I nodded, refusing to say anything else. I could tell Nunzio was starting to catch on—there was a reason why I’d been coming here, searching specific areas where I could catch her scent. Adriano looked out at the water while stuffing his face, trying to listen to the man playing themandolino, not a fucking clue.
I hadn’t told any of the men why I was here. They reported everything back to my grandfather. If he found out about the deal between Silvio and me, they’d be ordered to take me somewhere else. Somewhere that didn’t have cars small enough to fit on the street.
“Italy becomes a big place when looking for one small woman,” I said.
Nicodemo grinned. The girl almost dropped the bottle of Amaro Averna in his lap when he did. She wasn’t attracted to him; she was fucking scared. He didn’t react, just told her in Sicilian to bring another chair to the table.
“Italy becomes a big place when one small woman doesn’t want to be found,” he said.
I waved a dismissive hand—neither here nor there.
“I do not understand your logic,” he said, ignoring the trembling girl as she sat a chair next to Nunzio. “People talk. Word travels. I would not return to a place whenyoureyes are set on it.”
I opened the bottle and poured myself a glass. I shrugged. “I’m getting to know her.”
That was the fucking truth. I watched her parents do what they did every day. I imagined her walking the streets here. Going to church. Raising her voice and waving her hands when she wanted to be heard. I had a clear picture in my mind of Alcina Parisi, though the features of her face and body were not in focus. If Junior didn’t take a picture of her, I wondered how attractive she was.
“Ah,” Nicodemo said, accepting a glass from me. “Your leads have turned cold, Scorpio.” He nodded to the tattoo on my hand, between my thumb and pointer finger.
They had, but I needed to widen my search some, go further out. I thought she would have stayed close, but all roads led me back to Forza d’Agrò.
The four of us grew quiet as seven men entered the restaurant. I put the glass up to my mouth, watching as Giuseppe led them to the table the girl had prepared. The older man, the head, took my attention right away. He was the one calling the shots. The other ones, besides the middle-aged man who was a younger version of pops, were all muscle.
I figured Giuseppe would leave their table after he welcomed them, head back to the kitchen as usual, but instead, he took a seat. Angela served them instead of the young girl. Every once in a while, she would turn her eyes my way, catching me staring.
Her eyes were not laughing.
“Tell me,” I said, nodding toward the table.
“The Balistreris,” Nunzio answered, keeping his voice low. He patted the spots where his guns were hidden underneath his shirt. Then he stood. “Let us go.”
I waved my hand down, ordering him to sit. “Relax and enjoy your dinner.”
He glanced at their table before he took his seat again.
“A problem,cugino?” Nicodemo said to me. He called me that sometimes.Cousin.
I turned my eyes away from the table and met his stare. He didn’t care either way. His eyes were asking me if I had a problem with what I was seeing. For some reason, it bothered me, Giuseppe sitting down to break bread with these men in his restaurant. He knew what kind of man I was the moment he looked at me, and I could feel that I was unwelcome from across the street.
The same feeling was strong toward these men, too, but different. Every so often he would wipe his head with a napkin when the conversation would start to heat up a bit, but mostly, it was whispers mixing in with the sound of the mandolin that would reach our table.
I wasn’t listening for the meaning of words. I watched body language.
There was no doubt that they were doing business of some kind. There was also no doubt that the reason Angela served them was because she wanted to be near the conversation. She wasn’t watching the old man, either, but the one I assumed to be the son.
Giuseppe stuck his pointer finger in the air and then came down with it on the table silently. He said something after, and as soon as he did, the son started to laugh—it was a fucking roar, and it messed with the sound of the mandolin.
What a fucking pity, that. It was a beautiful melody. He ruined the sound of it, like Adriano ruined the air with his cologne. It irked me.
“Incoming,” Adriano said, his face red. It always was when he had a few drinks after a heavy meal.
Tito Sala took the empty seat that Nicodemo had ordered the waitress to bring. So he knew he was coming. Tito got comfortable and ordered a seafood dish with a glass of white wine. He was the messenger, sometimes, between my grandfather and me.
We said little to each other over the phone, for more than one reason. The main one was that there was some animosity on my part for him ordering me to be here. He refused to update me on the Scarpone situation, as well.
There was no way my grandfather was going to let it slide, but I was going to take it a step further and find the ghost, Vittorio Scarpone, and finish him off if he was still alive. My grandfather respected Vittorio for some reason. I wasn’t sure what it was. I didn’t fucking care.
Tito glanced at the table doing business before he pushed up his glasses and turned his eyes on me. “Your grandfather has agreed to an arrangement with a bride.”
