Page 75 of The Enforcer

31Alfonso

I returnGiovanni’s scooter and then attach myself to a crowd of tourists heading toward the shore. Once I’m there, I duck into a restaurant so I can scan the beach while I pull out my mobile phone.

Giulio answers on the first ring. Always a bad sign.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

“Good. I need you to come back.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can.”

“I have some unexpected visitors,” I tell him. “I might not be able to get away until tomorrow.”

He grunts. I can hear his jaw working; it clicks sometimes when he grinds his teeth, which is very rare. Also not a good sign.

I think I see someone who looks like Andrea, and I move to another window, but it’s not him.

“I’ve been trying to contact my parents, but they haven’t been answering.” Both of his parents were dead long before we met, so I know who he’s talking about. I wonder if he’s told Zahra this. I wonder if I should tell Zoe. I wonder if I’ll get the chance. “When you get here, we’ll take a trip. As soon as your guests leave—”

“I understand.”

Giulio grunts, which is as close as we usually come to saying goodbye, but I stop him.

“Should I come alone, or can I bring a friend?”

“A friend?” Giulio asks.

“Yes.”

He laughs before disconnecting the call, but I think I hear him yell to Zahra, “Hai vinto alla lotteria, amore.”

I consider calling him back, but then I catch a glimpse of someone who doesn’t seem to fit in with the crowds of tourists, and I follow him with my eyes. I haven’t lived in Positano for years, but I don’t recognize this man as a local. So, I shove my phone back into the pocket of my shorts and follow him.

Zoe

I like Maria, but she was not playing about making me into a housewife. For the rest of the afternoon, she puts me to work. We shuck peas and pick lettuce. We make pasta, and then she tries to teach me how to make pesto from scratch. Once again, I refuse to commit anything she’s saying to memory, but I’ll never forget the smell of the fresh bread in her oven or the vegetables her husband is grilling outside. I’m pissed at Alfonso, but at least his mother feeds me well.

We’re just sitting down for lunch when the gate squeaks, and Ugo says something to his father with a sigh and shake of his head. His father pats his arm and says in simple, halting English for my benefit, “You can fix the gate later.”

“I thought he just fixed the gate?” Dario asks.

All of a sudden, Maria is pure movement, getting up from the table to get another plate for her favorite son and setting a place for him next to me. Dario kisses his father’s cheek, his brother’s, his mother’s, and then sits, turning to me. “May I, sorella?”

He doesn’t say that word in the same way Nicola did, playful but warm. Dario says ‘sorella’ like an accusation as if he’s waiting to catch me in a very obvious lie. And not for nothing, but I don’t give a shit if a priest thinks I’m lying. I’m pissed enough at Alfonso for leaving me here without a damn explanation that I don’t care about blowing up his spot right now either. But Maria and Gabriele have been so lovely to me, and the last thing I want to do is disrespect their hospitality.

So, I give Dario my fakest smile and offer him my left cheek. “Certo,” I whisper.

Maria claps like I’ve given a speech in Italian, and I know that I’ve made the right decision. Dario kisses my cheek in a brief, glancing brush, and then we get to the business of eating.

Thank God.

I’m lounging in the shade of a bread lemon tree for the riposo.

I mean, I’m also hiding from Maria because while we were clearing the plates, she said something about teaching me how to bake some dessert I can’t even pronounce. I’ve been ducking and dodging my mother’s efforts to teach me how to make cake since I was twelve. I like Maria, but not enough to go against my morals.

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