Chapter 11 Grace #2
"I’m guessing your mother liked to pit you against your sisters?"
"It was one of the ways she used to control us, yes."
That's just the tip of the iceberg.
Every single day, I had to hear about how beautiful my sisters were compared to me. A part of me wanted to resent my sisters for it, but I knew it wasn't their fault. I also knew that my mother was trying to divide us because she couldn't stand how close the three of us were.
"She sounds like a bitch," he says.
A laugh bubbles from my throat.
"She is a bitch."
"Fuck her."
"Fuck her," I repeat.
It feels scandalous to say that out loud, but it's also so liberating.
We stop in front of a restaurant that's tucked into a narrow, cobbled lane. The aroma of rosemary and freshly baked bread drifts to me, mingling with the salty spray of the ocean.
I step off the Vespa. Dante helps me with the helmet clasp like I'm a toddler. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he pretends not to notice.
With his hand over the small of my back, he guides me inside. The staff greet him with cheery smiles as soon as they see him.
I glance around the restaurant. It appears to be a small, family-owned business. There are black-and-white photographs of the owner's large family on the walls. There are also only about seven tables in total—three of which have magnificent views of the ocean.
"It's gorgeous," I say, marveling at the view.
"It's Praiano's hidden gem," he says. "Only the locals know about this spot."
Praiano. I tuck that information away in my head.
If I remember correctly from my atlas, it's a small town along the Amalfi coast.
We're given one of the tables facing the ocean. Dante helps me into my chair before sitting down across from me. He can be such a gentleman when he wants to be. I have goose bumps on my arms even though it's a warm summer afternoon.
The server comes over to our table. He's smiling, but I notice that his hands are trembling.
"Benvenuti. Would you like the usual, signore?”
"For me, si," Dante says. "But let the lady choose what she likes."
The server turns his attention to me. He tells me the specials in rapid Italian.
"He says that he recommends the truffle gnocchi or grilled branzino,” Dante translates. "They also have sourdough toast with avocado and eggs if you want something from the breakfast menu."
"Oh, I'll have a salad," I say automatically.
"Just a salad?" Dante asks.
"Mm-hmm," I say, keeping my eyes on the cutlery.
I feel him watching me. And then he turns to the server and orders a long list of food.
A few minutes later, small plates of all the specials are on the table.
"You ordered everything?" I ask, looking at the chalkboard. There are six specials written there, and sure enough, there are six dishes on the table.
"You're in Italy, little bird," he says. "You can't just eat a salad and call it a meal."
Being raised by an almond mom meant I heard constant criticism about my body size. She taught me to be mindful about every bite I took. She told me that I had to chew a hundred times before swallowing.
"Why do I have a feeling your mother has something to do with this?" He narrows his eyes at me.
I look up at him in surprise. He has an uncanny way of reading my mind.
"What did we say on the Vespa?" he asks.
"Fuck her?" I whisper.
"That's right, fuck her," he says. "Now please eat before you offend the restaurant owner's ancestors."
I giggle. "I don't want to offend anyone's ancestors."
"Good girl," he growls.
Heat spreads from my core, curling around my heart and sending blood rushing through my veins. I take a bite of the wild mushroom gnocchi to hide my reaction.
It's so good that it makes me forget what I'm flustered about.
"Oh my," I say. "This is delicious."
We finish every plate. Just when I think I can't possibly have another bite, dessert is served—a custard pie with pine nuts and powdered sugar.
I spoon some into my mouth. It has a perfectly crumbly, buttery base and has the creamiest filling. This is probably the best meal I've ever had.
Dante leans back in his chair, watching me.
"There's something I need to tell you," he says after I take my last bite.
"Okay?" I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
He stares at me and then looks at the water. His high cheekbones and sharp features make my pulse flutter.
Out of nowhere, I get the feeling that all of this feels too good to be true.
This delicious meal, the ocean view, the handsome man with the good manners. And most of all, this light and airy feeling that's been bubbling to life inside me since I woke up this morning.
"As you might have already guessed, I'm part of a criminal organization," he says. "It's called the Camorra. We've been ruling over this part of Italy for centuries. We're composed of different clans, but they all answer to me. And I answer to the Don."
I watch him as he speaks. His head is turned away. He still won't look at me.
"My Don is currently in an American prison," he says. "However, he has liberties that other prisoners don't. He has ways of finding out about everything that happens in our world. He might be behind bars, but he's still very much running the show."
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.
He looks at me then. And I can tell by the anguish in his eyes that whatever he's about to say will break my heart.