7. Anthony
— ? —
Anthony
Then - The Summer We Were Sixteen
Domenico Sartori comes to the guesthouse an hour after he walked his daughter up the hill.
My uncle is still at dinner with the other men - I can hear their laughter drifting across the courtyard. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed with my mouth still tender from her kisses, my heart still racing from the way she said I love you like it was the easiest thing in the world.
The door opens without a knock.
I stand up so fast I almost knock over the lamp. Domenico steps inside and closes the door behind him, and suddenly the room feels very small.
“Anthony Stallone.”
He’s tall and silver at the temples, impeccably dressed, and he smiles at me the way a man smiles at a waiter who’s brought the wrong wine. Pleasant. Patient. Absolutely certain that the situation will be corrected.
“Mr. Sartori.” My voice comes out too high. “I was just-”
“Save the lies. I know what you were doing.”
He walks into the room like he owns it - which, I realize, he probably does. He looks at my open suitcase, my shoes by the door, the paperback on the nightstand. He takes in every piece of it with those dark eyes, pricing me the way he prices everything else.
Not much, apparently.
“My daughter is very beautiful,” he says conversationally. “Very naive. And very mine.”
My throat closes.
“She thinks she’s in love with you.” He says it like he’s commenting on the weather. “It’s sweet. Girls her age, they fall in love with anything that pays attention to them.”
“I didn’t-”
“You did.” He turns to face me fully, and something behind his eyes has gone cold. “You came to my home as my guest. You ate my food and slept under my roof. And then you put your hands on my daughter in the dark like she was yours to touch.”
“I love her.”
The words burst out before I can stop them. I watch Domenico’s expression flicker.
“Love,” he repeats, with a fake laugh. “You’re sixteen years old. You don’t know what love is.”
“I know how I feel.”
“You know how your hormones feel.” He takes a step closer. “Let me tell you how this works, Anthony. In a few weeks, you’ll get on a plane and go back to America. You’ll start your junior year. You’ll meet other girls. And by Christmas, you won’t remember what Alessia looked like.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. It’s always true.” He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne. “My daughter will stay here. She’ll cry for a few weeks, write some poetry, and then she’ll forget you too.”
I shake my head. “You don’t know her. You don’t know us.”
“I know my daughter better than anyone. I know what’s best for her. And what’s best for her is not some American boy who’ll be gone before the leaves turn.”
“So that’s it? You just decide who she’s allowed to love?”
“Yes.” He says it simply. “I decide everything about her life. Where she goes to school, who she spends time with, who she marries someday. That’s what fathers do, Anthony. They protect their daughters from boys like you.”
“You’re going to leave tomorrow morning,” he says. “You’ll tell your uncle you’re homesick. You won’t say goodbye to her. You won’t write, and you won’t call.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can.” His smile widens, and it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. “And you will.”
“Why would I? What could you possibly do to me that would make me-”
“Not to you.” He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “To your uncle.”
The room tilts. I grab the edge of the nightstand to steady myself.
“Your uncle Richard is a good man,” Domenico continues, his tone almost gentle now. “He’s built something impressive - his business, his reputation. It took him decades. I could undo all of it in a week.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“I never bluff. One phone call, Anthony. That’s all it would take. One phone call to the right person, and your uncle’s partners start asking questions. A second call, and his investors get nervous. By the third call, doors that have always been open to him are suddenly closed.”
I’m shaking. Richard took me in when I had no one. He’s the only family I have left. The thought of him losing everything because of me-
“I’ve seen how she looks at you,” Domenico says softly. “Like you’re the whole world. She’ll survive losing you. She’ll cry, and then she’ll forget.”
He steps back, straightening his jacket.
“Your uncle won’t survive losing everything. And he won’t forget that it was because of you.”
I can’t breathe.
“One more thing,” he says, pausing at the doorknob. “If you ever contact her again, I’ll know. I have people watching her. I have people watching you. And if I hear so much as a whisper that you’ve tried to reach her, I won’t just ruin your uncle. I’ll destroy him. Do you understand?”
I nod. I can’t speak.
“Good. Have a safe flight home, Anthony.”
The door closes behind him.
I stand there for a long time, staring at nothing. Every time I close my eyes, I see my uncle’s face - the way he looked when he picked me up from my father’s funeral, the way he smiled when I graduated middle school.
He deserves better than a nephew who would destroy his life for a girl.
I start packing in the dark. There has to be another way. There has to be something I can do-
But there isn’t. Domenico Sartori didn’t become the man he is by making empty threats.
Tomorrow at sunset, Alessia is going to walk down to our spot at the end of the long row. She’s going to wait for me, expecting me to keep every promise I made in the dark.
And I’m going to be on a plane, watching her country disappear beneath the clouds.
I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hands against my eyes until I see stars. I don’t cry. I’m too angry, too hollow, too numb. But I make myself a promise in the dark of that room.
Someday, I’ll come back. Someday, when I’m older and stronger and Domenico Sartori can’t hurt anyone I love, I’ll find her again. I’ll explain everything.
And maybe - maybe - she’ll forgive me.