‘But . . .?’
There was no way he was going to win this fight, however, as Ornella had walked around the counter and was busy pressing his coins deep into the cotton recess of his shorts pocket.
‘No, basta! Non mi far arrabbiare!’ Her kind eyes would have none of his protestations, so Alessio smiled and left, thanking her profusely.
* * *
He waited until he was back on the piazza to take that first bite. Leaning his weight against the central fountain, he appreciated the slight breeze that brushed his bare legs, bringing relief from the heat.
And in went his teeth, pushing through the pastry to find the dreamily cool crema pasticcera.
It just never gets old . . . never.
Rather than demolish the pasticciotto with gusto, as he had with his first, this one he decided to savour. It felt different somehow. Perhaps special. As if this innocent little pasticciotto marked the start of his time in Impastino.
Was it because the fog and malaise of jet lag had finally let go? Was it because he’d touched base with his parents, and they’d approved of his plans and current situation? Was it because he’d embraced whatever was to come on this quest to find traces of Nonna Immacolata?
Whatever it was, the pastry was delicious. As he brushed the last crumbs from his lips, he saw that he had earned himself the attention of a waiter who was standing by the door of the Da Martino restaurant a few metres away.
‘Buono . . .?’ the man asked, indicating the pastry with a sinewy tattooed arm.
‘Sì. Molto buono.’
There was something menacing about the waiter’s gaze. Even at the short distance between them, Alessio could make out the dark circles around his eyes, the coffee- and nicotine-stained teeth, that one gold canine tooth that caught the sun. The man’s bald head and thin lips did him few favours. Alessio was not one to judge a person by their appearance, but there was just something off about this man.
Could the waiter sense Alessio’s sudden unease? Because right on cue he gave a short sharp whistle and two other waiters arrived by his side. They exuded the same sense of threat, and Alessio quickly understood that he was being sent a message, although he wasn’t entirely sure what it was, or why.
Alessio’s once precision-trained nerve of steel had waned since he’d lost his business, and while he didn’t feel intimidated, he certainly felt uncomfortable.
The arrival of a fourth man dressed in chef whites rolled to his forearms was the final straw. This man was perhaps thirty, with piercingly blue eyes, short sandy-blond hair and a strong brow line. He stopped mid-way across the space between them.
‘Qui non sei il benvenuto.’ His voice was low and gruff.
Fuck. Of all the moments to have no fucking clue what he said.
Alessio did all he could to imprint the words on his brain for a future Google, but understood from the tone and those steely eyes that he had crossed some kind of line.
In English, he replied, ‘I was just going.’
He could feel all four sets of eyes on him as he crossed the piazza back to Trattoria dei Fiori. They practically singed holes in his turned back.
Once inside, he Googled the phrase he’d heard, and quickly realised that his gut instinct had been right.
‘“You’re not welcome here.”’
Not welcome? Me? You don’t even know who I am!
Alessio wasn’t about to engage in a duel of words or cocky testosterone-soaked threats. He didn’t know enough about the situation or these guys. What he did know was that he was sick of other people calling the shots around him. Having the upper hand. The past few years had robbed him of so much autonomy.
It wouldn’t restart now. No, he wouldn’t have it.
So, Alessio took a step. A huge move. A leap of faith into the unknown. And when he arrived back in his apartment he did something that the Alessio of just a few days ago would have berated him for.
He unpacked.
* * *
Alessio slipped out onto the balcony for a moment to leave his thongs to dry in the night air after what had turned out to be a lazy afternoon spent reading on the beach; one of his street library box finds had proved unputdownable. Just as he set the thongs to rest against the latticed metalwork of the balcony ledge, Francesca appeared up the ladder, looking worse for wear.
