‘You will quickly learn who the trustworthy ones are.’ A whistle from the game broke the moment, and Alessio saw that Carlo was being beckoned to return. ‘Would you like to play?’
The competitive corner of Alessio’s mind kicked into gear. He lived for competitive sports; his only outlet during all those years of working in the restaurant had been his Saturday morning soccer games. His teammates, who he’d grown up with playing in a junior league at school, then during their youth, were the only ones who called him out on the bullshit and could put him back in his place. Those games and that team had grounded him, allowed him to reset. He missed it.
He turned to look at the men who were now hollering and whistling at the pair. He really wanted to join them. Not just for the fun of it, but to suss out what he could from the situation and about his competitors. But something stopped him. A small voice of reason tethered him to the sand.
This sounds a little too close to home. No, not yet. Keep some distance. A little restraint never hurt anyone.
‘Thanks Carlo. Maybe next time. I hadn’t anticipated such a long sleep.’ He looked down the length of his bronzing arms and chest. ‘I’m cooked enough for today.’
Carlo waved the situation off. ‘We are often down here when we aren’t working the lunch shift. Next time.’
‘One hundred per cent.’ Alessio paused for a second, paying particular attention to how he phrased the next question. ‘But tell me this: if some of these guys are as bad as you say, how come you’re here playing with them?’
Carlo reached out and gave Alessio’s shoulder a friendly push. ‘You’ll learn, Alessio. This is a small town. Everyone talks. Everyone knows everything. This is simply to save face. To curb the intimidation. You know, keep your friends close . . .’
‘But your enemies closer,’ Alessio finished.
‘You got it. I hope to see you soon, Alessio. Ciao.’
And with that Carlo turned and rejoined the game, sharing in some banter with an equally tall and slim man on his team. Alessio reasoned that they must be related.
But then he caught sight of Elio again, who had resumed his icy glare at Alessio through the weave of the volleyball net. Alessio felt a chill down his spine.
This guy’s got you on his radar already. Better play the game right. For Francesca’s sake . . .
sedici
Francesca didn’t see Alessio walk up behind her the following morning as she finished dressing the tables with their usual red and white checked tablecloths.
‘Oddio!’ she shrieked as he caught her from stumbling backwards. ‘It’s just you!’
‘Sorry! The childish part of my brain thought it might be funny to spook you.’
The hand pressed to her chest felt the kick and pump of her heartbeat behind her ribcage. ‘You got me.’ She bobbed down to collect the final napkin from the floor, tossing it over her shoulder before reaching for a fresh replacement from the trolley. ‘What are your plans this morning?’
‘Pasticciotto-love, first and foremost. Then I thought I might buy a newspaper. You know, practise my reading, catch up on the local news and gossip. Then back to the beach.’
She studied his face. The gentle olive of his skin had deepened already since his arrival, and she didn’t think twice about reaching out and caressing the inked stretch of his forearm. ‘You have good skin that can take the sun.’
‘Thankfully. I’ve only copped a little burn.’
‘Attenzione.’
‘I know. I was thinking perhaps lunch back here?’ There was a sparkle in his eyes. ‘If I’m “welcome here”?’ He made elaborate air quotes and nodded towards the piazza.
She laughed. ‘Of course you are! You are always welcome here. Don’t worry about them!’
‘It’s ok, I didn’t lose sleep over them.’
‘Bravo! Fai bene!’ she said, untying her apron. ‘Come with me to the gastronomia. I need to collect a few things before we start prep. You can meet my best friend, Simona. She works there. Her brother, Carlo, will be one of your competitors. Their family owns and operates U Ssale.’ She ducked into the kitchen to collect her bag before returning to his side.
‘I actually met Carlo yesterday on the beach. Just small talk. He asked who I was and I said I was your cousin.’
‘Did he seem surprised?’
‘A little, yes. But he seems pretty relaxed in general. Didn’t make a fuss of it.’
‘Perfetto.’ She looped her arm through his, pulled him in tight and gestured to the open door. ‘Allora, the Saturday morning mercato is happening. Every Saturday, until noon. Because, you know, at noon Southern Italians turn into eating machines and we must be sitting at a table somewhere.’
