"That is very Italian."
I laugh. Actually laugh. And his smile widens slightly, like he's proud of making that happen.
"There," he says. "That is better."
"What is?"
"You. Not being invisible." His hand tightens on mine again. "I have missed seeing you. The real you. Not the waitress who smiles with her mouth and not her eyes."
"I had to—" I stop. "After what Kimberly said, I needed—"
"I know." His voice is gentle. "But I am telling you now. She was wrong. And I would like—if you will let me—I would like to prove to you that she was wrong."
"How?"
"By being here. Every morning. Seven-twenty-three. Same booth. For as long as you will let me." He pauses. "And by—"
His phone rings, and I watch his entire demeanor change in real-time. The warmth—that mocking, gentle warmth that was just starting to make me believe again—just vanishes. His expression goes neutral. Professional. Something cold slides into place behind his eyes.
His hand tightens on mine for a second. Then he lets go.
"I need to take this," he says, and his voice has gone formal. Distant. Like the man sitting across from me thirty seconds ago just disappeared.
"Okay."
He stands. "I will be—" He gestures at the door. "Just outside."
I nod because I don't trust my voice.
He pulls his phone out. Answers as he's walking to the door. "Sì." His voice is clipped. All business.
Then he's outside, and I'm alone in the café with my hand still warm from his touch and the cold rushing back in to fill all the spaces where he was.
I watch him through the window.
He's pacing. Five steps one way, five steps back. His free hand is gesturing sharply—cutting through the air in that way people do when they're frustrated or making a point. He's speaking Italian now. Fast. Too fast for me to catch any words even if I understood the language.
But his body language I can read.
Tense. Controlled. Like he's keeping something locked down tight with effort.
This is not the man who just told me about go-karts and factory jobs.
This is someone else entirely.
Someone professional. Someone cold. Someone who exists in that other world—the one with trophies and sponsors and lives that don't include coffee-stained waitresses.
He stops pacing. Runs his hand through his hair. Says something sharp—I can see his jaw tighten from here—and then he's quiet, listening to whoever's on the other end.
I should look away. Give him privacy. But I can't stop watching because this is a version of him I've never seen before. This is Santino Aleotti the driver. The professional. The person who makes decisions about racing and sponsorships and whatever else exists in that life.
The person who has nothing to do with me.
He turns slightly, and for a second I think he's looking at me through the window. But his eyes are unfocused. He's not seeing the café. He's not seeing me. He's somewhere else entirely.
Another minute passes. Maybe two. I've stopped counting.
Then he nods at whatever the person said. Says something short—agreement, maybe, or acknowledgment—and ends the call.
