“Fantastic,” I reply picking up two green bottles. One holds a liter of fizzy and the other the natural.
Juliet picks up the antipasti and we make our way to join the men as they talk sports and no doubt business under the umbrella trees.
“Francesca, how are you dear?” Mrs. Micheli asks me as I head out. We met briefly at the door, but it seems I’ve piqued her interest.
“Mrs. Micheli. I’m fine, thank you. And you? Thank you for having me.”
“Oh, no problem, there is always plenty of food. Any woman Sal brings around is always welcomed.” She gives me a wink.
28
Sal
Iwouldn’t admit it to anyone, but my heart flutters when Francesca walks out with the antipasti. Mama brings the bread with a plate of olive oil.
Mama and Isabella are both dressed in flowing dresses, and I swear they are more like sisters than maid and employer.
Isabella smiles as she carries two bottles of Chianti, handing one to Dante to open.
He makes his way around the table, pouring wine into all the glasses on the table looking so debonaire.
Juliet would be a fool to not snag him. They do hit it off. Their affection is genuine and evident by the fact that they can’t keep their eyes or hands off each other.
I hope I can be so happy with Francesca.
Dante’s older, more mature, and Juliet— she’s smart and more stunning than she gives herself credit for. She’s adjusted to her new way of life rather well for a small-town country girl.
She likes her work doing the company’s public relations, having finished her internship with the largest company in Florence.
Francesca sets the plate of food on the table, leaning over it carefully. She looks up after her hand leaves the plate, winks at me as her eyes light up when they meet mine over the antipasti.
That ill-fated gala where she tried to kill me is only a few months behind us and yet, it’s a mere memory. A funny story to tell our grandchildren eventually.
I’m in love with her, but I’m not rushing into marriage. She has traumas to work through, and I want the timing to be right.
We gather around the table and say a blessing as we hold hands, and silently, I pray for peace. I squeeze her hand before I let it go to sample the meat, olives, and slices of parmesan.
Mama made her famous meatball and spaghetti dinner. She’s an excellent cook and it dawns on me that I don’t even know if Francesca can cook.
Riccardo is looking more polished than normal. I notice his goatee is freshly trimmed and he’s wearing dress shoes that look new.
That’s odd, but then again, the man is a fashionista. Between his days as Mossad and now Mafia, I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side—ever.
Sofia hands him a bowl of fresh grated parmesan and I notice that she blushes. It’s so innocuous, I never would have caught it if I hadn’t been watching with my own two eyes.
“This is the best sauce and meatballs, Mrs. Micheli. Will you share your recipe?” Francesca humbles herself to ask.
That’s a first, and I sit back in my chair and take her in, making sure she’s not touched in the head by the heat.
She feels my eyes on her. “What? I can’t ask for a recipe?”
My eyebrows furrow over my nose. “I had no idea you knew what a pot was for unless you’ve weaponized it.”
Dante and Marchello all but spit out the wine in their mouths before they have a gut-breaking laugh at everyone else’s expense.
“What is that all about?” Mama asks.
“Nothing, Mama.” Dante smiles and gives me an all-knowing glance.