Page 65 of Enzo's Vow
She suddenly tore herself back, breath ragged.
I swallowed again, wanting more,needingmore. “Gemma?”
She stroked the line of my jaw. “Now we can go inside.”
I grumbled a protest, but set her back on her feet. Hand in hand, we passed the front gate and headed down the driveway. Though small, her father’s ground-level apartment opened onto a yard alive with laughter, the clinking of glassware, and the thumping bass of an eighties Italian pop song, promising alively night. The aroma of barbecued meats hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of the lemon trees lining the perimeter.
She nudged my side and gestured ahead. “Over there by the barbeque—those are Papa’s cousins.” She waved at another lady at the opposite table. “And Zia Stefania, Papa’s sister.”
Inside the home, Gino stockpiled bottled vino into a crate. His gaze landed on Gemma, and he straightened, deserting the case. “Mi figlia.” He rushed to his daughter and hugged her. “I’m so happy you’re here.” He cupped her face and kissed both her cheeks. “You look well. Thank God.”
She threw her head back and laughed, the sound bright and carefree
“Come, come.” Gino waved for us both to follow him. “Are you hungry? You must be hungry.” He served us a variety of food: lasagna, arancini, lamb chops swimming in a lemony garlic marinade, traditional Sicilian croquettes, andsfincione. Not an inch left on our plates, but the notion failed to deter Gino, who grabbed two extra plates with more food and set the dishes at our table.
No chance of tackling the second plate when we struggled to get through the first.
He placed his hand on the back of my chair. “Enzo, thank you for everything you did while I stayed in the hospital.”
Head tilted to one side, she frowned. “What are you two talking about?”
“My cardiovascular doctor left me a little uneasy. Enzo sent out a special doctor from America to oversee my medical history.” He rubbed his daughter’s shoulders. “The medicines this new doctor prescribed are better for my health. I feel like a million dollars.”
“You flew in a doctor for my father?” Her eyes sparkled, and it twisted something inside me. I wanted that look forever, even ifI didn’t deserve it. I wanted to protect her, her family, even if it involved methods I wouldn’t use for anyone else.
A woman called out to Gino, and he excused himself.
She set down her fork and dabbed her napkin over her mouth. “Since when have you and my father been on talking terms?”
“Since his hospitalization.” I picked at the lasagna, the rich aroma doing little to tempt me. “I ordered my men to guard his door during his hospital care.”
She reclined back in her chair, her gaze searching my face, reading me. “Why would you do that?”
“De Luca and his crew paid your father a visit. They didn’t harm him, but fished for info about us.” Good move on Gino’s part, pretending we were clients. “I wanted your father safe in case they returned.”
The bright colors of the party balloons were too vivid in contrast to our gloomy conversation. She rubbed a shaky hand down her throat. “And… did they come back?”
“No, thank God.” I dropped my fork back onto my plate. “Do you see why I put a stop to your visits? I said no at first, not because I’m my mother’s lapdog, but because of De Luca.” My hand clenched into a fist on the table. “And yet, he got his hands on you in the end, didn’t he?”
“Stop beating yourself up over the festival. It’s over now. I’m fine.” She tilted her head as though viewing me in a whole new light. “Why did you give in? The night you took me to Papa?”
Why bother hiding the truth? “Because I can’t stand the sight of you upset.”
Her mouth shaped into a grin.
“Besides, I’m certain your father has his own revenge at play.” I glanced at my plate. “He’s feeding me to death.”
She threw her head back and laughed, the lyrical sound warming my insides.
“Surely you can’t eat all this?” Moving to America had westernized my diet; I was by no means ignorant of my Italian heritage and its love for food, but her relatives surpassed the normal stereotype.
She slanted over the table and whispered. “Do you want to know my secret?”
I welcomed any help or advice.
“If you look under the table, you’ll find Papa’s cats, Zenzero and Cuccio. They love a good Italian meal. Sneak forkfuls under the table while you eat.” She nodded to the crowd. “Everyone will be none the wiser.”
I pinched the paisley print table cloth in my lap. Sure enough, two cats, one ginger, the other a big gray fella, lazed beneath the table, awaiting scraps of food. Ginger and Chubby—the names certainly fit them.
