m getting mixed messages about this place. Is it a cowboy theme or are they trying to evoke the nineteen fifties? Perhaps it’s a bit of both.
“Welcome to Red’s. Table for… two?” The server looks over my shoulder to where David and Rich are hovering by the entrance.
“Yes,” I reply. “They won’t be joining us.”
“Oh, okay.” She worries her bottom lip with pearly white teeth. “Will they just be standing there because that might scare our customers away.”
Isabella gives me a beseeching look. She doesn’t like guards trailing. I turn to dismiss my men. “You can wait in the car.”
They’re close enough to help out if there’s trouble and I’ve got my favorite Heckler and Koch tucked into my waistband. The server leads us to a booth at the side of the room. She obviously guessed correctly that it would be a mistake to seat us next to the diners at the communal table. I help Isabella to sit before sliding into the seat opposite her. The grimace on her face as she gets comfortable amuses me. She’s obviously very aware of the plug in her ass.
“Our specials are on the board,” the server tells us as she hands menus to Isabella and me. “I’ll give you a moment to decide what you’d like.”
As she walks off, Isabella grins. “This place is great.” She glances at the menu. “Want to share a giant pretzel?”
“No.”
I scan the menu and try not to let my distaste show. The food isn’t what I’d typically eat. Pizza and sandwiches are fine at home but when I’m dining out, I want a more interesting culinary experience. I’m still scowling at the menu when the server returns. Stalling for time while I try to decide which is the least offensive dish on the menu, I wave a hand at Isabella, indicating she should order first.
“I’ll have the wings to start and then the Philly cheesesteak,” Isabella says. “My husband will have calamari and then the lobster club sandwich, no celery.”
I arch an eyebrow as my wife confidently takes charge of ordering our food. Normally, I wouldn’t allow it, but I have to admit there is something sexy about Isabella assuming control of the situation.
“And to drink?” the server asks.
“A bottle of the Malbec.” Isabella snatches my menu and passes it back to the server as if she’s afraid I’ll overrule her choices.
“Coming right up.”
As the server walks away, Isabella calls out.
“Wait. I’d also like you to take some wings, nachos, and a couple of pepperoni pizzas out to the guys in the two SUVs in the parking lot. Bring them sodas too.”
“Want to get them some ice cream while you’re at it?” I ask.
“No.” Isabella scowls, then lets her expression slip into a smile. “But send out a few slices of apple pie as well.”
The young woman nods and hurries away to do my wife’s bidding. I lean against the back of the booth and study the newly confident woman before me. She’s acting as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders after she told me about Joey Gallo but I’m not sure I got the entire story from her. Perhaps if I can get her to relax around me, she’ll tell me the rest.
“You know if my men want food, they can get it themselves.”
Isabella shrugs. “I thought it was a nice gesture.”
“Trying to win hearts and minds?”
“It’ll take more than a single lunch to persuade your men I’m worthy of being your wife.”
Isabella’s tone is flat. She knows she won’t have an easy time of it as she returns to my side. She sucks in a deep breath.
“So how did I do with ordering for you?”
I wonder if her reason for selecting my meal was to show she’s capable of taking care of me. Does she think I need her to prove herself worthy to stand with me?
“Apart from the wine, pretty good.”
“Yes, I knew you wouldn’t approve of that choice.”
“So why pick it?”
“You need to expand your horizons.”
I rub my thumb over my bottom lip as I consider her words. “You think I’m lacking in imagination?”
Because if that’s what she thinks, I’ve got a million ways to prove her wrong.
“Only when it comes to food. You don’t stray far from our heritage with culinary options.”
“True, but what beats a good plate of pasta?”
Isabella looks at me as if I’m incorrigible. I guess I am. I like nothing more than the flavors of my grandfather’s homeland.
A smile spreads across my wife’s face and for a moment I get a warm feeling inside, thinking that it’s for me, but her attention is on the server, returning with our appetizers. With her hands full, the girl has our already uncorked bottle of wine tucked under her arm. I must look as if I’m about to erupt, because Isabella reaches beneath the table to stroke my leg soothingly.
“Would you like me to pour the wine?” the server asks as she lays everything down on the table.
What I’d like is for her to take the bottle of wine back to wherever she got it and bring me one that hasn’t been opened yet. There’s no way of knowing how long it’s been open or if someone slipped something into it. I want to grab the server and point that out to her, but Isabella sends me a silent plea with those big green eyes of hers and I tamp down the urge.
“We’ll manage,” I say tightly. The young woman gets the message to make herself scarce and scurries off to tend to her other tables.
I lift the bottle of wine to my nose and sniff. There’s a fruity smell but nothing suspicious, not that I’d be able to detect poison, anyway. Something like arsenic might be obvious but there are odorless chemicals out there that can kill a man.
“I doubt anyone here is trying to assassinate you,” Isabella says.
She’s probably right. I pour a glass of wine for her and then one for myself. Tentatively taking a sip, I’m surprised by the pleasant taste of the rich red wine. I have to admit to preferring Tuscan wines but this Argentinian Malbec is passable.
“Well?” Isabella arches an eyebrow.
“It’s not bad,” I concede.
“You’re such a snob with wine, food, clothes,” she chides. “It’s exhausting trying to live up to your standards.”
There’s a genuine weariness in her tone. I wonder how big of an issue it was for her to keep up appearances. Did she think I expected her to dress formally all the time? Now that I think about it, her wardrobe did change after we got married. I assumed it was because she suddenly had access to a bigger bank account. Perhaps that wasn’t the reason she bought so many new clothes at all.
“I never expected you to dress to please me, Bella. You can wear whatever you like.”
“Really? So I can swap this…” She plucks at the thin strap of the chic beige dress she’s wearing. “For ripped jeans, a band t-shirt, and biker boots?”
She’s clearly trying to get a reaction out of me because that’s not the sort of outfit she would ever wear. Even before she was mine, she favored pretty dresses or slim-fitting pants with flimsy little blouses.
“I don’t mind what you wear.”
Isabella shoots me a skeptical look but doesn’t probe any farther. She picks up one of the chicken wings and takes a bite out of it. She gets sauce all over her mouth. A second after tasting it, her eyes widen and she blows out quick breaths.
“Spicy?” I can’t help grinning as she flaps her hand in front of her mouth.
“A bit.”
As Isabella sips her wine, I try the calamari. The greasy residue left on my fingertips reminds me why I prefer to use a fork and knife. Although I enjoy the taste of the calamari, the texture is rubbery. It’s been overcooked. I resist the urge to complain. Isabella seems to like it here and I don’t want to bring down her mood.
I’m about to dip a second piece of calamari into the lemon and herb dip it came with when my cellphone buzzes. I take it out of my jacket pocket and see that it’s Dante calling. Since I asked him not to call unless it was for a very important reason, I know something’s come up that I have to deal with.
“Excuse me a moment,” I murmur to my wife.
Getting up from the table, I swipe to accept the call and head outside where I can have more privacy. My guards, who occupy the two SUVs in the small parking lot, sit up a bit straighter as they spot me but I wave a hand dismissively to let them know they’re not needed.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Rico Mancini’s old man just came to see me.”
“Paolo? Why?”
“Rico’s missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
Although Dante is my closest friend outside of the family, I haven’t told him what happened between my wife and Rico. Some things should be kept between my brothers and me.
“Nobody’s heard from him for a couple of days. He missed his mother’s birthday.”
“So? He’s probably out fucking some whore and lost track of time.”
“That’s what I said, but it was Carmela’s fiftieth and apparently he’s never missed a birthday, especially not a major one.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “So what do you want me to do about it?”
“I don’t know, Tony, but Paolo was making noises about the timing.”
Sensing a headache is coming my way, I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Get to the fucking point, Dante. What is Paolo saying?”
“That it’s strange you took Isabella back at the same time the man in charge of her security disappeared. He claims they were having an affair.”
I grit my teeth. “Paolo’s barking up the wrong tree. Isabella wouldn’t cheat on me.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” My tone signals an end to that topic of conversation. “Anything else I need to know about?”
“Yeah, Enzo’s now the proud papa of a healthy baby boy.”
It seems I did the right thing leaving him behind. “Get in touch with Jenny at my office. Tell her to send flowers to Alicia and something for the kid.”
My assistant will know exactly what to get.
“And tell Matteo to watch the Mancinis.”
As I end the call with Dante, a sinking feeling comes over me. I already knew that Rico’s disappearance would raise questions, but I thought there would be a bit more time for Isabella to get over what happened before people realized he was gone. I just hope she’ll be able to deal with the inevitable scrutiny that will fall on her when we get back to the city. If she fucks up and suspicion lands on her, I’ll have to take action. I don’t want to start a war within my ranks, but I will if I have to. Isabella is mine and I will protect her, even if she’s hiding things from me.