Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Since my father was a corrupt mobster, there wasn’t much I could say to defend myself.
“Thank you, no. I understand everything. You don’t need to point each item out,” I whispered as my cheeks burned.
The waiter smiled. “Perhaps that is not how they do it in Sicily, but here in Abruzzo, there is a proper way of doing things.” He then pointed to the grilled skewer of shrimp and calamari. “Here, of course, is your spiedini di mare using Amalfi lemons.”
Another tiny dig at one of Sicilians' proudest exports, our lemons.
“Then, of course, we have the roasted olives and the pesto crostini. The pesto is made the proper Italian way with pine nuts, not with almonds, as I believe you Sicilians prefer.”
Once again "Sicilian" was said as if he were spitting out something bitter.
“Then take it back,” came Matteo’s dark, commanding voice from behind both of us.
I turned in my seat to see him only a few steps away carrying an emerald-green paper bag.
The waiter shook his head. “I’m sorry. What did you say, Signore Cavalieri?”
Matteo stood behind me as he pulled an Elide Vivianna coat with wool camel sleeves and a brown-and-gray houndstooth pattern from the bag. “Stand up, babygirl.”
With my head lowered so I wouldn’t meet the gaze of the waiter, I pushed my chair back and stood.
Matteo took his blazer from my shoulders and held up the coat for me to slip my arms into . The moment it was on, he pulled me back against his chest and wrapped his arm across my shoulders from behind.
His breath moved wisps of my hair as he addressed the waiter again. “I said to take it back and make it with almonds.”
“But, signore, we simply do not…”
“Do I need to call Chef Giuseppe and tell him that a waiter is refusing my simple request?”
Through the covering cascade of my hair, I observed the arrogant waiter’s reaction.
His mouth puckered, then thinned, before he bowed his head. “Of course not.” He reached for the platter of crostini. “I will let Chef know you would prefer your pesto with almonds. The Sicilian way.”
With his arm still tight around my front, Matteo kissed the top of my head, which barely reached above his shoulder, before nodding toward the table. “And make me a fresh drink while you’re at it.”
“Of course.”
After the waiter left, Matteo turned me around to face him. He pulled on the lapels of the coat to button them. “Not bad. A little big, but since you’ll probably fill out these cute curves after a few months of Rosa’s cooking, I’m sure it will be fine. We’ll get you something more appropriate when we’re in Rome.”
He then pulled the white price tag attached to the collar off and pushed it into the front pocket.
All while my anxious gaze looked past his upper arm to the surrounding patrons, who were now openly staring at us.
Stepping back, I crossed my arm over my middle. “It’s fine. You didn’t need to get me a coat.”
Matteo ran his knuckle over my cheek. “Yes, I did. It’s my responsibility to take care of you.”
A warmth that had nothing to do with my new coat spread from my belly. Not since my mother had anyone given a damn about taking care of me. It was always me sacrificing to take care of others.
He kissed me on the forehead. “Let’s eat.”
Oblivious to the collective gasp that just radiated over the patrons like a wave, Matteo took his seat and reached over for my plate.
“I’ll just take a few roasted olives and a crostini, please.”
Completely ignoring me, he piled two shrimp skewers, a wedge of the potato cheese pancake, several fried eggplant balls, and two of the re-made crostini. Topping the whole pile off with a few roasted olives.
The moment he placed it before me, I gingerly picked up the skewers and started to return them to the platter.
“Don’t you dare,” he warned.
“I’m not hungry.”
My stomach took that moment to growl.
Matteo raised a single eyebrow at me.
With thinned lips, I matched his expression, arching my brow. “Fine. I might be a little hungry, but it isn’t ladylike to scarf down a full trough of food in front of people.”
Too many years of my father’s taunting had made me practically incapable of eating in front of people. Not that I didn’t eat or like food.
As we were sitting on the edge of the cafe’s patio facing the piazza, Matteo dragged his chair around from across the table to beside me, directly to my left. His broad shoulders and back now effectively blocked the view of all the patrons. “There. No one’s looking. Eat.”
I picked up a skewer and pulled a grilled shrimp off the end with my finger and thumb as he picked up his own skewer and sank his teeth into a tender piece of calamari, ripping it off the wood stick.