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)
I raised my arm, holding my glass high, signaling I wanted more prosecco. At this rate, I’d be under the table before the secondo piatto. “Is it set in Abruzzo? I hadn’t noticed.” Liar.
Matteo looked puzzled, for good reason. The Abruzzo region was practically a second character in the book.
To cover my gaffe, I asked, “Are you reading anything?”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
The mouth that kissed me last night.
“On Persephone’s Island by Mary Taylor Simeti.”
A book about Sicily written by a woman, no less.
I tried very hard not to be impressed. As a man, if he were going to read a book on Sicily, I would have expected it to be one of any number written about our notorious association with Cosa Nostra, the mafiosi, of which my father played an integral role. Not a poetic travel journal.
He chuckled. “Admit it. You expected me to say something Neanderthalish like The Making of The Godfather.”
I smiled against the lip of my prosecco flute. “Not true.” So true.
When the servants cleared the antipasti platters, Matteo stopped them. “Wait!” He then pivoted his head between us. “You girls didn’t get any? Did you want me to serve you something before they clear?”
Antonia waved her hand. “We’re not hungry.”
I nodded.
Replacing the platters were three large shallow ceramic bowls of lasagni cu rau ri maiali e ricotta. I had to tighten my stomach muscles to keep it from growling at the lingering scent of the cinnamon, cloves, and fennel used to prepare the pork before it was added to the ragu.
Unlike Antonia, I was too nervous about Matteo’s arrival to eat before dinner, away from Father’s criticizing gaze, like we usually did.
I licked my lips, but then quickly sucked them tightly between my teeth in case one of the guests, or worse, Father, noticed me salivating over the creamy dollop of ricotta on top of the freshly made pasta ribbons.
Without asking first, Matteo lifted my plate and scooped a large portion onto it. He then reached for Antonia’s plate.
She leaned back to meet my gaze behind his back and mouthed, what should we do?
I shrugged and mouthed back, no idea.
We both reached for our freshly poured glasses of Nero d’Avola red wine and returned matching, tight-lipped smiles in response to Matteo setting the plates back in front of us.
With this course, Matteo joined in the discussion among the men about some new trade agreement the Italian government had entered into with a Middle Eastern country, undercutting the Sicilian orange trade.
Antonia and I each pushed our food around our plates as I listened, and Antonia pretended to. After a suitable amount of time, I excused myself from the table and smoothly took my full plate with me. As I neared Antonia’s chair, she slipped her own plate behind her back. I grabbed it on my way by.
The kitchen was a warm, frenetic scene of chaos and energy as the staff prepared for the next course. I passed through it to a small antechamber next to the pantry that served as a dish room, where I scraped the plates.
Before returning to the dinner table, I gave our cook, Maria, a kiss on the cheek and told her how well things were going.
For the meat course, a roasted rabbit with pomegranate, I did the same maneuver but not before my father stopped the conversation to call down the table. “Watch it, porcellini. You don’t want to get fat like your whore of a mother before she ran off.”
Piggies. My father’s pet name for us at the dinner table. I dreamed of one day firing back that my mother was a slim size forty-four.
“Yes, Father,” we answered in unison.
It was a relief to escape the table once more.
The last course, cheese and fruit, was already plated and ready. Outside, the kitchen staff took a break for some fresh air, grabbing a smoke together.
I scraped the plates and set them on the counter before going to the side entrance of the pantry and entering the attached greenhouse near the kitchen. Inhaling the earthy, sweet, warm air deep into my lungs, I crossed the black-and-white tile floor to the glass lattice-window door, foggy with condensation, which led to the lemon grove.
Resisting the urge to run through the trees to my gazebo sanctuary and just lose myself in my music, I closed my eyes and slowly breathed in the crisp, citrus air.
With reluctance, I turned to head back to the dinner party from hell, only to find Matteo blocking my path.
CHAPTER 13
MATTEO
With my arms stretched across the doorway, I stared down at the intriguing Antonella, my bride’s sister. Tilting my head to the side as I carefully observed her response, I said, “I’m on to you.”
Her body started as she immediately lowered her head, breaking eye contact. “I don’t know what you mean.”