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“No, it isn’t.” He finally gathers himself. “Where are my manners? Please, sit down, both of you.”
This isn’t my sort of restaurant. The furniture is starkly contemporary, all white leather and metal. Alina sits on a straight-back chair, her shoulders stiff and her jaw tense, and I settle on the chair right next to her and lace her fingers in mine. She squeezes my hand back.
I’m here, dolcezza. Lean on me.
In the light, I examine Laurenti. He looks like he’s in his mid-fifties. He’s lean, almost thin, average height, his black hair liberally peppered with gray. A pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses are perched on his long nose. He’s dressed all in black. Add a clerical collar, and he’d pass for a priest.
I’m not the only one staring. Laurenti is examining his daughter with narrowed eyes. “How old are you?” he asks abruptly.
“Twenty-five.”
“That’s not—” He stops himself. “What can I get you to drink? Some prosecco to celebrate the engagement? Or cava since we are in Spain?”
When we were discussing how to approach this meeting, Alina asked me if her father would try to drug her again during dinner. I reassured her that Valencia is neutral ground, and Gabriel would consider any attempt to abduct her as an act of war. It all seemed a bit fantastical to her—no violence at all because Gabriel d’Este deemed it so—but she went along with it.
She still doesn’t trust him, though. “Just water for me, please,” she replies. “I’m not drinking tonight.”
He shoots her a sharp look. “Are you pregnant?” he demands.
Seriously? He might have contributed the sperm that helped give her life, but he’s been absent ever since. He hasn’t earned the right to ask her personal, probing questions. Alina seems to agree because her grip on my hand tightens. “No,” she says tersely. “I’m not.”
Okay, time to lower the tension. I lean forward, pasting an idiotic smile on my face. “I would love some prosecco or cava,” I tell Laurenti cheerfully. “Whatever you have open is fine.”
Dinner gets underway shortly after that. Laurenti seems to realize he’s doing a great job pissing off Alina, so he eases up during the meal. He keeps the conversation light and does his best to be charming and funny. It’s only when we’re lingering over dessert and coffee does he return to the topic of our engagement. “When’s the wedding?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. “Have you set a date?”
“No,” Ali says. “We just got engaged.” She sips her coffee. “I’m sorry your wife couldn’t be here tonight. I’d have loved to meet her.”
“She’s very disappointed to miss you,” he replies. “Serena is on the board of the art museum, and there was a meeting this weekend that she couldn’t miss. She’s hoping there will be other chances to connect.” He attempts a paternal smile. “As do I.”
Ali glances down at her coffee. “Tell me about my mother,” she says softly. “How did you meet?”
“At the beach in San Vito Lo Capo,” he replies. “Do you know the town? It’s in northwestern Sicily. I was there for work. I went to the beach during a break, and there she was. Your mother.”
“She was young when the two of you met.”
He nods. “Seventeen,” he says. “I wanted her the moment I laid eyes on her. She was beautiful, with her hair blowing in the wind and laughter in her eyes.”
In his letter, Laurenti said he fell in love with Teresa the first time he saw her. Today, he says he wanted her, and that’s a lot closer to the truth. I spent a long time staring at the photo he sent Ali, looking for anything that might be a clue. Vidone was smiling widely into the camera, blissfully happy, but Teresa wasn’t. Her eyes were haunted.
I haven’t told Ali my suspicions. What’s the point? Her mother is dead, and she’s having a difficult enough time with things as they are. Telling her now would only cause her distress.
But it seems like I can’t keep my mouth shut. “She was seventeen,” I say casually. “How old were you?”
His grip on the wine glass stem tightens. “Thirty-one. There was an age difference, yes, and her parents didn’t approve of me at first, but I won them over.”
Ali is following the conversation, her forehead furrowed, but at the mention of her grandparents, she leans forward eagerly. “You know her parents? Do they live in Sicily too? I’d love to meet them. Do you know how I can get in touch with them?”
“They’re dead,” Laurenti says shortly.
Her face falls. “Ah well,” she says. “It was worth a try.” She gives him a forced smile. “What was my mother like as a young woman?”
“She cooked well,” he replies.
Two years together. Two of the happiest years of his life, if I’m to believe what he wrote in his letter. And the first thing that comes to mind to describe her is, ‘She cooked well?’
“She loved the water,” he continues. “She was always on the beach, staring out at the ocean.”
“That never changed,” Ali says sadly. “She loved the beach. We went to Ostia at least once a week. Even when she got sick, her best days were when I’d take her there. What did she cook?”
