17. Lunch with a Liar
LUNCH WITH A LIAR
Tre Limoni is empty when I enter. I glance around the interior of the restaurant a second time.
It was named as a nod to the lemon grove located behind my father’s villa, and there are potted citrus trees arranged throughout the main dining area.
Paper lanterns hang from the beams of the high ceiling, unlit since sunlight streams in through the street-facing windows.
Everything looks the same as the last time I was here. With the glaring exception of there being no one in what’s normally a bustling space.
I surreptitiously dry my damp palms on the skirt of my cotton sundress, the unease that always appears during these trips hitting me in full force. My life in Chicago is all a routine. That becomes boring sometimes, but I prefer monotony to my family’s dark chaos.
“Carina!” booms to my left, making me jump.
I square my shoulders and turn, watching Salvatore Caruso stroll this way with his tanned arms outstretched.
His tone is warm, the voice of a loving father.
When I was younger, this welcome was all it took to wash away the resentment that had built up during the rest of the year.
At twenty-eight, I have to force my lips to lift into a smile that I doubt is very convincing.
“Hello, Papà.”
He embraces me, kissing both cheeks before gesturing toward the nearest table. “Sit, please! Sit!”
I obey like a well-trained dog, sinking into the cushioned chair he pulled out for me, happy to have a solid surface under me.
I didn’t get much sleep during the overnight flight.
I dozed during the drive from the airport to Isabella’s family’s home, but remained awake for the final stretch of the trip.
The driver brought me to Salvatore’s villa, not the smaller cottage nearby, where I normally stay.
My stepmother showed me to an upstairs room I’d never slept in before and informed me I was expected to meet my father for lunch.
I showered, changed into an unwrinkled outfit, and wound up here.
A waiter deposits a bottle of wine on the table, setting an opener beside it and disappearing without a word.
Salvatore works the cork free with a practiced tug, his wide smile remaining and aimed straight at me the entire time.
My father’s attention is like the sun—warm when it’s directed at you and noticeably cold when it disappears.
“Why isn’t the restaurant open?”
“I didn’t want any distractions,” he replies, setting the cork on the table. “I haven’t seen you since last summer.”
I hide a frown. That’s always the case, yet he’s never closed Tre Limoni before.
“How are you?” he asks.
His intent interest is uncomfortable. Blinding.
“Good,” I answer, suppressing a yawn. “I’ve been busy.”
A lie. I have yet to shake the melancholy that appeared in Lev’s absence. But I’m not close enough to my father to confide in him, and I guess I’ve never fully lost some impulse to impress him.
“Try this.” Salvatore fills my glass with the Chianti he opened. “One of my favorites.”
I take a tentative sip, pleasantly surprised by the taste.
My father owns a nearby vineyard—another one of his legitimate businesses.
I don’t share his fascination with wine, but I’ve sampled enough varieties to recognize this is an expensive bottle.
I have no idea why it would be wasted on a solo lunch with me.
“Delicious,” I say, setting the stemmed glass down, and Salvatore beams with approval.
“Here’s the tagliatelle al ragù.” A steaming bowl of pasta is set in front of Salvatore first, me second.
I glance up. “Buongiorno, Luca.”
My brother nods in acknowledgment of my greeting. “Ciao, Carina.”
“This smells amazing,” I state, leaning over the dish and inhaling some steam.
Leo, my oldest brother, and Lorenzo, my youngest brother, both work for Salvatore, doing things I’d rather not think or know about. I assume Luca is also involved in the criminal side of the family business, but he serves as Tre Limoni’s head chef as well.
No reply. When I look over, Luca is staring at our father.
“Leave us,” Salvatore says in a dismissive tone normally reserved for me.
I rank last in more than birth order. There’s an inevitable stage during these visits when something urgent arises and our quality time together becomes an inconvenience.
“Enjoy,” Luca says, then disappears back into the kitchen.
My stomach gurgles as I pick up a fork, twirling it in the pasta.
“Eat,” my father urges, although his own lunch remains untouched. He’s swirling the wine in his glass, studying me intently.
I take a tentative bite, wary of the temperature, humming as the flavors of savory meat, garlic, and fresh tomato explode on my tongue. The food is always a highlight of these visits. I would never tell Isabella so, but Luca is a better chef than her.
I swallow the bite. Sip more wine, relaxing some. This is … nice. Normal.
“I was selected as first chair,” I share impulsively, although he didn’t bother to ask about the symphony.
“That’s wonderful,” Salvatore replies. “They are fortunate to have your expertise.”
It’s not entirely accurate. Generally speaking, there are more talented musicians than there are prestigious positions. But it’s a nice sentiment and more of a response than I was expecting, so I smile rather than argue.
“I hope so.”
My father has never disparaged my choice of career, but he’s never expressed much interest in it either. I’m not sure any employment, short of building my own illegal empire, would have impressed Salvatore, but a job playing music certainly didn’t achieve any admiration.
“Sienna is going to bring you shopping in Milan tomorrow.”
The rich food in my stomach sours at the mention of my stepmother. I carefully chew another bite, then reach for my wine. Take a larger sip this time, steeling myself for what’s likely to become an argument.
“There’s nothing I need.”
Especially if purchasing it requires spending time with Sienna, who is only five years older than me. Salvatore married her twelve years ago, the same summer I met Lev, making it obvious he was willing to welcome more family members—just not me.
“I am hosting a party this weekend. You’ll need a new dress for that.”
“I packed dresses. I don’t need a new one.”
Salvatore runs a hand through his full head of graying hair. His warmth is dimming, replaced by impatience. “This party is important.”
“And I’ll go. But I don’t need a new dress to stand in a corner all evening.”
He sighs, picking up his wine and continuing to ignore his pasta.
I set down the fork, appetite absent yet again. My sense of foreboding is increasing, not receding, yet I’m unsure why. Parties are common during these visits. I attend at least one, often more.
“Do you remember Nico Morello?”
“No.”
“He was at Leo’s wedding.”
Salvatore seems to be waiting for a response, so I say, “Okay.”
Leo’s wedding was nine years ago and attended by several hundred people. The suggestion I’d recall one guest is ridiculous.
“He is looking for a bride. He wants to marry you.”
I huff an incredulous laugh.
Salvatore remains sober. Serious.
“No. You’re—what—no.” The concept is too ludicrous to comprehend. “I’m—there’s not—I don’t exist.”
“He knows you’re my daughter. Everyone will soon. That is the point of this party. To announce you as a Caruso and to share the news of your engagement. So, yes, you need a new dress.”
I can’t breathe. This room is filled with trees, yet any oxygen is absent.
Acknowledgment used to be what I wanted most from my father.
I begrudged my brothers for being his recognized children while I was dismissed as a distant relative whenever anyone asked who I was.
I rescinded that wish the day I walked in on Leo washing blood off his hands in the kitchen sink.
I realized, as crimson-tinted water swirled the drain, that I didn’t want to be a Caruso.
I wanted a normal family. I wasn’t excluded from mine—it didn’t exist at all.
I stand. “I’m leaving.”
“Sit down, Carina.” The words are sharp and cold.
The sun has vanished, leaving a noticeable chill behind.
I think of Chicago. Of the old phone I left in the drawer beside my bed. Of the tranquil pool on the rooftop I’ve swum countless miles in. Of brunches with Lola and endless hours of practice on the symphony’s stage.
I never thought that freedom might be finite.
I remain vertical. A small rebellion, one Salvatore doesn’t miss. His nostrils flare. I glance toward the men guarding the door. I assumed they were my father’s security. Now I worry they’re not here to keep others out. They’re here to keep me in.
“I’m an adult,” I state. “You can’t keep me here. You can’t make me get married.”
We both hear the uncertainty in my tone, bordering on hysteria.
Because I’m not sure that he can’t.
Because who will stop him?
Salvatore finally takes a hearty bite of his pasta, appearing perfectly at ease. “Eat your lunch, tesoro.”
“You should be careful who you trust.”
Lev warned me, and I didn’t listen. I walked directly into my father’s trap. I wish Lev were here, and I wish I would stop wanting that.
I’m on my own. I always have been really, and it’s time I embraced that rather than pretend otherwise.
I grab the expensive bottle of wine off the table and fling it at the nearest wall. The crash is spectacular—shards of glass fly, and red liquid splatters. Yet there’s no accompanying sense of satisfaction or relief.
Salvatore doesn’t flinch. He calmly continues eating his lunch, seeming certain that will be the extent of my rebellion.
“You should be careful who you trust.”
Too late.