Page 37 of The Vanishing
“It’s fine.” Giovanni focuses, fitting her heel into the suede shoe and tying the laces at her ankle. “Your neckline is low. I don’t want our driver getting a view he doesn’t deserve.”
When Cellina looks up, the driver is absolutely staring at her chest. Not speaking Italian, he doesn’t understand Giovanni’s declaration. But when his gaze meets Cellina’s, he smiles, awkward, before turning and walking away. Cellina breathes a laugh. “Are you protecting my virtue now?”
“I’m shielding your exquisite body from wayward onlookers,” he says, securing the bow.
“My knight in shining armor.” Cellina smirks. “Why are you wearing a tie? You hate ties.” He would complain about them when they were young—when his parents had formal parties and made him wear them. The maidservant who helped dress him always tied it too tight. Stifling him. As soon as they were in the garden and away from the adults, Cellina would untie it for him, roll it up and stuff it in a hedge, her adolescent theory being the less ties he owned, the less likely he’d be made to wear one.
He stands, then holds his hand out to her. “This isn’t my aristocracy, so I should follow formal protocols. I’m happy you remember something about me.”
“Oh please.” Cellina rolls her eyes, smiling as she steps into him and pinches the soft, smooth material between her fingers. “You said they made you feel, quote, ‘Like a damn dog on a leash.’ At least you picked a pretty leash tonight. This color is wonderful.”
When he doesn’t answer, she looks up. His vivid eyes are unreadable as he stares down at her. He huffs out a warm, gingery breath and pulls his mouth into a little grin. “Thanks.”
Cellina steps back and brushes the flowy fabric of her dress, the heat of her nature bubbling at her spine.Cool it with the close encounters, Lina.
This is how it always was with him. Whenever they were close, her nature would flip and writhe around within her, pulling her toward his solidity and warmth. His roguish, playful nature and rebellious spirit. His honesty and sincere consideration of the vampires around him. Even now, he’s managing his little brother’s realm—didn’t hesitate one moment to rearrange his already insane schedule to be here for both Haruka and Nino when they needed him.
Giovanni is always like this: outward focused. Adhering to his parent’s wishes, supporting Nino through his abuse, calming her through her silly fits of rage over her brother. He is the rock upon which everyone leans and stands. Dependable.
Maybe to a fault.
She doesn’t know anything about his private life anymore, but she hopes he enjoys himself of his own accord. Somewhere between the appointments, social gatherings, business deals, responsibilities and crises. He should have fun and escape, at least sometimes. Like they used to when they were kids.
* * *
No one partiesquite like a four-hundred-year-old female vampire in Japan. There’d been heartfelt speeches and raucous laughter, high-end liquor and fresh seafood. At one point, she’d been gathered up in other vampires’ arms, then lifted, crowd-surfing style, and tossed into the air.
Reaching four hundred is an impressive feat in their culture, and the elder female had been spry and sharp with no outward signs of her biology breaking down and turning into dust. Absolutely worthy of a rock star–style celebration.
Cellina appreciates the cultural experience—even being showered with compliments and flirtatious remarks from vampires twice her age. Throughout, Giovanni had been the perfect purebred. He had one glass of wine the whole night. He smiled and laughed on cue, offered serious business insight to those who wanted it and showed concern and empathy where appropriate.
He is diplomacy at its finest. A well-oiled machine of civility and grace.
The moment they climb back into the town car to drop Cellina at the station, Giovanni pulls at his tie, then sits back against the seat and closes his eyes, breathing. She smiles.The diplomacy robot is recharging.
“Hey,” she says after giving him a long moment of silence.
“Yes?” he answers, eyes still closed.
“Have you ever had okonomiyaki, Osaka style? I hear it’s the best.”
He turns his head. “Are you hungry? We just ate all that damn food.”
She shrugs. “I didn’t eat much because of all the chitchat. And we’re here. We should try it.” She leans forward, deciding to put her growing Japanese-language skills to good use. “Sumimasen, oishii okonomiyaki no resutoran wa doko desu ka? Osusume no mise wa?”
“I know a place,” the driver says. “Best spot for okonomiyaki and takoyaki in all of Osaka. It’s in Namba. We’re not too far. They have good beer too.”
Cellina grins at Giovanni. He looks at his watch. “You might miss the last train?”
“It’s okay,” she says. “You have a room. I can sleep on the couch or get another room.”
“You arenotsleeping on a couch.” He frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” She narrows her eyes. “Let’s go have late-night fried things and beer. I want to enjoy Osaka.”
And they do. The driver takes them to a small, locally owned shop in the bustling Namba area. The street is hectic, crowded, with buildings donning neon signs that glow in sharp colors against the black sky. Up a narrow flight of stairs and into a warm, hazy room, they’re greeted by a busy human chef and two waitstaff who mildly balk at their vampiric natures. They fry the Japanese-style savory “pancakes” at the large griddle on their private table, the heat, smoke and smells swirling all around them. Giovanni ditches his jacket, loosens his shirt collar, and they drink cold beer. He laughs a lot—they both do, reminiscing more about their younger days and filling in the gaps of their long separation.
When the griddle has been turned off and wayward bits of cold noodle, fish flakes and squid remain on their plates, Cellina sits back, relaxed. “How do you have fun and unwind these days? Just out of curiosity.”
