Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Since everyone was distracted, I decided to take the opportunity to sneak my full plate into the kitchen, as I had been trained to do at dinner parties since I was a teenager.
As I grasped the plate edge and prepared to rise, Matteo’s hand reached out and covered my wrist, halting me. His head was still turned away from me in conversation, so the movement startled me. He then twisted his head and whispered in my ear. “This is not your father’s house, babygirl. Eat and enjoy.” He winked and returned to his conversation about the danger of brush fires, while keeping his hand wrapped around my wrist.
When I hesitated, he said, “Seriously. Rosa will notice and have my head if you don’t try her roasted peaches.”
My gaze rose to the formidable-looking Rosa. Not wanting to anger her, I picked up my fork and sliced the edge through the soft, delicate peach flesh. Sweeping the bite through the creamy Burrata, I had to stifle a groan of appreciation as the smoky-sweet peach juice combined with the rich, salty creaminess of the cheese and melted on my tongue.
The plates were soon cleared.
More wine was poured.
And a cheer went up around the table as Cesare proudly held aloft a platter displaying a perfectly formed pasticcio di maccheroni for the primi course. Rosa followed with a large carving knife, beaming with pride.
As thick slices of the baked pasta pie were cut and dished out to the passing plates, I once more glanced at the clock.
Seven fifteen p.m.
Less than an hour until I was supposed to meet with Fino.
My gaze caught Rosa staring intently at me as I rolled a piece of macaroni back and forth across my plate with the tines of my fork without eating. Feeling the weight of her stare, I pierced the soft pasta and swept it through the chicken giblet ragu before forcing it into my mouth.
All eyes at the table turned to me.
“What do you think?" asked Amara. "It’s one of Rosa’s specialties. I helped her this time.” Her eyes shone with pride.
The food stuck in the back of my throat as I tried to swallow it while being the subject of the entire table’s regard. Snatching my glass of wine, I took a large sip before nodding. “It’s delicious.”
The massive platter was cleared, and all the men rose to go into the kitchen. Just like before, they returned in an impressive line holding platters aloft like we were in the middle of a medieval feast. All that was missing was the roasted peacock and the brass horns playing.
Once again, the table was weighed down with dish after delicious dish. For the secondi, there was an impressive branzino al sale nestled on a bed of sea salt and sliced lemons taking pride of place in the center. Then several roasted chickens with garlic and cannellini beans and a large, still steaming pot of polpette al forgo con mozzerella.
Cesare, who was sitting to my right, offered me a spoonful of the polpette with a generous helping of gooey, baked mozzarella on top. “Do you like meatballs, Antonella?”
Choking, I lifted my napkin to cover my mouth.
Matteo patted my back as I coughed. “Why thank you, cousin. She loves meatballs.”
My gaze narrowed at him in warning.
Completely unfazed, he pierced a meatball with his fork and raised it to his mouth. Keeping his gaze locked on mine, he sank his sharp, white teeth into the savory flesh before slowly chewing the bite as he winked at me.
Once again, the table burst with spirited chatter. Food, work, wine, babies, the village, the weather. It didn’t matter. They listened, laughed, and spoke with enthusiasm to each other.
And all I wanted to do was scream.
My heart sank as I looked over at the clock.
Seven forty-five p.m.
I watched as the second hand clicked around the dial, like a ticking time bomb.
So intently was I staring at the clock that Barone’s question took me by surprise. “So, Antonella, tell us about yourself.”
The table fell silent as everyone turned to stare at me. For once, the whole room was silent.
My chest hurt as my lungs squeezed tight, the few bites of food I had in my stomach turning to pure acid. The red wine made my cheeks and nose feel hot. I rubbed my sweaty palms along the thighs of my borrowed dress as I struggled to think of something interesting or witty to say about myself.
Nothing.
My mind was blank.
All these interesting, boisterous, fun people were looking at me and realizing that I was nothing like them. That I was small, and useless, and boring. A music nerd who spent most of her days cloistered away from the rest of humanity in a moldy gazebo playing her cello.
A nobody who…
Matteo’s firm, warm hand rested over the top of mine on my thigh. He then gave it a squeeze. “She’s an amazingly talented musician. The boys who usually set up in the piazza let her play earlier and you should have seen the crowd that formed.”