You Don't Own Me 2 (The Russian Don 2)

‘Rome is not made for big cars,’ he explains.

I soon see why. The streets are narrow and full of parked cars. There is hardly any parking space, and when Zane parks in a minute space with only an inch front and back to spare, I see the wisdom of the tiny car.

He locks the car and we walk down a narrow Roman street with only a little sliver of sky above us. There is no sidewalk and cars and mopeds whizz by right past us. Laundry hangs out of first floor windows and in tiny balconies filled with flowerpots.

Street musicians are playing outside the restaurant. There are tables outside and people are sitting at them. They have the air of locals and look at us curiously. A balding man in a white shirt and black apron rushes out to greet Zane.

‘Ahhh Aleksandr,’ he calls loudly. ‘Che meravigliosa sorpresa.’

‘He’s telling me what a marvelous surprise,’ Zane translates for me.

The man’s dark eyes slide towards me. ‘E chi è questa bellezza?’ he asks.

Zane looks down at me and winks mischievously. ‘This beauty, Luca, is my wife, Dahlia.’

Intense heat creeps up my neck and into my face. How casually he had called me his wife. How awesome if we were not pretending. If we were really married. If I was really his wife.

Luca makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Bellezza,’ he cries dramatically. ‘But of course a beautiful man catches a beautiful woman for his bride,’ he says switching to English.

‘Hello,’ I say.

He tilts his head. ‘English?’ he asks with a frown.

‘American,’ I confirm with a smile.

He holds up a knowing finger. ‘Ah, I knew it.’

‘Come, come,’ he invites warmly, and gestures us towards a table covered with a black and white striped table cloth. As we are being seated, he says, ‘Let Luca make something,’ he brings together his thumb, index and middle fingers together and kisses them with a loud smacking noise, ‘for you.’

‘OK.’ I grin at him appreciatively.

He looks at Zane. ‘Cacio e Pepe con Tartufi?’

Zane looks at me. ‘Would you like to try a handmade egg pasta with Pecorino Romano cheese, black pepper, and black truffles?’

‘Sounds great.’

Zane looks to Luca. ‘What would you suggest for the main?’

‘Saltimboca.’

‘That’s Roman dialect for ‘jump in your mouth,’ Zane tells me. ‘It’s a fry up of tender veal wrapped in Parma ham and sage and marinated in white wine.’

‘Yeah, sure. I’m game,’ I say.

‘Va bene,’ Luca approves, and goes away, head held high and humming to himself, oblivious to all the people in the restaurant.

‘What a character he is,’ I whisper to Zane.

Zane smiles. ‘It’s all a charade. He’s as sharp as nails. He counts the parmesan shavings he drops on his customers’ plates.’

I laugh.

The waiter arrives with aperitifs for us.

‘What’s this?’ I ask.

‘It’s Luca’s sense of humor,’ Zane says. ‘He made you an Americano.’

‘An Americano for an American. Nice one.’ I try it. ‘Hmmm … not bad. What’s in it?’

‘It’s a twist on the Negroni. Campari, Martini Rosso vermouth and soda.’

The diamond on my finger catches the light and sparkles. I resist the impulse to stare at it.

‘I know so little about you,’ I say.

‘There’s not much to know.’

‘Zane, I don’t even know what your favorite color is.’

‘Magenta.’

I tear open a packet of breadsticks and take one out. ‘That’s not a very masculine color. Why do you like it?’

‘I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s so rich and strong. What about you? What’s your favorite color?’

I break the breadstick in half. ‘I love baby blue best, but I also love black and pink and green, and orange, and most shades of yellow.’

He smiles and looks at me the way one does a child. Indulgently.

‘What’s your favorite food? Like if you had to live on it for the rest of your life,’ I ask, putting the breadstick into my mouth.

‘Hmmm … Probably Argentinian steak and Hong Kong style French toast.’

‘What the heck is a Hong Kong style French toast?

‘Two pieces of toast slathered with peanut butter, soaked in egg batter then fried in butter and served with more butter and syrup.’

‘Jesus, that sounds like it would give a whale high cholesterol.’

He takes a sip of his drink and looks at me over the rim of his glass. ‘It’s very, very good though.’

‘Maybe I’ll try it one day.’

‘Maybe you will,’ he says softly.

Nineteen

Dahlia Fury

Whoa. That brings me out in goose bumps. ‘Ok, my turn now’ I say quickly. ‘My rest-of-my-life food is chocolate, pizza, warm brownie and ice cream, fried chicken, Peking duck, melted cheese on tacos, baked potatoes with cheese and beans—’

He starts laughing. ‘That’s cheating. You’re supposed to pick your favorites.’

‘Sorry. It is impossible to choose between them,’ I tell him.

‘Right.’

‘Favorite alcoholic drink?’

‘Vodka I suppose. Yours?’

‘I love champagne and … Margaritas and … Boozy Bubbly Sherbet Punch … and also … Baileys.’