Chapter 4
Emilia
Iwas working at the counter when a very handsome guy walked in.
Six foot two…
Broad shoulders…
Dark, wavy hair…
Strong jaw with just a hint of stubble…
And soft brown eyes that reminded me of a puppy dog.
He looked to be a few years older than me – maybe 26 or 27.
I would have immediately fallen in lust with him if it hadn’t been for one thing:
The uniform.
It was a suit – a very nice suit. And by the look of the material, quite expensive.
It was black and perfectly tailored to show off his muscular chest and big arms.
A black silk tie was knotted at the collar of his white dress shirt.
His shoes were expensive Italian leather. Gucci, maybe.
Other women might have salivated over the clothes, but I only had one thought when I looked at him:
Mafia.
I froze where I stood behind the counter.
Back in Milan, I’d met guys who looked exactly like him.
Well… not exactly like him.
Definitely not as handsome.
And not nearly as friendly-looking.
Back in Milan, they’d tended to be older, uglier, and more pissed off.
But I knew a mafioso when I saw one.
Either that, or he was the best-dressed funeral director I’d ever seen.
He gave me a movie-star smile. “Ciao.”
I just stood there staring at him, unable to speak.
Not out of lust, but out of fear.
“An espresso, please,” he said politely.
I nodded the tiniest bit, then walked over to the machine and started fixing the coffee.
“You don’t want me to pay first?” he asked.
That was normally the way it was done in Italy. First you paid the cashier, then you presented the receipt to the barista so they could fix your order.
“I’m the only one working today, so I’ll trust you,” I said without looking at him.
“Well, I’m very trustworthy,” he said in a playful voice. “You new here?”
“Why?” I asked, keeping my back turned to him.
“I haven’t seen you around.”
“I just started.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
He kept chattering away until I brought the cup of espresso over on a little white saucer and set it in front of him.
“How much do I owe you?” he asked.
“You staying here at the bar?”
If they’re alone, most Italians drink espresso standing up at the bar. Tourists are the only ones who always sit down.
It’s custom, mostly. Drink your espresso, chat a bit, and walk out a few minutes later.
Not only that, but if you sat at a table, the price of the coffee went up.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“One fifty.”
He pulled out a five euro bill and laid it on the bar.
I took it and opened the cash register –
“Keep the change,” he said.
“An American,” I replied with a hint of humor in my voice.
He frowned. “What? No, I’m from – ”
“It’s a joke,” I said as I pocketed the change in my apron. “Only Americans tip that much.”
“Oh,” he said, finally understanding. “Well, I’m Tuscan, through-and-through.”
“That’s nice,” I said as I moved off to do some busywork behind the counter so I wouldn’t have to look at him.
He was disarmingly handsome. I didn’t like that. It made me forget he was mafia.
Like when I made the joke about him being an American. For a second, I’d forgotten what he really was.
He sipped the espresso.
“Mmmm – that’s great,” he complimented me, lifting the cup in a tiny salute.
I didn’t say anything. I just made a face like, Good.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Why?” I asked, a little bit sharply.
“Your hair,” he said, pointing to his own head. “Around here, I don’t see many blondes unless it comes out of a bottle.”
“Well, mine came with my head,” I said as I re-stacked cups. I needed something to do to keep my eyes off him.
He laughed.
I didn’t.
“You from the north?” he asked.
“Mm-hmm,” I said, still not looking at him.
“Milan?”
I still didn’t look at him. “Yes. Milan.”
“It’s a beautiful city.”
“It’s nice,” I said noncommittally.
“What made you leave?”
“Looking for a change.”
“Welcome to Florence, then,” he said. He put down the cup and stuck out his hand over the bar. “My name’s Giorgio.”
I ignored his outstretched hand and continued my busywork. “Hello, Giorgio.”
There was a long silence until he withdrew his arm.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked. Not mean. Not aggressively. More like curious with a side of slightly wounded.
I knew exactly what he meant. I was being frosty towards him, and he wondered why.
“No, I’m just very busy,” I said as I started stacking saucers.
He looked at me…
Then very slowly and deliberately turned around to look at the café.
There were two tourists at a table in the corner.
Otherwise, the place was empty.
“Very busy,” he said in a somber voice.
I laughed a little. I tried to contain it, but it came out like a snort.
It was the way he said it – so earnestly. Like he 100% agreed with me, and it was a matter of life and death.
“Ah, so she can smile!” Giorgio said with a grin.
I sighed, stopped what I was doing, and looked up at him. “What do you want?”
He frowned like he was confused. “What do you mean?”
“What do you want?” I repeated.
He dropped the frown and flashed me his movie-star grin. “Just to make conversation with a beautiful woman.”
I felt two things at the same time.
One, a flush of pleasure at being complimented by a really hot guy –
And two, a creeping dread at being complimented by a mafioso.
“I have a boyfriend,” I said flatly.
It was a lie.
But a useful one.
Giorgio tried to hide it, but he looked disappointed. “That’s cool – I’m just making conversation.”
“Well, I have a boyfriend, so I don’t respond to flirting from male customers.”
He grinned again. “Is that what I was doing?”
“Yes. Badly.”
Oh shit –
I shouldn’t have said that!
A nightmarish movie played in my head of him getting furious, then calling me a bitch and stalking me everywhere I went –
But he surprised me.
He looked at me in shock –
Then doubled over with laughter.
When he finally straightened up, he wiped a tear out of the corner of his eye.
“I’m gonna have to work on my flirting, then,” he said as he chuckled.
The corner of my mouth turned up the slightest bit.
He was just so… nice.
And charming.
And goddamn hot.
“Got you to smile again,” he said with a grin. “More like an eighth of a smile, but I’ll take it.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head –
But now I really was smiling.
He was definitely winning me over.
When I opened my eyes, he was still grinning. “I’ll leave you to your overwhelmingly busy café now – but can I at least know your name?”
I sighed. “…Emilia.”
“Emilia,” he said softly, savoring the sound of it. “A pleasure to meet you, Emilia.”
“Likewise,” I said shortly.
“Eh,” he said, not sounding like he believed me. “Maybe not this time… but next time it will be a pleasure for you, I promise. Ciao, Emilia.”
I arched one eyebrow as I said, “Ciao, Giorgio.”
He drained his espresso, flashed me one last smile, and walked out.
I watched him go –
And cursed silently.
Fuck…
He even has a great ass.
For a brief second, I thought, He’s probably nothing like Maurizio –
Then I pushed it out of my head.
I refused to even entertain the possibility, and forced myself to block every thought of Giorgio from my mind as I went back to my job.