Chapter 2 - Portia
As Francesca promised, the car arrives at seven sharp.
Jayla’s still in the bathroom doing her hair. I’m half smiling, half rolling my eyes when I come over to yank the edge control brush out of her hands.
“Sissy, what the fuck?”
“Time to go. Your baby hairs are as laid as can be.”
“I was thinking about changing my outfit?—”
“You change again and there’s not going to be a car outside when you’re done. I’ll be on my way to dinner without you.”
My threat’s like a joke to her. She laughs and tosses an arm around my shoulders, squeezing me against her side like the sisters we are.
“Okay, okay. Chill. Wasn’t I the one that wanted to go? Not you?”
“Yes,” I admit, “then you made me spend an hour and a half getting dressed up. I’ll be damned if I put this much makeup on to go down the block to a local café.”
“You look beautiful, cuz.”
“We both do.”
I wink at her as we lock up the loft and ride the old-fashioned caged elevator down to the ground floor. We stride onto the street outside like two fabulous, well-off women out for a night of partying.
We might as well be considering how good we look—Jayla’s in a golden jumpsuit and hoop earrings she’s paired with sandal heels and a clutch purse while I opted for a flowy maxi dress.
The green florals pop against my mocha-brown complexion and pay tribute to the vibrant colors surrounding us in Sicily.
I’ve left my hair in loose waves and dabbed on my favorite perfume.
Hints of jasmine and rose and an undercurrent of sandalwood.
Most men find it irresistible.
Not that I’m trying to be irresistible to any man tonight.
I’ve sworn off men. Lincoln Powell ensured that much when he crushed any sense of hope and broke my heart.
I married him thinking I would have a partner I could rely on for life and wound up with a man child who expected me to be his second mother.
But that doesn’t mean it isn’t fun to tease men every once in a while. On vacation in Sicily happens to be one of those times where it seems like a perfect opportunity.
The chauffeur gets out to open the rear door for Jayla and me.
He’s cute.
Young and eager, with dimples, barely speaking a word of English.
We communicate with lots of smiles and nods of our heads.
Jayla shudders from excitement the entire trip. As we drive farther out of the village, she leans close and whispers about where we’re going.
“I wonder if we’ll meet anyone famous.”
I laugh. “Why would we meet someone famous?”
“If we’re going where I think we are, Mr. Calderone’s restaurant is a huge hotspot for the rich and famous.”
“Since when do you know about random Italian businessmen?”
“Google helps,” she answers. “The man is worth billions. He’s one of the richest Italian men in the world.”
“Okay, gold digger.”
“I’ll be a gold digger if it means crying myself to sleep on a pillow stuffed with Benjamins.”
We’re so busy snickering and chatting among ourselves it takes us a second to realize the car’s stopped. Our friendly chauffeur has gotten out to open the door.
We’ve finally arrived at Mr. Calderone’s establishment, Appetito.
We’re ushered from one door to the next, passed off from the chauffeur to the doorman waiting outside a marvelous stone baroque building.
“ Buona sera ragazze .”
The doorman nods politely, guiding us through wooden doors twice as tall as we are. They’re heavy and bear carvings that look at least a century old.
The entire building must be that old… or more.
There’s a historic vibe in the air that blends perfectly with the more lush and modern furnishings inside.
I drag my gaze from the vaulted ceilings and antique artwork and take in the warm glow from the candlelit chandeliers.
A third man greets us in a tailored server uniform of a vest, white button-down shirt, and dress pants.
Giving a quick bow, he leads us from the vestibule down a hall lined with leafy plant life, tasteful accent furniture, and more artwork.
We walk through an archway that opens up to a sprawling space known as the formal dining room.
Jayla and I both stop short.
The large dining room’s full of dozens of tables where people dine over wine and Sicilian food so authentic, the savory herbs and spices are fragrant in the air.
It’s almost like we’ve stepped into the past.
The men all look fit and fine in black suits and ties while the women pair their finest jewelry with sparkling cocktail dresses.
Everything’s perfect. The small details in the room like the vines climbing the walls and wrapping around the stone columns. Even the archways on the opposite end leading to a terrace where the sea can be seen in the distance…
As if the ground floor weren’t enough, there’s a huge balcony overlooking the entire dining room. A second level that seems to offer even more prestige and exclusivity than the formal setting on the ground floor.
“Ladies,” says the host in his tailored vest, “please follow me.”
We blink out of our shock and do as he says, obediently trailing after him. He leads us to one of the bigger tables with four men and two women already in the middle of a conversation in Italian.
“ Tutti, gli ospiti del signor Calderone sono arrivati. ”
A man smoking a cigar almost chokes on it trying to reply. He vaguely resembles Santa Claus—except Sicilian—as he smiles up at us, the hazy smoke from his cigar almost blending with his thick white beard.
“Ah, you must be the special guests,” he says in passable English. “Welcome, ladies. My name is Anthony. This is my son, Anthony Junior. His wife, Olivia. The two men beside you are Maurizio and Adagio. And the lovely little sulking woman at the end is Sofia.”
Jayla and I smile and nod at everyone around the table as we tuck ourselves into our chairs. At minimum everyone returns our nods—some, like Adagio even wave or smile—except for Sofia. She’s a petite brunette who is indeed sulking, arms crossed over her chest and her head turned to the side.
I glance knowingly at Jayla. It’s a gift of ours, being able to read each other’s mind.
One look, and we’ve agreed to stay the hell away from Sofia and her bad attitude.
“Thank you for having us,” I say to everyone else. “We didn’t realize part of our prize would be a nice dinner like this.”
“Mr. Calderone only likes the best,” says Anthony. He holds his arms out to gesture at the room we’re in. “As I’m sure you can see from his restaurant. He insisted on the winners joining us. Is this your first time in Sicily?”
“Yes and no. I was here once as a kid. But it is for Jayla.”
“This is my first time even out of the country, period,” Jayla adds.
“Excellent. Then we must make sure your stay is memorable.”
The more Anthony talks, the more certain I am he’s familiar with Americans. He’s probably even spent an extensive amount of time in the States, if not lived there himself.
My theory is proven correct when his son mentions his trip to Newport City next week.
“Do you visit often?” I ask.
Anthony Jr. snorts, puffing on a cigar like his father. “Often? It’s his favorite place in the world.”
“Second to Sicily,” he corrects. “Newport City is the place where dreams come true. I’m sure you ladies would agree.”
Jayla smiles. “Weird coincidence. We’re actually from Newport.”
I step on her foot under the table. She gets the hint and offers no further details.
The conversation evolves to the beaches in the local area. Adagio speaks in a much thicker accent than both Anthonys, recommending which beaches to visit and the ones to avoid.
We’re served large platters of pasta and lasagna that I already know I won’t be finishing. I dig in anyway, almost moaning at how good the food tastes. The pasta’s arguably the best I’ve ever had, clearly homemade. The cheeses are fresh while the meat is seasoned just right.
I swallow my bite of lasagna and sit for a second savoring the flavors. I’m practically salivating at how delicious it is when I sense eyes on me.
Eyes that don’t belong to anyone at the table.
Someone’s watching.
Intuition leads me to them. Glancing up, my gaze scans the cavernous room until I find the culprit—a mysterious man in a suit and tie on the second level. He’s standing at the balcony staring down at our table.
Staring right at me.
He’s the type of man that’s as handsome as he is mysterious. Dark hair and dark eyes; the second our gazes connect, a sharp shiver jolts down my spine.
I’m not sure how I know. It’s more of a sense. But he’s important. He’s definitely exclusive enough for the second floor of the restaurant. He carries that kind of air about him, like he’s the most important man in the room the moment he walks in.
And he can’t take his eyes off me.
He won’t look away.
As seconds pass us by, it becomes more clear I’m the one he’s watching.
Unsure how else to respond, I blink and then look away. I force myself to tune back into the conversation going on around the table. Anthony is telling Jayla about how he’s possibly the only Sicilian who prefers Newport pizza over the pizza in Sicily.
“That speaks to your taste, does it not?” Olivia quips, arching a penciled brow.
“My dear Olivia, you have married into my bloodline. What of your taste?”
A few of the others chuckle around the table.
Dinner is more enjoyable than I originally anticipated. I laugh along as the conversation bounces from topic to topic and everyone except Sofia and Maurizio are lively and engaging. Once or twice, I check the balcony to see if the mystery man is still watching me.
But he’s gone. Vanished as if I were imagining things in the first place.
I file it away, deciding to pretend it never happened.
Once we’ve had dessert and we’re ready to go, Jayla and I excuse ourselves to the ladies’ room.
“Oh, damn. This is Finkle. I should take it.”
“Sissy, what happened to no work while on vacay?”
“He’s calling , Jayla. That means it’s important.”
We part ways, with Jayla heading into the women’s bathroom while I try to find a spot in the massive restaurant where I have cell reception. I end up stepping outside through a side door.
The night’s cool air brushes against my skin and feels refreshing after so much cigar smoke.
“Hello, Finkle? Didn’t you promise you wouldn’t call me on vacation? Finkle?” I hold out my phone in hopes of checking the number of bars on my screen. “Hello? Hello!?”
I’m stepping down the narrow passageway outside the restaurant and another building, paying little mind to where I’m going. I don’t spot the guy rapidly approaching until it’s too late.
“Ow!”
My body collides with the stone wall of the building as my phone flies out of my hand and skids to the floor. The man that’s shoved me produces a pocketknife that he quickly presses against my throat.
“ Non urlare. Dammi la tua borsa .”
“I… I… I… don’t speak… I can’t… Italian…”
He makes an impatient rumbly noise, then snatches at the clutch purse dangling from my wrist. I go rigid, somehow shaking yet standing still at the same time.
“ Grazie bellissima ,” he says, turning to run off.
But he doesn’t make it very far.
A fist slams into his face, knocking him off his feet. He crashes down on the cobblestone ground, his eyes vacant and nose spurting blood. My wristlet tumbles out of his grasp and lands in a puddle a few feet away.
I’m panting from the shock of it all, blinking wide-eyed and speechless.
I look from the mugger on the ground to the man who knocked his lights out. The same man who had stood on the balcony earlier and watched me as if I were the most fascinating sight in the world.
He holds out his hand—the same hand he used to punch the mugger—to introduce himself.
“Hello, dolcezza . Rafael Calderone.”