20. Anthony
— ? —
Anthony
Then - Our Engagement
Sunday dinner at the Sartori table lasts four hours and never stops being a performance.
There’s food and wine and conversation in two languages, all of it coded in ways I’m only beginning to understand.
Domenico sits at the head of the table like a benevolent king, presiding over his domain with that easy authority that makes everyone around him feel simultaneously welcomed and warned.
The aunts pass dishes and argue about recipes.
The uncles tell stories that might be true and might be elaborate lies.
The cousins drink too much wine and laugh too loud, and through it all, the family machinery turns and turns.
Alessia sits beside me with her engagement ring flashing every time she reaches for the bread. She’s chattering to her aunt about flowers - white roses or peonies, outdoor ceremony or indoor, string quartet or jazz band. Her happiness is so pure it’s almost unbearable to look at.
Euridice sits across from me and watches me like she knows exactly what I am.
I tried to tell Alessia in the vineyard. I’ve told myself that every day since, like it earns me something. Like the intention matters when the outcome is the same.
When she said yes before I could finish, I let the relief win. I told myself I’d tell her once I had enough evidence to be sure. Once the case was airtight. Once it couldn’t be taken back.
I’ve been telling myself that for weeks now. The pile of evidence in my locked drawer keeps growing, and I keep finding reasons to wait.
“Anthony.” Domenico lifts his glass. The table goes quiet, conversations dying mid-sentence, everyone turning to look at the head of the table. “Welcome to the family.”
Everyone drinks. I smile and raise my glass and drink with them, and the wine tastes like ashes in my mouth.
“Anthony’s uncle and I did some business together once, years ago,” Domenico tells the table, spearing a piece of veal on his fork. His tone is casual, conversational. “A good man. God rest him. Terrible thing, those roads.”
Zia Carmela crosses herself. One of the uncles murmurs something sympathetic. And under the table, Alessia’s hand finds mine and squeezes, because she thinks I’m grieving.
I am grieving. I squeeze back and smile at the man who killed my uncle while he chews, and I memorize every name he drops over the next hour.
The men who’ll be at the port on Thursday.
The cousin in Naples who handles the trucks.
The shipment that’s coming in next week that needs “special handling.”
I’ll write it all down tonight, after Alessia’s asleep. I’ll add it to the files in my locked drawer, another piece of the puzzle that will eventually destroy this family.
Access to inner circle, I wrote in my notes the week I proposed. I hate myself for being right.
When the plates are cleared and the women move to the living room for coffee and gossip, Domenico pushes back his chair. He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I don’t let myself flinch.
“Come downstairs,” he says. “I keep the good bottles in the cellar. Family only.”
Across the room, Alessia looks up from her conversation and sees us. Her face lights up - she thinks her father is accepting me, welcoming me into the fold, giving me the gift of his trust.
She beams at me like I’ve just been given a prize.
I follow Domenico down the stone steps into the dark.
The cellar is cool and quiet, lined with racks of bottles that stretch back into shadows. Domenico moves through the space like a man who knows every inch of it, his hand trailing along the wooden racks, selecting a bottle here and there and setting them aside.
“My father built this cellar,” he says, not looking at me.
“Before I was born. He laid every stone himself. He used to bring me down here when I was a boy and tell me that wine was like family - it takes time to develop, it improves with age, and if you don’t store it properly, it turns to vinegar. ”
I make an appropriate sound of appreciation.
“You know what else he told me?” Domenico pulls a bottle from the rack and holds it up to the single bare bulb, examining the sediment. “He told me that the cellar is where you take people when you want to have a real conversation. No witnesses. No interruptions. Just honesty.”
He sets the bottle down and turns to face me.
“So let’s be honest, Anthony. Why did you really come back?”
I hold his gaze. “I told you. I love your daughter.”
“Yes, you told me that at the wedding.” He takes a step closer. “But I’ve been watching you. The way you pay attention to conversations that don’t concern you. The way you remember names and dates and details that most men would forget before they finished their wine.”
My heart is pounding, but I keep my face neutral. “I’m a detail-oriented person.”
“You are.” He smiles, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “So am I. That’s why I’m going to give you some advice, from one detail-oriented person to another.”
He leans in close enough that I can smell his cologne - the same heavy, sweet scent from the guesthouse, the scent that still makes my stomach turn.
“Whatever you think you’re doing,” he says softly, “stop. My daughter loves you. I’m willing to let that be enough, for her sake. But if I find out you’re here for any reason other than her, I will make what happened to your uncle look like a mercy.”
He steps back, pleasant again, and reaches past me for another bottle.
I stand in the cold with my heart going and one clean thought in my head.
He just told me.
Not in any way I could carry out of this cellar.
No recording, no paper, nothing but his voice and my word against a man this family would die for.
But he said it out loud to my face, and now I know, and the knowing is the part that finishes me.
Until tonight I could have walked away from all of it and called it grief.
After tonight, every Sunday I sit down at that table is something I chose.
He pulls back, his expression pleasant again, and selects another bottle from the rack.
“Now. Let’s bring these upstairs. The women will be wondering what’s keeping us.”