Page 52 of Dante

“Enough. Focus on your own comportment. Would you like a brief tour of the house?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, realizing I’ll need to walk on eggshells around Dante tonight.

Dante takes my arm. As we pass a group of younger men, I feel one watching me too long.

Dante’s hand finds the small of my back and stays there. His mouth is suddenly at my ear: “Eyes forward, wife.”

I square my shoulders as we continue our promenade. “So you grew up in this house. Tell me about it.”

He shrugs. “Nothing much to tell. A normal childhood.”

“Did you get to the city much?”

“Not until college. I went to NYU for a few years until my father called me into service.”

“NYU. That must have been a fun time.”

He nods. “It was. I lived in the dorms. Made friends. Even worked at Ricci Fine Wine as a part-time job.”

“Your family had a wine shop?”

“A wine shop front,” he clarifies. “Salvatore had purchased the space back in his bootlegging days. The catacombs beneath it were great for storing his giant rum barrels. But back when I worked there, it was a legitimate wine shop.”

“Cool. Can you take me to visit? Show me the catacombs?”

“The family sold it off years ago, but I’m still friendly with the new owners. Sure, I’ll take you if you want.”

The sound of the dinner bell frees me. Dante takes my hand and leads me to our place at the table. One of the uniformed servants pulls out my chair.

With the scars on his face and a tattoo on his hand, he doesn’t look like a waiter. He looks like a soldier in a waiter’s tuxedo.

When we’re all seated, Silvio stands. “I propose a toast to the new member of our family, Gina Ricci.”

Everybody turns to me.

I look to Angie, but her pasted-on smile gives me no indication of what to do. Gut instinct tells me to stand and raise my glass.

“Dear family, dear friends. Thank you so much for honoring me with your presence.”

Dante caresses the back of my arm in an approving way as I sit down.

Almost immediately, the first course arrives. It’s pasta with fresh tomatoes and truffle sauce. As the aroma wafts toward me, a fellow guest stands to deliver the longest, most boring speech in history.

Then another speech follows, this one in Italian.

I take a forkful of pasta, but Angie looks at me with alarm.

She shakes her head and discreetly points to my spoon.

I glance around and notice everyone else is twirling their pasta against their spoon instead of directly on the plate.

Thank God for Angie, or I would’ve looked like an idiot.

After the second course arrives, another man launches into a speech.

Bored, I reach into my purse for my sketchpad. Silvio is talking, and I can’t help but notice how perfect his face is for a caricature. His bald head, dark eyes, and that nose jutting out like the bow of a ship.

I lose myself in the sketch, until a server stops at my chair.