Chapter Four #2
The conversation pauses when the food starts coming. Ornella brings dish after dish, all of it smelling so good my stomach growls audibly, which makes Noemi giggle. The food is unbelievably delicious. It’s like a feast for a king.
There’s pasta in a deep red sauce thick with crushed tomatoes, garlic, basil. It tastes like something someone’s grandmother would make. There’s roasted chicken too, golden-skinned and fragrant with rosemary, thyme, lemon, and garlic. The meat is so tender it pulls apart under my fork.
The vegetables are arranged on a platter beside it: roasted peppers slick with olive oil, zucchini with charred edges, little potatoes crusted with salt and herbs, and something leafy and dark green sautéed with garlic and red pepper flakes.
I don’t know what half of it is, but every bite tastes rich and impossibly delicious.
One of the best parts is the bread. Warm. Crusty. Torn open by hand and soft in the center, with steam rising from it. I drag a piece through the sauce and have to stifle a moan of pleasure. How have I lived without bread like this in my life?
I eat like it’s my last meal. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the food was in front of me. I’ve been running on adrenaline and caffeine for weeks. This is the first hot, actual meal I’ve had in longer than I want to admit.
Marcello’s mother watches me eat, her expression pleased. “It’s so wonderful to see someone enjoying their food. Marcello usually gulps down his dinner like he barely notices, and goes to make phone calls.”
He scowls. “That’s not true. I always spend at least a few hours at the table.”
Ginevra rolls her eyes. “Half the time you take your calls during the meal.”
He winces. “Guilty as charged. Perhaps I can do better. Thank you for the gentle reminder to be present with my family, Ginevra.”
She laughs. “You’re welcome, but I’ll faint if you actually don’t answer your phone at the table.”
As if on cue, his phone buzzes and a muscle works in his cheek as he ignores it. “See, I’m already improving.”
Noemi smiles. “You’ve lasted a whole three minutes, Marcello. That’s a new record.”
He laughs and my stomach clenches at how handsome he looks.
He’s already attractive, but when he’s open and warm with his family, Jesus, my heart races just looking at him.
It’s obvious they’re his world. For the first time since meeting him, I see he has the capacity to love as deeply as I love Fabio.
It’s shocking to see in a man who seems so hardened.
He meets my eyes and the warmth is still there for a moment. “See how they pick on me? They’re very mean when they want to be.”
“You probably deserve it,” I say without thinking.
Instead of getting mad, he laughs. “I don’t see how that could be possible. I’m virtually a saint.”
I can’t help laughing at that. “Okay, now that’s just a flat out lie.”
He grins. “You’re right. Being a saint would be so boring. It’s much more fun to be a devil.”
I smile in spite of myself, holding his gaze.
Mrs. Foschini watches our interaction with a funny little smile.
I go back to eating, and once I’m ready to burst, I push my plate away, patting my stomach. “I can honestly say that was the best meal I’ve ever had.”
“Really?” Noemi looks down at her plate. “I thought the sauce was too tart.”
“I thought it was perfect,” I murmur, wiping my mouth with my napkin.
“Do you cook, Elio?” Mrs. Foschini asks.
“A little. Nothing like this. When I make spaghetti, I’m ashamed to say I use jarred pasta sauce. I can make a pretty good grilled cheese. My brother isn’t a picky eater, thankfully.”
“Jarred sauce?” Mrs. Foschini says as if I’d admitted to a war crime. “Perhaps I can give you some cooking lessons. While Ornella does the majority of the cooking, I like to keep my hand in it. I’ve always enjoyed cooking.”
“I wouldn’t mind cooking lessons.” I smile. “I know Fabio would appreciate it.”
Noemi tucks a dark strand of hair behind her ear. “Mama taught Carlo to cook a few dishes. I didn’t think that would be possible. He’s kind of a neanderthal in the kitchen.”
Ginevra laughs. “He kind of is.”
I frown. “Carlo. He’s the one who drove me here, right?”
“Yes.” Marcello nods. “He’s my second-in-command.”
Noemi grins. “And the only person on earth who can tell my brother he’s wrong and live to talk about it.”
“According to Marcello he’s never wrong,” I say. It’s a joke, but I glance nervously at Marcello, worried he might not appreciate my sarcasm.
Ginevra snorts and Noemi laughs. Marcello’s mother covers her mouth with her napkin, but it’s obvious she’s hiding a smile.
Marcello’s expression is unreadable for a moment, then he says, “Really, Elio? You’re on their side? You’re my omega. You’re supposed to have my back.”
Relieved he took my joke in stride, I say, “I’ll try to do better, Master.”
His sisters giggle.
Mrs. Foschini gives another one of those funny smiles as she watches us.
Dinner continues, and the conversation flows with surprising ease. They ask more about my life back in Pennsylvania and about Fabio’s upcoming surgery. They include me without making it feel like an interrogation.
Despite Marcello’s promise, he does check his phone a few times, but for the most part, he stays engaged.
Eventually, the conversation turns to the family businesses, which surprises me.
I wouldn’t have expected them to discuss anything important in front of me yet.
It’s not as if they give me the combination to the safe, but they’re less cautious than I thought they’d be.
I’d assumed anything involving the syndicate would fall into “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you” territory.
Apparently not.
They discuss criminal activity the way other families might discuss what they should bring to Thanksgiving dinner. It’s obviously just a part of who they are and it seems as normal to them as working a regular job bartending is to me.
By the time Ornella brings dessert, something with biscotti and chocolate sauce, I’m feeling a little buzzed and almost content. Then the subject of the wedding on Saturday is brought up and my stomach clenches with stress.
“I’m sorry you didn’t have more say in things,” Mrs. Foschini says to me. “It was so rushed, if we were going to pull things together in time, I had to make all the decisions.”
“That’s okay.”
She sighs. “I would have preferred to at least give you some say in the cake.”
She’s acting like this is a real marriage.
She seems to have forgotten it’s a contract between Marcello and me.
I had no opinions about anything. I don’t give a crap about the flowers or the cake.
I’m only doing this for the money, which she knows, so it’s odd she thinks I’d care about wedding details.
But I don’t voice any of that because I don’t want to be rude.
If it makes her feel better to pretend her son is marrying for love, then so be it.
“There will be a lot of powerful and boring people at the wedding.” Ginevra sighs. “But they’re all important to the success of our syndicate, so you’ll need to pretend you’re madly in love with Marcello.”
Okay, so Ginevra certainly hasn’t forgotten it’s a fake marriage.
Marcello meets my gaze, a tiny smirk on his lips. “Luckily, I’m easy to love.”
I just lift my brows silently and he laughs.
Noemi meets my gaze and says, “Do you think you two can carry it off? Do you think you can convince everyone you’re really in love? I worry it won’t work. Then what will happen?”
“Well…” I frown because I have no idea if I can pull it off. And I too worry about what would happen if we can’t.
Mrs. Foschini gives her youngest a chiding glance. “You worry too much, Noemi. So long as Marcello and Elio dance with each other and kiss a few times, people will be only too willing to believe the marriage is real. They have no reason to suspect it isn’t.”
“Exactly,” Ginevra says. “And when Marcello gets Elio pregnant, that will seal the deal. The old alphas who tried to cause trouble will have to back down.”
I don’t love being talked about like a broodmare, but isn’t that what I essentially am? I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it. Literally.
After dinner, I say my goodnights and go back to my room.
For some reason, Marcello insists on walking with me.
I’m not sure why and I’d have preferred it if he didn’t.
He makes me nervous and I’m too tired to deal with him.
It’s been a long, nerve-wracking day. I just want to escape into sleep and pretend this isn’t my life.
We reach my bedroom door. “Well, goodnight.” I start to enter my room, but he puts his hand on my arm. I meet his gaze questioningly.
“You did well tonight,” he says softly. “My family likes you, I can tell.”
Surprised he’s trying to reassure me, I frown. “Does it matter if they like me? Nothing would change even if they hated me. We’d still go through with the marriage because it’s just business, right?”
“Well, yes.” He wrinkles his brow. “But life will be better for you if they like you. And they do.”
“Okay, well, thank you for telling me, I guess.”
He studies me. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” I laugh gruffly. “What do you mean?”
His gaze is assessing. “You seem grumpier than usual.”
“How would you know? You have no idea what I’m usually like.”
He frowns. “See, that’s not like you. You’re not generally so snippy.”
I let out a tired breath. “I’m just exhausted, Marcello. Don’t worry. You don’t have to handle me. I’m not having second thoughts.”
“I know that. You’d never back out of our deal because of Fabio.” His eyes flicker and he seems uncertain of what he wants to say next. After a moment, he says, “I’m sure you feel very alone right now. Is there anything I can do to make this situation easier for you?”
Is he hinting he wants sex?
“No,” I say warily. “I don’t need anything from you.”
He frowns. “Why are you being so rude?”