His shoes were expensive Italian leather. Gucci, maybe.
Other women might have salivated over the clothes, but I only had one thought when I looked at him:
Mafia.
I froze where I stood behind the counter.
Back in Milan, I’d met guys who looked exactly like him.
Well… notexactlylike him.
Definitely not as handsome.
And not nearly as friendly-looking.
Back in Milan, they’d tended to be older, uglier, and more pissed off.
But I knew amafiosowhen I saw one.
Either that, or he was the best-dressed funeral director I’d ever seen.
He gave me a movie-star smile.“Ciao.”
I just stood there staring at him, unable to speak.
Not out of lust, but out of fear.
“An espresso, please,” he said politely.
I nodded the tiniest bit, then walked over to the machine and started fixing the coffee.
“You don’t want me to pay first?” he asked.
That was normally the way it was done in Italy. First you paid the cashier, then you presented the receipt to the barista so they could fix your order.
“I’m the only one working today, so I’ll trust you,” I said without looking at him.
“Well, I’mverytrustworthy,” he said in a playful voice. “You new here?”
“Why?” I asked, keeping my back turned to him.
“I haven’t seen you around.”
“I just started.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
He kept chattering away until I brought the cup of espresso over on a little white saucer and set it in front of him.
“How much do I owe you?” he asked.
“You staying here at the bar?”
If they’re alone, most Italians drink espresso standing up at the bar. Tourists are the only ones who always sit down.
It’s custom, mostly. Drink your espresso, chat a bit, and walk out a few minutes later.
Not only that, but if you sat at a table, the price of the coffee went up.
