“A writer, huh?”
She nodded. “I’ve always loved reading and had a passion for the arts. It fills me with an energy that practicing law never could. I mean, I like the law, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t be totally unhappy to be a lawyer—”
“But you wouldn’t be happy or feel as fulfilled as you would being a writer.”
She paused for a moment then nodded. “Yeah. That.”
“Have you ever spoken to your father about it?”
She cringed and shook her head. “I don’t think he'd be very supportive of it. He’s not a big fan of frivolous things and probably wouldn’t consider a career in the arts much of a career. He’s big on facts and practicality. He believes in hard work above all else.”
“If you’ve never talked to him about it, how do you know?”
“I just know my father.”
Nico nodded, surprised that he not only understood where she was coming from, he could relate to it. His father, like hers, was not a fan of frivolous things. He believed in hard work and practicality as well. Doing what his father did for a living—what he would be doing for a living—required that kind of mindset. Running an organization like the Santonelli family required focus and an iron will and didn't leave room for frivolities. But he doubted that her father had the same sort of concerns as his father.
“You never know, River. If you talked to him about it, if you shared your true passion with him, he might just surprise you.”
“I doubt it. But maybe, I guess,” she replied. “But what about you? What do you do?”
A wan smile touched his lips. “I work for my father,” he said. “Our family business has been operating for a century.”
“And what is your family business?”
“Importing and exporting goods like art,” he replied.
The lie flowed so smoothly from his lips, he felt bad about it. Nico was surprised to find that he didn’t like lying to River. He found that he wanted to be honest with her. He knew he couldn’t. There were a million reasons he couldn’t tell her exactly what his family business was. But as he looked at her across the table, gazing into those cool, crystalline blue eyes of hers, he realized the biggest reason he didn’t want to tell her was because he knew he'd done some terrible things. Nico knew he would continue doing terrible things in service to his family. And he couldn’t bear to think if he told her the truth about what he did, that she’d see him as the monster he sometimes believed himself to be.
He forced a smile onto his face. “Come on. There are some things I want to show you before our lunch date is over.”
She gave him a smile that made his stomach lurch. “I thought we were just having lunch.”
“I changed my mind. Trust me. You’ll enjoy it,” he replied. “And I give you my word, there are no expectations. Though, I can’t say there aren’t mild hopes.”
River’s laughter sounded like music to him. It was a sound he could spend all day listening to and never tire of.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”
5
After spending the day touring some museums and other cultural sites off the beaten path that Nico had told her about, River decided to grab some dinner. She walked down the narrow street, crossed over a bridge that spanned a canal, then turned onto an even narrower lane. The people she passed all gave her warm smiles and River grinned, feeling like a local. The restaurant she was looking for was unmarked. It was a local secret that Nico had let her in on and was supposed to have the finest food in all of Venice.
Halfway down the block, she found the red door she was looking for. River opened it and stepped inside, drawing the attention of the other patrons. The small café fell silent. It was like they could tell she wasn’t a local just by looking at her. It reminded River of that saying that people could smell their own. The patrons all turned back to their meals and the buzz of conversation picked up again, a young, dark-haired woman approached River, giving her a wide, warm smile.
“Welcome,” she said, somehow automatically knowing to speak English. “A table for one?”
“Yes, please,” River replied.
“Follow me.”
The café wasn’t very large and seated less than fifty. River looked at the staff in white shirts and black pants, noting that they all looked related. It was obviously a family-run business. The walls were all a saffron color with a textured, white sponging, giving them an aged look. A wooden trellis hung from the ceiling that was covered in plastic ivy and round, glass globes that filled the café with a soft glow. It was charming.
The waitress sat River at a table in a corner, near the rear of the café, and laid a menu down on the table in front of her.
“Your waitress will be with you in a moment,” she said.
“Thank you,” River replied.