4. Alessio visits Luigis
FOUR
ALESSIO VISITS LUIGI'S
Alessio
Apparently, I slept deeply, since Sunshine left my bed unnoticed.
Not that I mind since I had no intention of spending the day with her, but if she stayed, I would have at least ordered breakfast for her and offered a ride back to Luigi’s, which, judging by the description of a place she gave me last night, is where she’s staying.
I blame my deep sleep on that third glass of whiskey, then remember that she and I shared two more shots after that. I wonder if she’s sporting a pounding headache like me. She probably is if she’s not a drinker. I’m unaccustomed to drinking more than two glasses of whiskey in a single sitting.
But I have no regrets.
It’s been a rough few months, and I needed what she provided.
I fix my cuff link while standing at the foot of the bed, the crumpled bedsheets drawing out memories of last night. There should be a pillow somewhere down here. I step back and spot a pillow I placed on the carpet so she wouldn’t scrape her knees. I toss it on the bed.
Near the nightstand, I grab my phone, wallet, and a piece of the headboard I ripped off last night. What can I say? The throes of passion made me do it.
I pick up the landline phone and dial the front desk. When Talia answers, I say, “Good morning to you. There’s a problem with the bed in my room. Number 801.”
“What’s the problem, sir?”
“The headboard broke.”
A pause. “I’m sorry, sir, can you repeat that?”
I smile. “The headboard broke and fell on the mattress.”
“Are you injured?”
“Thankfully, no.”
I hear her typing on the keyboard, probably pulling up the hotel room map. “Sir, 801 shows as vacant. Eight-oh-five is occupied. Is that where you’re staying?”
“I’m staying at 801.” Will she argue with me?
“Yes, of course, sir. I’ll send maintenance right away.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“That is all.”
Satisfied with how Talia handled me as a customer, I leave the room, which smells like gardenia lotion. In the hallway, I sniff the palm of my hand, disappointed that the scent of the lotion she accidentally dropped is gone.
I scent lavender and rose, the hotel soap my late sister picked for use in the hotels we own in France, which I adopted for use here as well. We should probably upgrade to stay up with modern scents, but I’m not done mourning her, so the soap that reminds me of her stays.
In the fully glass elevator, I slide on my sunglasses and pull out my phone, appearing busy without looking as if I’m avoiding people, even though I am. It’s Saturday. I spent a great night with a stranger I’ll never see again, and I’m as cheerful as I can be given the nuclear disaster two world leaders and I are dealing with.
The elevator reaches the ground floor, the doors start to open, and as I step forward, suddenly, the doors close, leaving only a tiny gap between them. I rear back just before I slam my forehead against the glass. I try the panel buttons, and when nothing works, I press the button for maintenance.
Only last night, I was with a woman who bent every which way I wanted her. She even snuck out of my room without me having to waste any more time on a relationship that was going nowhere. I hit the relationship lottery.
This morning, I’m stuck inside the world-class (glass) elevator of my own hotel.
People start to gather, wondering what’s going on. Talia from the front desk arrives, followed by a bulky man wearing a maintenance staff uniform who was probably on his way to the eighth-floor room I just left.
The hotel manager, a tall brunette with short hair and a sharp charcoal suit, arrives, recognizes me, and makes a face that makes me think she might get sick. Staff and some tourists stand in the lobby, staring at me, making me feel like a caged lion. Maybe that’s why everyone remains on their side of the glass.
I slip off my sunglasses and raise an eyebrow. “Brunella?” I prompt my hotel manager.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Angelini, but the door’s been jamming all morning.”
“All morning is a long time. Why haven’t we fixed it yet?”
“I did fix it,” the maintenance man mumbles as he bends to check the bottom of the door.
“If you fixed it, I wouldn’t be stuck in here.”
He continues to work on the elevator but can’t seem to get it moving again. I won’t be trapped in here all day like a zoo animal while people pull out their phones and film me.
I fit my fingers through the gap between the doors and start to pull it open with all my might, forcing the automated system to do manual labor. The maintenance man, seeing what I’m doing, helps, and I manage to squeeze through.
Most of the tourists clap. The hotel staff is not amused, and neither am I.
“Bill me for 801.” I make eye contact with Talia from the front desk. “That phone call was nicely handled.”
She blushes. “Thank you, sir.”
I dislike incompetence almost as much as I dislike people who take no responsibility for their poor performance on the job, and I’d be a crappy hotel owner if I didn’t point out the maintenance man telling me he fixed something he only patched up, probably hoping it would hold until it broke again. If an elderly customer who needed urgent care got stuck in there, that could escalate quickly. I can’t let it go, but I won’t address the issue in front of all these people.
On my way to the carriage, I text Brunella.
I’m disappointed.
We’ll fix it, sir.
Within one hour.
Deadlines are important; otherwise, people think they have all the time in the world when, in fact, they don’t. Time is finite. Ask my dead sister. You can’t because she’s gone.
On the street, the coachman tips his tall, beige hat, and I greet him with a nod before I climb into my carriage. The horses move down the streets of my island while I enjoy the touch of the crisp early morning sun. Seagulls, joggers, and a few families bask in the beauty of the day. Retirees meet around the gambling tables that were set up outside over the weekend.
Mentally, I’m sorting out my schedule for the day when my mind drifts back to Sunshine’s gorgeous body helplessly wriggling underneath me. Now, with a growing erection, I uncross my legs and reach into my pocket for my phone, intending to dial Brunella and ask for Antonio’s phone number. I assigned him to the girl last night, so I’m sure he saw her to wherever she needed to go.
What time was her flight? One, I believe.
It’s three minutes past eight now. She probably left for Rome already on a ferry, unless she’s flying out from here. Most overseas tourists land in Italy and then take low-cost boats to the island. We’re advertising in Italy now that I’m opening more gambling venues.
My thumb hovers over Brunella’s name, but, given the incident at the hotel this morning, I slide my phone back into my pocket. I could call any number of people to get Antonio’s phone number, but I don’t.
“Nicolo,” I call to my coachman.
“Yes, sir,”
“Let’s visit Luigi’s.”
“Yes, sir.”
No questions asked, even though my request is strange. This man has worked for our family since I was a boy. In fact, almost every member of his family works for me. His daughter is currently pitching me the fashion line she designed. I promised I’d wear the suits, which should help her get the permanent design position she’s seeking at the design company.
We pass a group of women sitting at a beach table near the sidewalk, and Nicolo waves at his wife and my housekeeper, who’s off for the weekend. Rosalba squints and waves back while they all point fingers, telling her it’s her husband. Rosalba needs glasses, but she refuses to admit her eyes have aged.
Nicolo parks across from Luigi’s neon-blue building, which showcases the colorful part of the island on this end. The moment I lifted the building code restrictions my sister Valerina begged me to eliminate, people painted their shops any way they saw fit.
My sister gets away with everything. Case in point, she is pregnant with twins, and I don’t know who their father is. I would kill him for knocking up my baby sister before marrying her, so maybe that’s why Valerina keeps her babies’ daddy a secret.
Not for long, though. A CIA operative is working to figure out who the father is, and as soon as I have a name, if I don’t attend Valerina’s wedding the day I meet her man, I’ll put out a hit on him. Knocking up my baby sister with no promise of taking care of her and their children is a death sentence.
“Sir?” Nicolo calls, pulling me out of my happy homicidal fantasies.
I tap my finger on the carriage door, wondering what I’m doing here. Sunshine and I shared a single night that lasted a few hours longer than any other romantic relationship I enjoyed in the past fifteen years. That’s why I’m intrigued. She ditched me. Which is admirable given my vigilance, but again, I blame that on the whiskey.
Everything can be blamed on the whiskey.
And since I’m sober now, I say, “Let’s make a turn at the Three Palms and head home.”
“Yes, sir,” Nicolo says at the same time that the blinds on one window begin to lift.
I wonder if that’s her room. “Hold on a minute.”