I stare at the pizzeria with new eyes. The place is certainly worse for wear: the metal sign above the door—which reads “Pizza Segreta”—is rusted and dangling precariously from a single hinge, the glass smudged and scratched so badly it appears frosted.
I grimace. “You’re telling methisplace has good pizza?”
Bes wipes the sweat from his brow. “The best outside of Roma.”
“You have to qualify that?”
“Yes,” they both say seriously.
Cec groans, his lower lip pouting. “You had to pick Gino’s.”
Bes sighs. “You know it’s the only place near this port I can guarantee our safety. You’ve got to leave the past in the past, mate.”
“Ihave,” Cec argues. “Gino’s the one with the long memory and the stubbornness of a bull. That man could be rotting in his grave and still manage to hold a bloody grudge.”
Bes pushes through the front door. “I suppose we’re about to find out.”
I brush my fingers against the scarf, ensuring that my hair and neck are covered.No going back now.
The hinges squeal and a bell tinkles overhead, announcing our arrival.
I thought a place so tucked away and beaten within an inch of its life would be empty—a ghost town. So, I’m surprised to find Pizza Segreta as crowded as I imagine a speakeasy during Prohibition was: boisterous, wine-fueled laughter and people enjoying each other’s company fill nearly every table, completely cut off from what’s going on in the outside world.
Without a word to either me or Cec, Bes makes a beeline for the back. There’s barely enough room to squeeze past the overcrowded tables, and my hips knock into a couple of people. Venetian walls slathered in terracotta and decorated with painted grape vines in the corners surround us, reminding me of Nonna’s house.
A faded-red brick back wall greets us, a large stone pizza oven at the center framed by a halfmoon circle. It reeks pleasantly of basil and garlic the closer we get to it. The deep flames dancing inside heat up the crowded space, causing sweat to pop up on my forehead.
A bout of melancholy scrapes at my chest. The last time I had one of Nonna’s homemade pizzas was over a year ago. I miss it more than I can say in this moment.
With the door shut resolutely behind us, the middle-aged, large-bellied man behind the counter looks up and grins. Bes raises a hand in greeting.
“Gino.”
“Bes,” the man bellows, quieting the room and bringing everyone’s attention to us. They quickly go back to their conversations, though, once they see we’re not a threat.So much for remaining conspicuous in the Port of Civitavecchia.I pull the scarf closer around me, discomforted by the fact that a couple dozen people just heard Bes’s name practically shouted through the restaurant.
Bes doesn’t seem to notice, though. In fact, Bes smiles fully for the first time since meeting him. It lights up his entire face: both sides of his lips tug up like they can’t help themselves to reveal perfect teeth, and his deep brown eyes warm, sparking the dull flecks of gold in them. Nothing like the churning silver I swear I’ve seen once before, but just as entrancing.
The sight of it stops my heart and flips my stomach over.AndI thought Cec’s smile was infectious.
The stranger who’s drawn out this blessed smile reminds me of a man Nonna calls my uncle, but who’s actually a family friend from church. Visibly inebriated, he boasts a rounded belly and grins from ear to ear with red-stained yellowing teeth and ruddy cheeks. An apron—which was probably white at some point, but has since gained a myriad of permanent smudges in red, black, and green—is tied over faded beige slacks and a flour-dusted black shirt. His partly-bald head shimmers on top with sweat, while the rest of his hair poofs out from the sides in gray streaks like a crown.
“O mangiar questa minestra o saltar questa finestra.”
“What did he say?” I whisper to Cec. Who, strangely enough, is the only other person here besides me who appears uneasy. His shifty, milky eyes and furrowed brow mirror my own reservations.What’s got him so damned nervous?
Cec nibbles on his thumbnail. “This is how he and Bes say hello. It’s an Italian proverb that literally means ‘Either eat this soup or jump out of this window’.”
I chuckle. “Italians always say it better.”
Cec attempts a small smile, but it comes off as disingenuous. “Can’t disagree with you there.”
Bes’s reply is startlingly lighthearted. “Meglio solo che male accompagnato.”
“And that one?”
“That one’s more akin to Bes: ‘Better alone than in bad company.’ Italians simply aren’t living unless they’re socializing, or hosting their family and friends. However, that particular proverb warns about picking your companionship wisely. Better to be alone than with unworthy people.”
I watch Bes embrace Gino with what I can only describe as gusto, both men patting each other’s backs.
