But that’s not happening tonight.
Tonight, I’m partaking in one of the things I used to love about Utica. Tomato pie at Carlo’s Pizzeria.
My friends back in Sleepy Hollow don’t get it. When I tried explaining the concept to my buddy, Ian, he looked at me like I’d abruptly sprouted a second head.“No cheese?”he asked,“and no toppings? No pepperoni? What’s the point? Why not just have pizza instead?”
I like pizza, don’t get me wrong. But tomato pie is something special. And tomato pie at Carlo’s? Incredible.
It’s close to closing, now that it’s just past nine, which means I’m one of the only people left in the restaurant. So there’s no one to pass judgment on the veritable buffet of Utica classics on the worn and scratched table in front of me.
Not just an entire tomato pie—I’ll put what I don’t finish in the hotel fridge—but an order of chicken riggies, a plate of beans and greens, and two pusties for dessert.
Will I most likely regret my gluttony in the morning? Yes.
Do I care? No. Enjoying some of my favorite foods is more than worth it.
As I’m eating, I let my gaze wander around the small restaurant, taking in the checkered green tablecloths, the wood-paneled walls, and the painted landscapes of the Italian countryside set in gaudy gold frames.
The chef slash owner is busy in the open kitchen, humming loudly to himself as he readies the place for closing. Across the dining room is a wrinkled and gray-haired man reading thenewspaper while he drinks a seemingly never ending cup of coffee. And the lone waitress is sitting at a booth in the corner, rolling silverware while she casts an occasional glance at her only two customers.
Then the tiny bell above the front door jingles, signaling a third person about to join the mix.
Though it’s not the most polite thing to do, I can’t resist taking a quick peek. Staying aware of my surroundings is just too ingrained in me to ignore any possible threat, even in the most innocent of places.
As I look over, I’m not sure who I’m expecting to see. Maybe a friend joining the seventy-something man across the room, or the boyfriend coming to wait for the waitress. Or someone fresh from one of the bars down the street, cutting out early in favor of finding something to eat.
But she’s none of those things.
And once I get my first look, it’s nearly impossible to look away.
She’s curvy in all the right places, with flaring hips and generous breasts tapering to a narrow waist. Auburn hair falls in a long curtain down her back; the overhead lights picking up hints of copper and mahogany. And in profile, her face—heart-shaped, with full lips and dark eyes framed with impossibly long lashes—is one of the most stunning I’ve seen.
In faded jeans and an untucked black polo shirt, she’s dressed much more casually than the women I saw lingering outside the bars on my way here. But somehow, she looks ten times sexier than any of them.
As she walks inside, she scans the restaurant; her gaze inevitably landing on me.
Our eyes meet.
Even across the room, there’s a weird sort of jolt.
Then, two more things happen in short sequence.
First, I belatedly realize I’ve been staring at her. Ogling, really. And I’m busted.
Second, and more importantly, I spot the bruise on her cheek.
Everything in me springs to attention. My muscles tense. Alarm bells sound in my head.
This isn’t anoops, I bumped into somethingbruise.
It’s large. Fresh. Deep red and already swelling. Covering her entire cheekbone.
It’s asomeone hit herbruise.
My jaw clenches so hard pain slivers through my teeth and down my neck.
I’ve responded to too many domestic violence cases not to recognize what happened.
Someonehither.
