19
Mia
An emerald-green dress with a Louis Vuitton tag, sitting in the back of a luxury town car, being driven toward the glistening lights of Manhattan—it’s enough to turn a good girl bad. I enjoyed the dress up–a dress like this would make anyone look fantastic–but it made me feel like a rich boss woman.
Getting to know Antonio’s little sister was fun too. She got so enthused by doing my makeup and bringing out shoes, jewelry, and hair clips galore. I felt sorry for her since she has so much money but nothing to do with it. All these expensive clothes and accessories just sit in her closet, waiting for a chance to be taken for a walk around the block with a bodyguard shielding all the fun from her. While she is still young and naive, I feel her pain at being kept inside, just as much of a prisoner as I am.
I ended up choosing a tall pair of simple black heels, not wanting to overshadow the simplicity of the slip dress with anything too flashy. To tie the black in, we settled on a small black clutch purse with delicate lace outside and black silk inside. All I had in it was the lipstick Fiona lent me, but it was more for the look than the convenience anyway.
There’s something about this side of town that stirs that feeling within my chest. It’s like coming across a scent you recognize from somewhere in your memories. You know it, but no matter how much you try, the information of what it is, or where from, just doesn’t come forward. Not at that moment, anyway. When we pull up to the restaurant, it’s not how I imagined it at all, as even from the outside, the place screams of class. Boulevard XXX is written across the expanse of two buildings. Above the door, Antonio guides me forward, it simply says Ristorante. As we pass the queue of people waiting to go inside, I realize that most of them seem to recognize Antonio, whispering and pointing as if he was a famous actor or something. Perhaps that’s the pull for a lot of people, to know that they’re eating in a place run by the mafia. I guess everybody seeks that danger in one way or another.
“After you.” Antonio lets me go first. There’s no waiting to be seated for us, as the small crowd inside parts like the Red Sea.
“Mr. Moretti!” The host or manager, whoever it is, gives us the star treatment. He sits us down within minutes. Antonio, with his black suit jacket, and unbuttoned white shirt, sitting under the soft glow of the restaurant lights, makes me notice something different in his appearance—almost as if that sense of danger people are so keen to see, the one he carries with him like a badge of honor, has calmed now with me on his arm. I don’t want to kid myself though, and believe that I’ve actually made the prickly, cut-throat gangster happy.
You know the place has a good atmosphere when you find yourself looking round to each corner of the room. To notice the warmth the brick walls give to the environment, how the music, although subtle, adds something to the experience. I don’t know why, but in my mind, I was expecting something far from what I’m seeing. Maybe a few tables scattered around with some Americanized theme of what people think Italy resembles. This place is not like that at all, and I guess the whole idea that a crime family are the ones behind such an intimate setting comes as a surprise. By the time my attention falls back to the table, it seems Antonio has ordered for us. I expect nothing less, and I shake my head at him and smile.
“What?” He asks.
“Nothing,” I answer, and go on to tell him how impressed I am with the restaurant. It occurs to me then that the strangest thought about all that’s happened so far is how normal it all feels. It’s as if the more obscure life gets, the more open you become to the circumstances that surround you. “It’s not what I expected.”
The manager returns and serves us a bottle of wine.
“What did you expect?” Antonio asks, he reaches over and clinks his glass against mine.
I do my best to explain my thoughts. I tell him how I felt on the drive over here, how being in the city conjures up something within me. The best way I’m able to describe it to him, or at the very least the nearest resemblance of the feeling I have, is that of coming home. It’s not only in your conscience but in your chest and heart as well.
“A yearning,” I say.
Antonio nods his head, and then the rest of the place may as well have disintegrated out of existence. He pulls all my focus into him when he starts to tell me about how the city embeds itself into your DNA. How his grandfather had come to America, as did so many, as a poor immigrant but managed to make a name for himself in Manhattan. More so, I can see the kind of pressure that it must put on a person. To think that generations of your family have dedicated their lives to one particular thing, be it the organization of a crime family or not, it’s enough just to know that probably before he could even walk, so much was expected from Antonio. I take his hand.
“I never do this,” he says, explaining how he doesn’t date other girls.
“So I’m the exception?” I answer with a smile.
The formalities of a normal relationship have already been thrown out the window for us. Yet, the normality of this evening tells me something about what’s happening between us. While it might not be usual or something he does often, the fact that he brought me out here, to this restaurant where he’s the celebrity owner, says a lot about how he feels about me. The conversation follows along those lines, ending with me admitting my regret for my past. What I couldn’t tell him, couldn’t find the words to say, was that this life, this danger mixed with glitz and glamor, with a dash of inevitable sorrow, has excited me more than anything else I’ve ever done. I don’t know how I would fit into this life—if that’s even a possibility—but I know that I’d like to give it a shot. Right on cue, saving me from my thoughts, the waiter brings our food over.
One by one, plates of delicate appetizers land in front of us, the manager explaining each one, and before he leaves, he unexpectedly whispers something in Antonio’s ear. When the passing of the secret messages stops, Antonio looks straight past me to the other side of the restaurant, and, like a switch of a light, that danger that I thought had faded rushes back to his face. He then pulls the manager closer to give his response, and the guy smiles at me and walks away with his empty tray tucked under his arm.
“Everything okay?” I ask, looking back to the bar where a guy in a leather jacket is clearly nodding toward Antonio, lifting his drink in the air. “A friend of yours?”
I’m not sure who that guy is, but the way Antonio tells me that it’s nothing and suggests that I try the food is pissing me off. In one fell swoop, he’s managed to veer away from the honesty he showed me before. Clearly, whoever this guy is, has gotten under his skin, because Antonio starts to clench his jaw, more so when I hear an altercation from behind me. Before I even turn back, the guy is heading our way.
From the start, it’s obvious this guy is not interested in whispering as he practically shouts his intentions. He tells Antonio that he wants a meeting or something. To my surprise, Antonio responds like a gentleman, even offering the guy dinner at the restaurant, on him. It must be important, because the man in the leather jacket insists that they talk now, to which Antonio excuses himself, and I’m left wondering what in God’s name is going on. I watch as they both walk off and out of sight in a hallway on the other side of the bar.
Now, I’m sitting alone, pushing bits of prosciutto around with my fork because any appetite I had left me the same time Antonio did.
* * *
How long is toolong to wait on a guy? What about one that took you from your house at gunpoint, and that until fifteen minutes ago, in a peculiar set of events, who you almost imagined yourself falling in love with? Almost.
“Do you know where Antonio’s gone?” I ask the manager when he comes and offers me a plate of meatballs.
“Sorry, I’m sure he will rejoin you at any moment.” That’s it, I’ve had enough.
I stand up and search the room for a chance that my eyes catch a glimpse of Antonio. With no luck I head to the busy bar, lean over and shout to the barman.
“Hey! Where’s Antonio Moretti?”