“Mari.” He nodded. “Alcina.” His eyes lingered. Then he cleared his throat when he looked at Mari again. “Would you mind giving Alcina and I a moment alone?”
Mari nodded. “I’ll check on the girls at the bar.”
I wanted to look at her, to narrow my eyes and shake my head, because I did not want to be alone with him, but I did not want to make it obvious. I was not afraid to be alone with him—I had been before in Modica—but I did not think it was appropriate. However. What the Faustis wanted, the Faustis got. I suspected that was why Nunzio had not stepped into the room.
The door closed, and instead of taking Mari’s seat, he took one on the edge of the table, one leg dangling. “You look beautiful, Alcina,” he said. “Marriage and motherhood suits you.”
“Grazie,” I said, picking my glass up, taking a sip, trying not to look at him too long. But again, trying not to make it obvious.
These men, like my husband, were not ordinary. Subtlety was an art form to them. If our eyes lingered for too long, he would think I was interested or challenging him. If I blatantly looked away from him, he would either think I was being rude or I was interested again but did not want to show it. Either way, it was a fine line.
“What is your daughter’s name?”
“I thought you would know,” I said. “You seem to know everything.”
“I do,” he said. “I want you to tell me.”
“Eleonora Lucia Capitani,” I said.
He repeated her name, without her last, pronouncing it perfectly. “I am sure she is as gorgeous as hermamma.”
“Listen,” I said, this time looking him in the eye. “I do not have much time. What did you want to speak to me about?”
“I wanted to make sure you were happy,” he said in Sicilian. “I have always cared about you.”
“I am,” I said. “So even though your concern is appreciated, it is wasted.”
We stared at each other, before I slowly broke eye contact and took another drink of water. Some of the women in Modica said that the color of his eyes was stolen from the Sicilian sea, right when the sun starts to sink into the horizon. But he was looking for his great love. He would not find it in me. I did not have it to give to him. Never had.
He laughed, and it was raspy and quiet. “You’ve always bitten back,” he said.
I looked up and he winked at me. He stood from the table and started making his way toward the door. He stopped when he got there. “Have you seen Amadeo since you arrived in New York?”
I shook my head, reaching for my glass again. “No.”
He stared at me, but in a different way this time. It was like he was thinking before he spoke. Usually the words just rolled off his tongue, each and every word perfectly executed.
“I will tell the aunts you enjoyed their food,” he said, nodding to the plate. “Amadeo had them create the menu.” He fixed his suit. “It was good to see you, Alcina. If you ever need me, you know how to find me.”
The glass fell out of my hands, clattering to the plate, the remaining water, lemon, and ice spilling onto the gorgeous arrangement. A piece of glass had fallen into my lap. I hissed when I picked it up and it cut my finger. Blood ran down, but I did not even bother to clean it up when Mari stepped back into the room.
She eyed me uneasily, like she was unsure.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered.
She nodded to my hand. “You’re bleeding.”
“Fuck the blood.” I hit the table. “Amadeo owns this restaurant. The man Corrado has been looking for.”
She sighed and took a seat. She refused to look at the cut on my hand. Her face was pale. “He does. He owns this place. The Club, too.”
“He’s Vittorio Scarpone.” It came to me then. The last time I had probably heard his real name was when I was a child. We had always called him Amadeo for as long as I could remember. Anna used to joke that he was so important that he did not need a last name.
“Correct,” Mari said. “It’s…funny how that works out. You’re looking right at something, all signs pointing, but you don’t see. Not until it’s meant to make sense.”
“That means…” The tightness in my throat was a warning that my food was about to come back up.
“That means.” She sighed again. “Vittorio killed my mom and my dad—or that man, as I call him. Corrado Palermo was his name. But Vittorio saved me and then hid me.”
