“Zia!” Antonio called. “Let’s get something to eat out here!”
Zia came out and, seeing Valentina, said a greeting in Italian and kissed her on both cheeks, twice. They chattered in Italian for a minute while Daniel fidgeted. Poor guy.
“Si, del vin rosso per favore,” Valentina said.
“No,” Antonio cut in as if putting his foot down for the benefit of a defiant child. “No wine.”
I thought he would get his way, as strange as it was.
“You are still bossy,” Valentina said in choppy but quick English before addressing Zia. “A chianti.”
“No! And that is the final word.”
Zia looked from Valentina to Antonio, not knowing what to do. I didn’t know what his objection was about. Did he find it unbecoming? Was it too early in the day? I’d had a drink or two in front of him, and it had never warranted this level of protest.
“I could use a glass myself,” I said.
I went to the sideboard. It was lined in clean white cloth napkins. The grey tray was loaded with silverware, and the empty water pitchers were stacked neatly. Above, wine glasses hung. I snapped up five, wedging the stems between my fingers.
I put the glasses on the counter then flipped up the end of the bar and walked behind it. The floor was coated in a black rubber honeycomb mesh half an inch high. My feet bounced when I walked. I’d never been behind a bar before, and everything seemed neat and compartmentalized. I located the fridge immediately.
I stared at it. I was nuts. I couldn’t diffuse the tension in the room with a little wine. I was an outsider.
To hell with it. I opened the fridge door and resolved to choose a damned bottle and do what I was supposed to do. Serve wine and celebrate the continued and uninterrupted life of Antonio Spinelli.
As if I’d called him forth with my mind, his scent filled me. The knowledge that he was close melted the skin right off me.
“You’ll never make a good Italian wife unless you learn to obey,” he said in my ear.
He said it in good humor, trying to relieve his own part of the tension, but it was a stupid, hurtful, wicked thing to say, especially with a fuckable growl that acted as a whisk for my arousal and anger. I didn’t know whether to spread my legs or spit in his eye.
I put a random bottle on the bar with a smack, trying to look casual. As if I didn’t want to kill him for saying that stupid thing. Though I wanted to eviscerate Antonio with a steak knife right then, I didn’t want to undermine him. I didn’t want any of them to think he’d shown poor judgment in being with me. I didn’t want them to think I was a liability or that his wife was more refined and mature. I wanted to leave, walk out the front door as if it just happened to be what I was doing at the moment. No more, no less.
I didn’t know where I was going. I just had to get out of that cramped restaurant. The December air hit me full in the face, and I wished for a jacket. But more than that, when I got outside, I immediately calculated the width of the street, the movement of the cars, the foot traffic, the rooftops. I was completely exposed. I’d never felt that while walking across the street before. But every window was a gun perch, and every car was a moving crime scene.
I wasn’t concerned for myself but the fact that I was drawing Antonio out into the open.
Antonio came out of the restaurant, dinging the bell, and our eyes met across the seven-foot expanse of the street. Miles between us, and close enough to kiss. He could take one leap and be on me in the most pleasing agony.
“Get out of the street,” he said, pointing into the restaurant. “Anyone can take a shot at you here.”
I tore my eyes from his and went to the covered driveway that led to the parking lot behind the restaurant. Jesus. I was backing myself into a corner. I wondered if I could hop a fence, then I felt him behind me, and before I even got to the back lot, his hand was on my neck.
Time stopped. I didn’t know how much longer I could do this.
twenty-four.