“Of course they did. Of course.” I crossed my arms. “Do you know Nico?”
“Oh, I think you know Nico, too. You just don’t, you know, know Nico.”
“Huh?”I wrinkled my nose and stared at him.
Dante smirked. “Third pew at mass. Wears enough cologne to actually render someone devoid of the ability to smell for at least three hours after contact, and last Sunday his suit was purple. Head to toe. I think his jacket was velvet.”
I sucked in a breath. “Nooooo. That’s him? Gross! He shook my hand after church! Dante, his palms were sweaty.”
The bell on the door jingled. We both turned to see an elderly gentleman make his way toward us. He looked around Gio’s age, maybe seventy-two? But he wore it well. His three-piece suit was clearly Italian. Thick, wavy gray hair was styled perfectly. He screamed money.
Old New York money, the type you get illegally, if you know what I mean. I took a cautious step toward Dante even though he was on the other side of the bar. I don’t even know why I was intimidated other than the stranger’s clear blue eyes seemed to see right through me.
Did I know this man?
“Hello,” he said in a lightly accented voice, and then he smiled, instantly transforming his face into friendlier territory. “I was looking for Sal Alfero?”
“Alfero?” I repeated, sharing a look with Dante who’d suddenly appeared to have swallowed something sour. His face was completely white, his jaw tense as he flexed his fingers into a tight fist. “I don’t know—”
“No Alferos here,” Dante said in a completely detached and hollow voice. “Sorry.” His fists tightened even more as fresh blood slid down his wrist.
The man’s smile turned to a scowl. “Are you sure?”
“My uncle,” I interrupted. “His name is Sal but his last name is Grecco.”
The man turned his full attention to me. “Grecco.” His laugh was deep, intoxicating, warm. “Interesting, thank you, my dear.”
With a tilt of his head, he politely excused himself and left.
“Huh, that was weird,” I muttered to myself.
Dante swallowed. “Yeah. Weird.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He recovered quickly as if he hadn’t just looked ready to kill someone. A mixture of sorrow, confusion, and anger crossed his features again, before he grabbed a cup filled it with ice, and added in some Coke. “Drink up, sis. It’s going to be a long day. You’ve got a man to break up with.”
“I hate you.”
“You know, that’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me?”
I made a face.
“Hey, that’s a compliment! You’re nice. It’s a good thing.”
“I’m a pushover.” I reached for the glass and slipped a straw inside, greedily sucking down the soda. “There’s a difference.”
“Val.” Dante reached for my hand then brushed a kiss over the top of my knuckles. It was his thing. He was a true Italian gentleman, and my friends went crazy for it. Let it be known that at six-foot-five, Dante Grecco was a lady killer through and through. With icy blue eyes and strong, solid features, he could easily model. Muscles bulged beneath his shirt as he moved around the bar and started prepping for the evening service — once happy hour hit he had to go back to waiter duties since he wasn’t twenty-one yet. “I love you.” His back was still turned to me. “We’ve got each other, yes?”
“Yes,” I said automatically, my eyes honing in on the injuries to his hands. For how long? That’s what I wanted to ask. Because I wasn’t that naïve. I knew what people whispered about behind his back — that he fought for money, that he was good at it — that at nineteen he was dangerous, uncontrollable, an animal.
“Good.” He turned back around, placing both of his hands on the bar top. “We’ll get through anything, as long as we have each other.”
“Even Nico?”
He burst out laughing. “Yes, even Nico. Poor little jackass is gonna have a rough night.”
“Me! I’ve had a rough day! Think of my night! Besides, I was late for work so I’m sort of behind on arranging—”
“You?” Dante interrupted, his expression concerned. “Late?”
I couldn’t exactly say yes, because I received a top secret letter from an unnamed source and went to the safety deposit box only to discover another letter addressed to me, one I hadn’t yet read, since Gio texted that he was going to call the police if I didn’t show up in a few minutes.
Ugh, never late. Always nice. Total yes girl.
Maybe I should just marry Nico.
“So?” Dante snapped his fingers in front of my face. “You were saying? Late? Everything okay?”
“I’m supposed to marry a cologne commercial. No I’m not okay.” I grit my teeth. “Keep ’em coming.” I slid the soda toward him, he filled it up, and I spent the rest of my break laying my head against the countertop wishing for an alternate reality, or at least a love story better than I had.
But those love stories?
The truly epic ones?
They usually belonged between the pages of a book — not with the girl who works at the flower shop every day but Tuesday. The girl who spends her days off in the park reading. The girl who cries during Broadway shows and once asked her uncle if she could be a princess when she grew up.