“My, my Isabella, I am sure it is both,” Anita says with a hearty laugh.
“Oh, don’t make that face,Benitino,” Lucia says, waving her hand. “We tease because we love. Besides, all this has made you in shape to be a perfect man for Sutton.”
I feel a chill of guilt trickle down my spine, then embarrassment. Sutton. I hate the reminder that the rush I felt when I was in bed with Benito in Rome, my skin mere centimeters from his, was one-sided, solo longing.
I look up to see Benito staring right at me. Does he know?
“Speaking of,” Lucia continues, “when will this mysterious British goddess be gracing us with her presence? Six months is a long time to go with no visit.”
“You haven’t seen yourfidanzatain six months?” Valeria asks.
Vincenzo nearly does a spit-take. “I have not spent more than a few hours away from Valeria since the day we met.” He shoots Valeria a loving glance.
“Papà, don’t tell people that.” A horrified Beatrice hides her face in her hands.
Vincenzo ignores her. “My boy, this is not acceptable.”
“He went to see her a few months ago, but she does not come here,” Lucia says with a hefty amount of side-eye.
“The one girl in all the world who hates Italy,” Anita mutters.
Benito drains his wine glass and pours himself another. “It is hard for her to leave work. I have told you this.”
Anita leans back in her chair. “And we are supposed to love her when she cares more about work than my son.”
“Benito,” Vicenzo starts, “you must insist. We all need to meet her and make sure she’s good enough for our lionhearted mayor.” He turns to me. “Lionhearted. . . did I use that right?”
“Yes, although I’m not sure I agree with the sentiment—”
“Yes, bring her here,” Giac adds. “Maybe we can go on a double date.” He looks at me and smiles. I didn’t realize we were anywhere near the “planning future dates” phase of this mild flirtation, but I sense he’s merely contributing to the spirited teasing.
Lucia lights up. “Yes! Oh my god, just picture the four of you together: the perfect picture of the future of La Musa.”
Benito slams his glass onto the table, and it makes a considerable thud. Wine splashes out and everyone grows quiet. Realizing the drama of what he’s just displayed, Benito sighs and starts to blot the wine with his napkin. Thankfully it’spinot biancoand won’t stain. “Sorry,” he grunts.
He gets up from the table. “Sorry,” he says again before walking inside the house.
“He has a hot head,” Lucia says, waving it off like it’s nothing. “He does not like to be teased about Sutton. He just needs to cool down.”
“Ah, like that Tom Holland,” says Vincenzo. Everyone looks at him, confused. “Beatrice, Antonia, you always talk about how hot his head is.” I wonder if he’s confused on the translation, but the sparkle in his eyes as both his daughters shoot him a horrified expression confirms otherwise.
“Papà,” they yell in unison.
The conversation returns to its normal flow, and everyone continues eating. I clear my plate and Benito does not return. I pour myself a second glass of wine, no Benito. Anita brings out dessert. Still he’s not back. There’s a pit in my stomach that I realize is concern. Halfway through mytiramisù, I excuse myself to use the restroom.
I hear the voices outside switch to Italian as I enter the house, and I feel a pang of guilt to know they were only speaking English on my account.
The first-floor bathroom is down the hall toward the front of the house, but I duck my head into each room I pass, looking for Benito. He’s not in the formal living room, the study, the parlor—or at least I think that’s what that’s called—the other living room, his father’s office, or the kitchen. I peek my head out the front windows to make sure there’s no one brooding on the stoop.
The grand marble staircase seems to be beckoningme upstairs, luring me in with its dancing light and smiling family photos. I take a quick look around to make sure that no one else has followed me inside and ascend to the second floor.
I’ve done my best to keep to my end of the hallway, and it would be invasive for me to open every single one of the solid wood doors that line the hallway—what if there’s something I don’t want to see? Maybe Benito has Sutton locked up in a room, chained to her bed like a scene fresh out of a modern-dayJane Eyre.
I see that the door on the other side of Benito’s room is open. I always assumed the rest of the hall was filled with more bedrooms, quarters for guests and maids from back when the house was built. I walk toward it.
I see him before I even reach the room. He’s hunched over a writing desk, scribbling in a leather-bound journal. I wonder if I should turn around and leave him alone. After all, Lucia said he needed time to cool off, but did he really need more than 10 minutes to recover from mild to moderate mocking?
The old wood floor creaks and Benito looks up, understandably surprised to see me walking toward him. “What are you doing here?”
