Page 71 of Ruthless Daddy
He looked at me sideways. “Hungry?”
I nodded. My stomach was in knots, but I wanted to eat. I wanted to see him eat, too. I wanted everything to keep happening.
We walked up Michigan, then west, past a row of shops, to a block of old stone buildings half-shadowed under the el tracks. The Italian place was sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a pharmacy, nothing special from the outside. The sign was just a painted board: Osteria Messina. Inside, it was warm, yellow-lit, and loud.
The waitress didn’t bring menus. She just came to the table, smiled at me, then addressed Pietro in Italian. He replied in the same, his accent going thicker, slower. I recognized words—pane, vino, antipasti, qualcosa di speciale—but it was like listening through water. The waitress replied in a burst of dialect so fast it could have been code.
He smiled, nodded. “Si, grazie, due volte,” he said, and she left. I stared at him.
“What did you do?” I said.
He grinned. “Ordered for you.”
“Are you going to tell me what it is?”
“You’ll like it,” he said. “Trust me.”
The wine came in a carafe, dark and opaque, nothing fancy. He poured half-glasses, watching me over the rim. I took a sip—earthy, not sweet, the kind of wine that left a stain on your tongue. I liked it more than I wanted to admit.
He raised his glass. “To greenhouses in winter.”
I clinked his. “To banana trees.”
He sipped, then said, “You should have seen your face under that dome.”
I rolled my eyes. “Shut up. You looked like you were going to cry.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes the world is beautiful.”
It didn’t sound like a joke.
The waitress came back with a basket of bread and a plate of olives. I dug into the bread, buttering it, then eating it too fast. Pietro just watched, grinning.
I said, “Are you going to eat or just stare at me?”
He broke off a piece, slow. “I like the way you eat. It’s honest.”
I flushed. “That’s because I’m actually starving.”
He took my hand under the table, held it. “Good. You should always say when you need something.”
I wanted to say something back, something true, but the door opened and the rush of cold hit us both. Two men came in, laughing too loud, smelling of cigarettes and cologne. They sat at the bar, called for Fernet, and the room felt more like a place people lived in.
The waitress brought arancini—three fat balls, crisp and golden, the inside molten and spiked with green peas. I cut into one and it steamed, the rice creamy, the cheese stretching out in threads. I shoved half of it in my mouth and groaned.
“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in months,” I said. “Maybe forever?”
He tried his. Chewed. Swallowed. “Not as good as my mother’s.”
I snorted. “Of course not. But it’s better than what I grew up with.”
He gave me the mafia eyebrow. “Your family didn’t cook?”
“Nonna did, but only for holidays. Her arancini were perfect.”
He made a face. “Impossible. Nobody’s are perfect.”
I shrugged, grinning. “These are good. But they don’t even have a crust.”
