Page 21 of Cage of Thorns and Blood

I blink at her in mock disbelief. “You're telling me that you're Italian, and you've never been to Venice? That's almost a crime. You should travel and see it; it's a wonderful city.”

“One of my friends went when we were in college, and she said it smelt really bad.”

Luigi returns with our drinks, placing Renata’s fizzing glass of Prosecco carefully on the table, and then doing the same with my glass of beer.

“Are you ready to order?” he asks.

“Can we do something a little bit different than starters and mains? Instead, can we order a pizza each and then some side dishes to go with it, such as olives, salad artichokes; that kind of thing.”

“Of course, whatever you would like,” he says genially. “What pizza would you like each?”

“Margarita for me,” I say. I don't mind a pizza loaded with all sorts of things, but the pizza here is so good that I always stick to the classic.

“Same for me please,” Renata says.

Luigi writes down the order in the small waiters pad he always carries and scurries away.

“This place is so charming and old school,” Renata says.

She genuinely means that too, rather than being snotty about the place because it isn't upmarket; she seems enchanted.

“I love it here. I used to come often with my family. But going back to what you were saying about Venice...” I turn the conversation around to what we were discussing before. “Maybe your friend went after a storm because it doesn't always smell. It’s an amazing place. You really should go. Where else have you been in Italy?”

“Not that many places to be honest.” She shrugs. “Maybe I should do a European tour, like old timey rich ladies. What was that film about it?” She drums her fingers on the tablecloth and then clicks them. “A Room with a View. The one where all those rich British people are traveling around.”

“I’ve never seen it,” I confess. “But a European tour would be a blast.” And suddenly, I can see it. Me and her. Traveling. No politics between us or family power dynamics; just us. Her looking so fucking delectable that every man stares at her. Me wanting to fuck her every chance I get.

I shake my head. I need to remember that I don’t know her. The time we had together as teens was years ago; she’s a different person now. Then she was a bratty teenager, and I was broody and collected, maybe a bit overly cautious too, but I also understood we had to wait. Bide our time. She was the one who seemed to be so persistent about us getting together before we were ready. Maybe that’s why it shocked me and hurt so much when she slept with my best friend.

Or maybe, just maybe, a small, insistent part of me whispers, you felt more for her than you ever admitted.

“Where's the best place you've been?” I ask her, keeping the conversation light.

“There’s so many, but honestly, and I know I should lose my Italian card for this, but I like Paris the best. There's just something so romantic about that city.”

“I've never visited Paris before.”

“It is wonderful,” she says. “The buildings are beautiful; the art galleries are fantastic. Of course, there's the shopping.” She gives a small self-deprecating smile.

Yeah, I know all about how much she likes to shop. I see her credit card bills. I merely smile at her.

Luigi reappears and places various dishes on the table. There are olives, roasted artichokes, a plate of thinly sliced Italian meats, and a bowl of salad. Beside him a waitress appears and places a pizza in front of me and then one in front of Renata.

“Oh my God, we’ll never eat all this.” Her eyes are wide as she stares at all the food on the table.

“We don't have to clear our plates,” I tell her with a smirk. “It's not like when we were kids and we were told to eat or we couldn’t leave the table.”

“Oh, Lord, did you get the you better eat everything on your plate lecture too? Nico got that most meals.”

“You bet I did. We weren’t allowed to leave until we’d cleared our plates.”

“What kind of torture is that?” She shakes her head. “Forcing kids to eat everything on their plate when they don't want it. It’s one of the few things I feel sorry for Nico for. He had it at many meals.”

“You didn’t?” I ask. “Did you clear your plate like a good girl?”

It’s a light, throwaway comment, but her face darkens, her blue eyes suddenly looking like deep, dark pools. “No, I didn’t. I was told to leave some of mine. I was given smaller portions than my brother because Mamma always said I was prone to being chubby.” She attempts a smile, but it’s stiff as if she’s an actress who can’t quite get into character.

What the fuck? Her parents told her that as a child? That’s a ready made eating disorder right there.

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