Ruthless Monarch

“Who’s your friend?”

“Maria, this is actually my wife.”

The lady, who I now know as Maria, lifts her hand to her mouth. “You have a wife? I didn’t know.”

“It all happened rather quickly.”

“Franco, come out here! Matteo Amante is here, and he brought his beautiful wife!” she screams.

A gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair and a gray beard comes toward us. He shakes hands with Matteo before they both turn to me.

“Welcome. Matteo is like family,” she says warmly.

They both start to speak in Italian, their voices excited. Since I don’t speak Italian, I just sit there smiling at them. It’s nice to see Matteo like this. He seems like a different man.

Eventually, Matteo sits back down, and Maria and Franco go back to the kitchen to grab us the pizza.

It’s not a moment later when a big, giant pie is placed in front of us.

“Holy crap, that’s big.” I laugh.

“You didn’t eat breakfast.”

“I mean, I’m hungry, but that’s enough to feed an army.”

“Pretty sure an army would require a bit more than that.”

“I mean, I don’t limit what I can eat but this is ridiculous. I can’t believe you bought so much. You have to take home leftovers.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Why, you don’t?”

“I’m not much for leftovers, actually. I prefer fresh food. But it is a lot, and if you want to take it home, we can.”

“Maybe Roberto will want some.”

“That’s kind of you to think of him.”

Matteo serves us each a slice. I fold the middle in half and take a bite.

“Oh, my God. Holy crap. That’s good.”

He smirks and actually looks proud. “Told you.”

I take another bite. The robust flavors bursting in my mouth. After I chew and swallow, I look up from my plate.

Matteo is watching me. My cheeks start to feel warm. I was moaning while I ate my slice. Is it possible to die of embarrassment?

“No.”

“What?”

“You can’t die of embarrassment.”

I lift my hand and cover my eyes groaning. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Afraid so.”

Yep. Mortified.

Kill me now.

I cough and clear my throat.

“You were going to tell me about this place?” I say, trying desperately to change the topic.

“That’s right, I was.”

Matteo leans back in his chair. His green eyes appear lighter, and they look off to the left as if he’s pulling out the memory from a file deep in the back of his subconscious.

“I can’t remember exactly the first time I came here. I must have been four or five. For as long as I remember, I’ve been coming here. Knowing my mother, I was probably here in a stroller. You see, Maria was my mother’s childhood friend. They grew up together. They had both moved here when they were very young. Both of their parents came from the same village in Sicily. The town was called Nicolosi. It was actually my mother's maiden name. They were the best of friends, and even when my mom got married, they stayed in touch. Coming here was my mom’s haven from the family and from all the drama of my father’s business. Sure, my father did come with her every now and then, but this was her place. Hers and mine. I haven’t been here much in the past three years. It’s been too hard, but I’m happy I’m here now.”

My mouth falls open, and I can feel the dampness in my eyes. I don't know why I’m so emotional. I’m not sure if it’s because I can imagine him here as a little child with his mother who needed to escape. In my life, I’ve seen my mom feel the same way, but she didn't have any place to go that my father wasn’t. I’ve also felt that way. I don’t know how he feels coming here, but the fact that he showed me this part of him makes me want to cry.

I don’t, though. I push back the tears that want to form, and instead, I reached my hand across the table and take his in mine.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For opening up to me. For bringing me here. For showing me a different side of you.”

“It’s nothing.”

I give his hand a little squeeze. “No, Matteo. It’s everything.”

13

Matteo

* * *

I didn’t expect to open up like that.

It just happened.

For some reason, she’s easy to talk to, and that fact doesn’t sit well with me. It’s like she’s weaved a spell, and I had no other choice but to oblige.

It’s awful.

Fucking awful.

But on a more positive note, she’s playing right into my hands.

Both literally and figuratively. I look down to where our fingers are now entwined.

I would be lying if I didn't admit it to myself, that sitting across from her at this table is comforting.

Her eyes are soft. They look at me as if she wants to save me.

It’s a shame really, because had she not agreed to work with her father behind my back, I could see myself falling for her.