Magda caught the eye of one of the officers. “You should put that man away. He’s a disgrace.”
The taller officer shrugged. “He’s not hurting anyone. Not illegal to be drunk. I checked before joining.” He smiled at Chiara and gestured toward the case displaying a lone piece of bread threaded with wine must and raisins. “Can I have that last piece of pane di mosto, Chiara?”
Chiara replied, “Con piacere, Marcello. How is Laura?” She plucked the aromatic bread out of the case and placed it on a saucer, settling it in front of the officer.
Marcello smiled, “Much better. She’ll be home soon.”
“Good, I’m glad.”
Magda shook her head. “Still. I mean, he’s threatening.”
Chiara was confused, and then realized Magda was still talking about Luciano, “To whom? Massimo? You can hardly blame him.”
Magda leaned forward, pleased to have engaged Chiara in debate, “What? Because of Giulia? You think Luciano blames Massimo for Giulia’s death.” It was more a statement than a question.
“I didn’t say that.” Chiara traded a knowing look with Edo, who offered her a smile of support. How did she get embroiled in this conversation? “Just . . . losing his daughter was heartbreaking for Luciano. I’m sure the sight of her husband is a constant irritant. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Doesn’t he?”
The shorter officer, Alessandro, chimed in, “Plus, Luciano’s wife dying so soon afterward. Of course he hasn’t recovered.”
Magda harrumphed, “Well, he’s never going to recover if he drowns his sorrows in drink all the time. People should at least stop selling it to him. Luciano needs to face reality.”
Wiping his mouth with the napkin, Marcello offered, “I’m not actually sure how he gets by. A retired school teacher, right? He can’t get that much pension, and with the amount of wine I’ve seen him drink.”
Magda shook her finger in triumph, “See? Someone needs to stop him.”
Chiara bit her lip before returning to buffing the bar to a high gleam. “Let him be, Magda. No one can imagine what that kind of devastation can do to a person.”
Magda face stiffened. Her eyes were hooded and suspicious as she stared at Chiara.
Edoardo shook his head and stepped away from Magda and Chiara. He didn’t understand their relationship. His aunt was the only person he knew who could endure Magda. Yet somehow, with Chiara, Magda was . . . tolerable. Chiara knew how to throw Magda off just enough to keep her need to criticize and micromanage at bay. Usually. Tonight, though, she was in rare form. You will unquestionably consider it a blessing to focus on the newcomer sauntering into the bar.
Edo moved to the open end of the counter to greet the man as the police officers strolled out into the evening. “Buona sera,” he offered, “What can I get you?”
The man wasn’t dressed like a local. His muscled legs were wrapped in tight black jeans, and his black t-shirt strained across his powerfully built chest. His styled-to-the-point-of-shine hair was cut short, and his almond-shaped eyes shone brightly in his tanned face. He fanned his fingers over the bar, considering, while pursing his lips. He leaned toward Edoardo to ask, “What do you recommend?”
“A caffè? A glass of wine? What are you in the mood for?”
The man’s eyes widened briefly before he smiled and replied, “I’m in the mood for something different.”
Edoardo, unsure of his meaning, decided to take him at the literal. “Like a martini? I’m afraid this bar is a bit too old school for modern cocktails. I can make you a negroni.”
Chuckling, the man said, “Why would I want a martini? But yes, a negroni sounds perfect.” He held onto the bar and leaned back, unaware of how the tension made his biceps pop into full relief. Or perhaps he was very aware. In any case, he looked around the bar appreciatively, as Edoardo reached for the bottles of Campari, vermouth, and gin. His back to the man in black, he began mixing the negroni.
The hair on Edoardo’s neck began to tingle, and he wondered if the stranger was watching him. He could practically feel the heat of the man’s gaze. Briefly his eyes flitted to the mirrored wall in front of him. Indeed, those almond-eyes were contemplating his back. Unapologetically. In fact, when Edoardo caught his eye in the mirror, the man smiled a slow smile.
Edoardo’s lips tightened into a thin line, before he turned with the finished aperitivo, efficiently taking a cocktail napkin to slide under the glass as he set it down. The man reached for the drink and allowed his finger to run along Edoardo’s as he smiled that same slow smile.
Edoardo snatched his hand back and shot a look at Chiara laughing and wagging a finger at Magda. Magda was holding her hands up as if claiming innocence. He stepped beside Chiara and put a hand on her arm. She turned to him, still laughing, “Sì?”
“Chiara. Can I take off? It’s dead and I need to go.”
“Sure, of course.” She noticed the unknown man for the first time and asked, “What did he have?”
“Um. A negroni. Oh, he still needs peanuts and chips. I . . . didn’t get to it.”
“Didn’t get to it?” A shadow passed over Chiara’s face, and she looked back at the man for a moment. She turned back to Edoardo with a firm smile. “Okay, no problem, I’ll take care of it. Go. Have fun.”
Edoardo nodded in thanks before striding to the door that led upstairs, avoiding eye contact with the man.
Once the door was closed firmly behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief. Leaning against the wall of the stairwell, he listened to the sound of Chiara rustling in the bins of snacks and prattling with the stranger. After a few beats, Edo climbed the stairs to his room.
He showered, sudsing a day’s worth of espresso off his lean body. He toweled
