Cec smirks but doesn’t answer.
“Who cares what you want?” Gino barks, waving his hands irritably. “You’re lucky I don’t spit on your pizza. You will eat what I give you, donnaiolo, and you will like it.”
Gino makes a spitting gesture.
That was malicious.“What did he call you?”
“A philanderer.” Cec sighs. “Unfortunately, it’s an earned nickname.”
Bes attempts to diffuse the situation. “Prenderemo tre fette, Gino. Of whatever’s ready.”
Cec’s shoulders slump as Gino nods and stomps off. “He’s absolutely going to spit on my pizza.”
I guide him to a small table nearby that’s just opened up. He sets his cane against the wall and drops dolefully into the chair. It creaks in protest.
Gesturing at Bes to follow, I notice he’s already taken a seat beside another man across the room. They lean in close and speak to each other in hushed tones. Dressed in a tan suit, the man dons a white fedora that blocks most of his face. He’s nondescript enough I didn’t notice him when we came in, and suspicious enough now to raise my hackles.
I watch Bes and the stranger for a moment, straining to hear what they’re saying to each other. When I can’t hear anything, I decide something.
I’m going to do a little snooping of my own, see if anyone else here knows about the God Men.
“I’m going to see how they make the pizza,” I tell Cec, leaving him alone in search of one of the other restaurant employees.
Cec responds, but I don’t hear him.
I approach the man beside the pizza oven as he removes one with a wooden pizza peel. Though dressed nearly identical to Gino, he’s close to half his age and half his weight. This close, the heat from the oven blasts me, and I’m definitely sweating through my dress. Pivoting toward me, dark curls fall into his face, his eyes widening at my presence. He places the peel down on the counter with the pizza still on top and wipes his hands on his apron.
“Posso aiutarti?” he asks, tone clipped.
“Inglese?” I ask, holding out my hands in a gesture to show me mercy for not knowing his language.
He sniffs. “Americano?”
“I see my reputation already precedes me,” I say, leaning my hip gently on the counter.
His mouth ticks in an attempt at a smile. “I went to Wharton School of Business for a year; I can recognize the accent easily.”
“Then how did you end up working here?” I wonder, leaning closer still.
He gestures at the owner. “Gino is my uncle. He has no sons and his daughters are all married now, so, here I am.”
I look him up and down. “Don’t tell me you’re not married.”
Heat reddens his cheeks and he ducks his chin slightly. “Not yet, signora.”
I gesture at the restaurant, still just as full as when I walked in. “You’ve never met anyone here worth considering.”
“My place is behind the counter,” he says, straightening. “Unless you need something, I have to get back to work.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he turns away from me.Well, that was a bust.
Seeing I won’t learn anything from him, I head back to Cec.
“Now, what did you do to Gino to garner such ire?” I ask, sitting down across from him.
Cec taps a finger on the eye of the raven on his cane. “Put it this way, he has three daughters and I know them all… intimately.”
“Cecilio!” I exclaim. A few patrons nearby glance over; I lower my voice. “You cad, I had no idea.”
