by Gina Azzi
She looks up warily.
“I’m sorry.” I swallow. When was the last time I said those words and meant them? A long time ago.
“For what?” she asks quietly, confusion etching her features as she turns completely in her seat, giving me her full attention, studying my profile as I turn my eyes back to the road and make another right.
“Whatever I said to make you upset.” I smirk lamely. “For making you homesick.” I try again.
“Oh, it’s okay.”
“We don’t have to go to the waffle place.” I squeeze her hand lightly. “I just thought it would be something you would enjoy, but I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
She looks momentarily relieved. “No, it’s okay. Really, we can go there. I’d love an American coffee.”
I laugh. “You mean coffee-flavored water?”
She laughs with me. “I mean an oversized mug with nectar from the Gods.”
“Yeah, okay.” I laugh, the tension seeping from my shoulders as the atmosphere in the car warms.
“I’m serious.”
“Whatever you say.” I turn into the miniscule parking lot and shove the gearstick in park. “We’re here.”
Mia unclicks her seatbelt and smiles at me. “Thank you,” she says simply.
I nod, opening my car door.
When I walk around to the other side, she’s already standing, waiting for me. On impulse I link my fingers with hers, and we walk into the tiny restaurant, the smell of greasy bacon and warm waffles welcoming us.
* * *
I let Mia off the hook of ordering waffles if she promises to try a bite of mine. She agrees and orders a large coffee and two scrambled egg whites with a side of sautéed mushrooms.
Weird. I’ve never met an American who eats as healthy as she does. Must be the dancing.
I order a Belgian waffle and a side of bacon.
We smile at each other across the table as the waitress/hostess/cook/owner disappears into the kitchen. I love this place. It’s a hidden gem that not many know about, especially not the tourists that flock to Italy every summer, loudly talking and spilling out of every restaurant for the months of July and August. I shake my head at my thoughts. Those tourists add a lot of business to Angelina’s, especially during August when Italians leave the city to vacation in the mountains or by the sea. And now, Angelina’s may be the only source of income my family sees for the foreseeable future. I sigh heavily, crossing my arms on the table.
“Want to talk about it?” Mia offers, extending her hand gently to rest on my forearm.
I smile at her but it’s forced. “I’m dealing with some family stuff,” I tell her honestly.
She nods. “So you’ve said. I know what that’s like.” She dips her head, catching my eye and smiling lightly.
“I know you’ve been wanting to talk. I didn’t mean to blow you off when you came to Angelina’s.”
She shakes her head. “It’s really okay. I just wanted to apologize for the other day.” She sighs nervously, her fingers rolling a napkin. “You seemed kind of annoyed that I brought Pete to Angelina’s. It’s just the first place I thought of to have a coffee when we agreed to meet up and work on our project.” She looks up, her gaze cutting straight through me.
And now I feel like a giant ass. Poor Mia has been carrying around some sense of misplaced guilt because I’m a moody, jealous fucker. I sigh, dropping my head into my hand for a moment.
“I’m sorry for reacting how I did. You didn’t do anything wrong. I do have a lot of family stuff going on, and I’m sorry if I took it out on you.” No reason to mention how jealous, how insanely furious I was at seeing her with Pete, at watching him touch her arm, make her laugh. I’ll sound like a psycho. “How’s your project going anyway?”
She smiles, relief evident on her face. Somehow, it makes me feel even worse.
“It’s good. We’re making a lot of progress. Pete’s a good partner, much better than I thought he would be. We should have everything wrapped up in the next few weeks.”
My fingers dig into the underside of the table. They’re not finished yet? I know, I just know, that Pete Buchanan is drawing it out, making the project drag on, wanting to spend more time with Mia. Fuck, it’s what I would do if I was partnered with her for a class project.
“I’m sorry about your family stuff,” she adds. She doesn’t say anything else but watches me expectantly. Her chocolate eyes are open, honest, clear. Little flecks of honey and gold dot her irises. Her lips pout in thought, and I want to lean across the table and capture her mouth with mine. God, she’s beautiful. And she has no fucking clue.
I love that she doesn’t push. Caterina, Giulietta … hell, even the queen of passive-aggressive Simona would all be hounding me to tell them what the fuck my deal is. But not Mia. She sits there quietly, studying me, thinking her own thoughts, allowing me the time and space to decide if I want to confide in her. And I know, just know, that if I chose to deflect right now, she wouldn’t hold it against me. And knowing that has me telling her the truth.
I clear my throat. “I found out on Monday that I have a brother I didn’t know about. His name is Anthony.”
Her eyes widen in surprise, her eyebrows momentarily disappearing into her hairline. Okay she clearly hadn’t expected that. “Oh,” she says, her fingers gripping into my skin.
“Yeah,” I cluck, fighting back a wave of laughter. “Oh.”
She smiles, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I thought you were going to say, but that wasn’t it. Are you okay?”
And there she goes again, blowing me away with a very non-typical girl reaction. Every girl I know would have leaned forward conspiratorially and demanded answers to the juicy questions. What does your mama think? Was your papa having an affair? How old is he? How did you find out?
And this girl, Mia, she asks if I’m okay. I smile again. “I think so,” I tell her honestly. After my late-night Facebook stalking—fuck, if that didn’t just make me sound like every girl I never liked—it seems that Anthony Casale is actually a decent guy. He owns a microbrewery in Brooklyn. Now that was something I most definitely didn’t expect. The heir to the Barca legacy making beer for a living. I snort. It really is comical.
Mia’s eyebrows draw together. “Does he happen to live in Brooklyn?” She asks, putting two and two together.
I smile. “He does.”
She nods. “That’s cool.”
I laugh out loud. Will this girl ever stop surprising me?
Just then our order arrives, and Mia doesn’t seem to mind at all when I steer the conversation to other, less-serious, topics.
Chapter Thirty
Mia
The breakfast spot Lorenzo takes me to is cool, unassuming, very Brooklyn in it’s down-to-earth, chill vibe. I smile at the thought but don’t say anything since I’m unsure how he will react. A brother. A pang of envy radiates throughout my chest; I wish I had a brother or sister out there somewhere, someone else linked to my mom. That would be a nice surprise.
I loved being an only child up until she passed away. Then I hated it. Hated every single holiday, staring across the table at my dad’s sad face, his furrowed brow. It became even worse after he married Claire because then, although he looked happier, I was miserable and there wasn’t anyone else at the table to share in my misery, my grief that she wasn’t sitting there enjoying the meal, the celebration, the holiday with us. I became alone in my longing for her.
“What are you thinking about?” Lorenzo asks me directly.
“My mom.” I take a sip of my coffee, loving how it scalds the tip of my tongue, burns the back of my throat. I know I shouldn’t have, but I needed to cleanse my system before bed last night. Wrapping both my hands around the large mug, I tell him the truth about wishing for a sibling.
He raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised that I was so honest, so direct with my response. I want him to know that after he told me the truth about his family, well, I can confide in
him too.
“I never thought of it like that. Did you really dislike being an only child? I used to wish my parent’s never had Claudia.” He laughs wryly, but I hear the thread of truth woven around his words.
I place my mug on the table. “Being an only sucks,” I tell him truthfully. “Regardless of your relationship with your sister, you always know deep down that you can count on that person. Even if it’s only to confirm your parents are nuts or something, that person will always know and understand you in a way that no one, not even your closest friends, ever could. You have a deeper bond, a connection, that can’t ever be broken just by the fact that you were raised and loved and cared for by the same people. My best friends all have siblings and even though they fight sometimes, especially Emma and her sisters, they’re always there for each other. Lila would do anything for her brother Brandon; he’s always looking out for her, considering her best interests, trying to protect her. Maura is a shadow of her former self, barely existing, since she lost her twin, Adrian. That connection, if you’re lucky enough to have it, you get to keep it for life. I always wished for that.”
He nods in agreement. “Yeah, I understand what you’re saying. And you’re right.” He takes a bite of his waffles, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s funny, really. Since Papa passed, Claudia and I have grown so much closer. I see all these things in her that I never noticed before. And I wonder, was she always this considerate toward me and I never cared to pay attention before? Or is our relationship changing because of the situation we’re now facing?”
I think about his question. “Does it matter?” I finally ask.
He smirks, shaking his head slightly. “I guess not.”
“So, what are you going to do about Anthony? Do you think you want to contact him?”
Lorenzo tilts his head to the side, clearly thinking over my question. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I guess I’ll have to talk to Claudia about it and see what she’s most comfortable with.” After a few beats he laughs, recognition dawning on his face. “Yeah, you’re right about siblings. I couldn’t imagine dealing with all this without her. Even though I still have to tell her about Anthony.”
I smile. “I’m glad you have her then.”
He nods. “Yeah. Are you all done? I want to show you something.”
“Sure.” I fold my napkin on my lap, careful not to let the little bites of food I stored there fall out. “All set.”
While Lorenzo pays the bill, I check my phone for the time. Shoot! I have class in twenty minutes. A moment of panic grips my insides, but then I take a deep breath and count to ten.
Is skipping one class really going to ruin my future?
No.
“Ready?” Lorenzo asks, stopping to stand next to my chair and reaching his hand out toward me.
I smile up at him. “Andiamo.”
* * *
“Wow.” It falls from my mouth. I’m frozen in awe. Astonished really.
Lorenzo and I are sitting in the dip of a clearing, high above the waking towns below. And it’s beautiful. People, tiny like ants, shuffle below us to start their days. And in my mind I can picture them sweeping their front porches, sipping their espressos at their kitchen tables, their eyes running lazily along the lines of a newspaper, placing tiny children in car seats and backing out of parking spots. Life awakens and begins below us. Around us. And here we sit, observing it all.
If I turn completely in the other direction, it’s miles of ocean as far as the eye can see. I watch as the ocean meets the sky, a thin blue line marking the horizon. The sun beats down, warming the tops of our heads as icy tendrils of almost-winter lick at our cheeks through the strong winds.
“This is really something else,” I tell Lorenzo honestly. I pull my phone out of my bag and take a few photos of the scenery surrounding us. On a whim, I flip the camera so that it’s pointed at Lorenzo and me. “Smile.” I say, snapping a selfie.
He smiles brightly, his blue eyes burning in the photo. He’s sitting behind me, his legs bent at the knees, protecting my frame from the wind. His chest and stomach press into my back, but his arms don’t envelope me. Instead, they remain braced behind him, supporting his upper body. After ensuring that I look somewhat decent in the picture, I shift in my position, nestled between his legs, and hold the phone up for him to see the photo I snapped.
“I like it.” He smiles, shifting slightly to peer down at the picture.
I almost miss his words as they wind captures them, stealing them away.
“Do you come here often?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes. I used to come here with Papa when I was little. This is where I learned to fly a kite.” He laughs suddenly, his childhood memories gleaming briefly in his eyes. “I used to think I was on top of the world.”
“I’d believe it.” I snuggle deeper into the open V of his legs as the wind picks up.
Lorenzo sits up straighter, trapping me in between his jeans. “Are you cold?” he asks, his arms coming around to wrap around my shoulders and the top of my chest. He pulls me deeper into his embrace.
“A little,” I answer honestly.
“I’m sorry, bella. Why didn’t you tell me?” He moves to stand up.
“No, it’s okay.” I stop him by placing my hand on his thigh. He stills abruptly. “Just a few more minutes.”
Lorenzo settles back down, pulling me into his arms and hooking his chin over my shoulder. I keep my hand on his thigh, enjoying the feel of his hard muscle, the heat of his skin through his jeans. I stare out to the wide expanse below us: the bustling lives of the town folk, the rolling waves of the ocean, the natural beauty of the land. I memorize the feel of Lorenzo’s fingers rubbing tiny circles into my shoulder, the tickle of his breath on the shell of my ear, the warmth of his body against my back, under my palm. I hold his scent around me and lose myself momentarily in him, in this moment. Remember this moment, Mia. Remember it forever.
It feels like I’m dreaming with open eyes.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lorenzo
Mia’s frame feels tiny, almost fragile, in my arms. I wrap my arms around her tighter when I feel her body shiver. I breathe in the scent of her hair, vanilla and something I can’t place. Something uniquely Mia.
I surprised myself when I brought her here. I haven’t been to this spot in a long time. Not since Papa passed. We would come here all the time together, back when I was a kid, back when I didn’t have any pressure weighing across my shoulders, back when my biggest decision was which gelato flavor I preferred to eat that day. But now, in this moment, even with this new information—Papa’s deceit, Benito’s manipulation, Anthony’s existence (and without Papa here to explain any of it)—I feel I can handle it. I breathe in deeply, enjoying the feel of Mia beneath my fingertips. A sense of purpose stirs within me, erasing the burden and replacing it with an onus, a sense of responsibility I don’t know if I’ve ever felt before.
I smile into the thick brown hair of this beautiful girl and press a kiss to the back of her head. I was right to bring her here, to confide in her. I was right to trust her.
* * *
“So, what’s the deal? Haven’t seen you around much lately?” Sandro asks, raising an eyebrow questioningly. He pulls a Peroni out of a bucket of ice and pops the top, sliding it across the table to me.
I take a pull of the beer, enjoying the smooth coldness as it glides down my throat. I shrug. “Got some stuff going on.”
Sandro nods. “Figured as much.”
I raise the bottle to my lips, studying him over the rim. His eyes meet mine and he doesn’t blink.
“Family stuff,” I clarify.
“Yeah.” He gives nothing away.
I tip the bottle back, taking another swig of beer. Where is Sandro going with this? Does he know something?
Sandro rolls his shoulders forward, crossing his arms in front of him on the table. We’re sitting at a back table in an old bar, the one we used to escape to when we cut
class in high school. Not a lot of our crew knows about this place, Sandro and I preferred to keep it quiet. A good hole to blow off steam and avoid the prying eyes and gossiping mouths of our inner circle. There’s gotta be a reason he asked me to meet him here today. I just can’t figure out his angle.
I lean forward, placing my beer down on a cheap coaster, the colors already faded. I raise my eyebrows, “Something you want to contribute to this non-conversation?”
He laughs but it’s humorless. “Benito’s back in town.”
Damn it! I slam my fist down against the edge of the table and squeeze my eyes closed, reining in my anger, trying to curb my lit fuse before it explodes, and I blow up at Sandro. Sandro, who may have useful information. Sandro, my best friend.
“So you didn’t know?” he asks slowly, his eyes assessing.
“No, I didn’t know. How long has he been back for?” And why couldn’t he just stay buried in casinos and prostitutes in Sanremo?
The left side of Sandro’s mouth quirks up in a rare smile. “Man, I thought you weren’t telling me.”
“What?” I ask.
“I thought you knew and were just keeping it quiet. Covering for him.” He must register the shock on my face because he waves his hand dismissively, “I know, I know, it was stupid of me to think that.” The last time Benito skipped town, years ago now, he did so without paying back the thousands of dollars he borrowed from Sandro’s papa. As usual, Benito used my papa’s name, his reputation and contacts, to get what he wanted. And then he let everyone else deal with the fallout of his actions. I’m just grateful his shit didn’t affect my friendship with Sandro.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head to clear it. “How do you know he’s back?”
“Domenico Costenzo called Papa. He was at the Costenzo place two nights back, meeting with Gianni.”
That catches my attention. Everyone knows Gianni Costenzo isn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen. And he plays on the goodness of his mother’s heart to stay deep in the family fold. Sure, he has some legitimate businesses here and there, but he really makes his bread and butter from pushing cocaine. Something his brothers, particularly Domenico, can’t stand. It’s no surprise Domenico would tip off Sandro’s papa, what with everyone knowing how Benito owes him a ton of money. What the fuck could Benito want mixing with Gianni’s company?
