“Is this like your father’s winery?” he asked. Now that the Cowans had left, he spoke Italian.
I grinned. “In a way, but they don’t peel the grapes by hand.” Carlo laughed. “And it’s not my dad’s winery, remember? It belongs to his friend.” I wanted to distance myself, and Dad, from this winery stuff.
“How many cases of wine do they produce a year?” he asked.
“I’m not certain,” I answered. “I think somewhere around 30,000.” I didn’t want him to think I knew all about the wine business.
“So they are not that small then,” Carlo said. “We are small, but we sell everything we produce.”
“Well, it’s certainly delicious. I can see why,” I said. I loved how Carlo’s eyes lit up with pleasure when he talked about his business.
“Let’s go,” he said, taking my hand. We waved goodbye to his sister, who pointedly looked at our clasped hands and tried to hide a smile. Through the side door, I saw a sleek silver scooter leaning against the side of the building.
“A Vespa!” I exclaimed.
“You did not think we were going to walk all the way into town, did you?” Carlo teased. He grabbed a helmet off the handlebars, got another from a storage cabinet, and handed it to me.
“Giulietta will not mind if you wear it,” Carlo said, as I fastened the helmet strap beneath my chin.
He opened the double gates leading to the street outside. Climbing on behind him, I suddenly realized that I had to put my arms around his waist if I wanted to stay on. With a gulp, I tentatively reached my arms around his muscular torso, feeling the warmth of his body next to mine, and shut my eyes. He smelled of lemons, of course, but also of a very male Carlo scent that threatened to send me into the galaxy. Could I memorize this moment?
Carlo started the engine, and we sped off. I felt as if I were in the movies, with the wind whipping around us as the bike leaned first one way and then the next as Carlo rounded corners. It seemed that Carlo’s knees might skim the very ground. Carlo laughed as we zoomed around cars stalled in traffic, past tourists lugging canvas bags, and the occasional carabiniere, who futilely tweeted his whistle at us.
Down the Viale Pasitea we flew, and every now and then, someone would grin and shout something at us, and Carlo would raise a hand in greeting.
“You know lots of people here,” I yelled, leaning forward to make myself heard over the rushing wind. My mouth accidentally grazed his ear—which had my heart racing all over again.
“I grew up here,” he shouted back. “And everyone knows Bertolucci Limoncello.”
We arrived at Café Positano in a skid, Carlo shutting off the engine and coasting to a stop next to the building. I’d been here at night with the Cowans, but somehow it hadn’t seemed as magical to me then as it did just now.
We took off our helmets and brought them inside with us. It was Italy, after all, and stray helmets hanging on a Vespa would be fresh meat to any unscrupulous passers-by. The receptionist greeted Carlo with two kisses, and Carlo introduced us.
“Ah, yes, the American who speaks Italian,” Carmela said, nodding.
Carmela showed us to a tiny table under a vine-covered trellis. To our right, the gorge plunged down precipitously, houses and tiny gardens perched on the slopes beneath us, the turquoise sea sparkling in the distance. The view was absolutely incredible—so amazing that I actually tore my eyes away from Carlo, but just for a moment. This was a better table than the one the Cowans and I had been given the previous night. Obviously, the Bertoluccis were important guests to rate a table like this.
Carlo ordered us a bottle of wine and an appetizer, and I could tell that this was going to be a typically long Italian lunch. Settling back against the green-and-white-striped cushion of my seat, I smiled at him.
Carlo smiled back, and my heart rate responded immediately. “Alessandra, I cannot tell you how much pleasure this lunch gives me,” he said softly.
I could feel the heat in my cheeks and rested my chin awkwardly in my hand, looking out at the view, hoping I could distract him from noticing my embarrassment. “Thank you,” I managed to choke out.
“I feel that you are unsure?” Carlo said.
“Unsure?” I answered, startled by his comment. “Unsure about what?”
Carlo smiled a slow smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Unsure if you really want to be here or not,” he said.
I bit my lip and looked down at the white tablecloth.
“Not want to be here in this restaurant? Or here in Italy?” I asked, playing for time, hoping a really cool answer would spring to my lips.
He smiled gently. “I think you are liking being here with me, yes?”
My cheeks still warm, I looked down at my plate.
“No,” Carlo continued, “I meant not wanting to be here in Italy.” In a movement that made time stand still, he reached out and lifted my chin so I had to look him straight in the eyes. “Tell me,” he said, “was it hard to leave Italy?”
Unbidden, tears filled my eyes. No one had asked me this question—no one could have come this close to understanding.
“Cara,” he whispered, as he brushed a tear from my cheek. Embarrassed, I wondered if other diners were watching my emotional display, but then I remembered—we were in Italy, and people were encouraged to show their emotions.
“Yes,” I gulped, grabbing my napkin from my lap to dab at my eyes. Carlo smiled as he reached out to take one of my hands in his. His palm felt strong and warm.
“So, how is it?” he asked, quietly, looking into my eyes. “How is it to be finally back home?”
Now, I was really going to lose it. I took a ragged breath and a gulp of wine, hoping to steady myself. “I—I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I am so torn.”
“Torn?” Carlo asked, squeezing my hand.
“Well, because where I live now, I just have to be careful how much I talk about living in Italy.” Carlo nodded as if he understood. “The other girls…they do not understand. I want them to like me, but I also need to be myself,” I finished lamely.
“So why are you torn? Are you not glad to be back where you belong?” Carlo asked, leaning closer.
Could my heart burst right out of my chest? I wondered. How could I be completely honest without offending him? “But I have to go back to America. I have to be American when I go back. I have to fit into America, do you understand?”
Carlo squeezed my hand. “Alessandra,” he said earnestly, “be yourself. Always be true to yourself.”
The young waiter arrived with our calamari, and I felt restored enough—now that my tears had dried—to exchange light pleasantries. The waiter looked surprised and pleased at my Italian, a reaction I was getting used to.
True to yourself, I repeated silently, as I sipped my wine. Was Carlo true to himself? Did he follow the same advice that he had so kindly given to me? He had been kind, I acknowledged, kind and patient, understanding and supportive. I smiled at him and his eyes met mine in a slow, melting look. I wondered, as I struggled for breath, whether we were very high above sea level. Perhaps the oxygen was thin here, and that was why I was feeling lightheaded.
“You are right,” I said. “It’s just difficult.”
Carlo smiled. “It’s always difficult to be true to yourself,” he agreed. “I want to tell you something,” he said, after glancing quickly about the restaurant as if to see who might overhear him. He leaned forward in his chair and spoke softly: “Even though we have known each other only a week, I feel I can trust you, Alessandra.” He looked searchingly into my eyes. “Is that right?”
My heart thudded in my chest. “I…I hope so,” I stammered. What was he going to tell me that demanded my trust? I twisted my napkin in my hands and caught my breath, hoping that it wouldn’t be something that would destroy this moment—or our new relationship.
Chapter Eleven
Alessandra,” Carlo said, in a low voice. “I could tell that you were wondering about the meeting yesterday.” He looked at me, searchingly. “When you saw me with my…ah…professor near the torre?”
I felt heat flood my face again and was sure my cheeks were bright red. Carlo noticed and grinned. “Ha! I thought so,” he said. Then his face turned serious. “We are having a problem, a dangerous problem at the factory,” he said quietly.
“What problem?” I asked. A dangerous problem? I gulped, immediately guessing that the Sacra Lista was involved.
“We have had some offers lately to buy our factory.”
“Really?” I asked. “Couldn’t that be a good thing?”
Carlo frowned. “No. First, because we do not want to sell, and second, because the offers are so low. They are disgustingly low offers. We cannot even consider them, even if we wanted to sell, which we do not. Bertolucci Limoncello has been in our family for three generations. It is our family’s life.”
“Why would the offers be so low?” I asked, although I thought I already knew the answer. But then, if Carlo’s family was under attack from the Sacra Lista, then they were not part of it. I felt a rush of relief flood through me—Carlo was not a banditto, after all!
“We think it is the Sacra Lista,” he whispered. “They are using other people’s names to communicate with us, pretending they are not who they really are.”
A chill ran down my spine, and goosebumps rose on my arms. Even though I’d already suspected the Sacra Lista was involved, actually hearing the words spoken aloud made it real. “The Sacra Lista?” I repeated slowly.
“This is what the Sacra Lista does. They offer to buy at low prices,” Carlo explained, “and then, when the people do not want to sell, bad things—accidents—begin to happen to the factory or the owners.” He looked at me intently. “You understand? Very bad things. It is as we discussed the other night at Café LoPresti about the distributors. It is the same strategy.”
I shivered. Yes, I understood.
“So then, the owners want to sell suddenly. To stop the bad things happening to them, yes? And the owners have to sell at a very low price and lose money.”
Bad things happened? I remembered with a start our discussion of the previous night, the kidnapping, the attacks, the murders! My eyes widened. “Are those things happening to you?”
“Not yet,” Carlo said heavily. “But we fear it is only a matter of time. That is why I met with Signor Scioscia yesterday.”
“How can a professor help?” I asked.
Carlo smiled lightly before his expression again turned grim. “He is not a professor, as you probably guessed. He is the owner of another limoncello factory near Sorrento. He managed to keep his factory away from the Sacra Lista, and I was meeting with him to get ideas and advice. We cannot talk on the phone, and to meet him in the factory—or anywhere else where there might be listening ears—would be dangerous. The limoncello business, and the wine business too, are small worlds and the Sacra Lista has many ears working for them.”
“How did this owner manage to keep clear of the Sacra Lista?” I asked. I didn’t like the “small world” and “many ears” part, not at all.
“He has friends he can call on,” Carlo said. “Friends who are very powerful in the government. They can help us, but it is a delicate matter. It is not something I can talk about—not yet, and perhaps, not ever.” He looked into my eyes and shrugged. “It is Italy. It is how things work here, you know.”
In spite of the warm sun on my shoulders, I shivered a little. “No wonder you were arguing with Giovanni about the Sacra Lista,” I said, realization dawning. “When you said it was not only business, he didn’t like hearing that.”
“Yes, the LoPrestis pretend that they work with the Sacra Lista distributor because of the convenience, and the cheap goods they can get for the restaurant,” Carlo said. “But it could get worse for them too. It is dangerous to be, how you say—complacent?—with the Sacra Lista. You never know what they will do next, and they always want more.”
“So the LoPrestis are working with the Sacra Lista?” I asked anxiously. “Could the Sacra Lista take over all the restaurants in Positano?” I asked. Now, it was my turn to look over my shoulder. Or wineries? I wanted to ask.
Carlo shrugged. “No, it cannot happen. The Sacra Lista does not want all the restaurants, only the profitable ones. Besides, finally the government will step in if it becomes too bad.” He grinned wryly and spread his hands. “Like the trash problem in Napoli. The problem becomes important when people really think it is the best thing for them to work with the Sacra Lista, like Giovanni. There is a saying here, ‘truth is considered to be only whatever gets you something.’”
With a frown, Carlo leaned back and took a deep swallow of the wine. He set the glass back on the table and looked at me. “I do not mean to worry you,” he said. “I feel we are, you know, simpátici, and I felt that I owed you an explanation.”
I blushed and ducked my head, anything to avoid meeting those eyes. Was it possible for a human to melt? If so, I was practically a puddle on my green and white cushion. But yes, he had worried me. Now I was worried about him as well as myself. Gazing out over the terraced pastel houses, tumbling down the mountainside to the sea, I wondered wistfully how a town as beautiful as Positano—and a country as warm and welcoming as Italia—could conceal such sinister events.
Taking a deep breath, I looked back up at him. He had bared his soul to me, and I felt that I owed him something in return. “Thank you, Carlo,” I whispered. My mouth felt dry, but I plunged ahead. “I, too, feel that we are simpátici.”
I wanted to be close to him. I wanted to share with him as he had shared with me. I wanted to tell him about my dad—about his real role in the winery—and my fears for his safety as well as my own. It was hard to be afraid and feel alone in one’s fear. But something still made me hesitate.
Leaning across the table, Carlo’s soft lips grazed mine, and I thought I was going to truly die. “Carissima,” he said, smiling into my eyes. “We have so little time.”
I nodded, not wanting to think about leaving in less than five weeks. I hardly remembered that I had not wanted to come to Italy at all, and now, I never wanted to leave.
We finished lunch and, as he’d promised, Carlo drove me back to the apartment on the Vespa, but not before he’d taken me in his arms in front of the entire restaurant and given me a thorough welcome to la bella Italia—an abbraccio worthy of the name. Dizzily, I held onto him as we roared through the streets of Positano, resting my head against his back, reveling in the warm strength beneath his white shirt.
At the apartment, I politely shrugged off Nicole and Phil’s questions, telling them I had had a good time, but was tired and wanted to nap. Phil looked at me with one raised eyebrow—the way my dad would have looked at me if I’d resisted the post-date conversation, but let it go.
“Well?” Carrie asked, bouncing off her bed. She had her journal out, but had been obviously waiting for me.
“Well, what?” I retorted impatiently—days on end with Carrie were starting to wear on me.
“Well, how hot is he?” Carrie asked, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “Did you kiss him? More than the salutes on the cheek, I mean.” Her excitement about my possible romance was sweet, but I needed a break.
“None of your business,” I said. “I’m tired.” I lay down on my bed and turned my face to the wall, hoping she’d leave me alone.
“You did, you totally did!” Carrie squealed with excitement. “Was it good?”
I sighed and rolled over. “Carrie, honestly, he’s a very nice guy. Now, I’d like to take a nap.”
Disappointment flooded Carrie’s face. Of course, she had a crush on Carlo too, and no doubt thought that his attentions were wasted on me—obviously I wasn’t, or so she thou
ght—as gaga about him as she was.
“Fine!” Carrie exclaimed irritably. “Just fine.” She sighed and began scribbling in her journal. I closed my eyes and hoped sleep would come soon.
Thoughts about the Sacra Lista twisted and rolled through my mind, which made it hard to fall asleep. All the intrigue that surrounded Giovanni, the horror of what might happen to Carlo and his family if they continued to resist the Sacra Lista, the fear that any innocuous looking van delivering produce to a restaurant might be full of gangsters and banditti—if my parents knew half of what was happening to me, they’d whisk me back across the Atlantic so fast that I wouldn’t be able to see straight.
I also worried about my dad’s exposure. It seemed as if everyone here in Positano knew my dad was involved in the wine business. Perhaps a member of the Sacra Lista might be sufficiently curious to check out Nightingale Vintners; if they did, they might discover that Dad had been asking a lot of questions about Italian distributors and wineries. Signor Bertolucci had looked at me strangely when he found out my dad worked for Nightingale Vintners. While Signor Bertolucci wasn’t involved in the Sacra Lista, it did seem to me that he knew something about my dad and the winery that he wasn’t telling anyone about.
Now that I knew the LoPresti family were cooperating with the Sacra Lista, the idea of eating at their restaurant or talking with Giovanni worried me. I could hardly insist on never eating at their restaurant again if Phil and Nicole wanted to return, but I would have to be very careful to change the subject lightning fast should Ralf’s winery come up in conversation at the restaurant. And it was best to avoid any and all conversation with Giovanni.
I couldn’t say anything about the Sacra Lista—or the LoPrestis’ involvement with them—to Phil and Nicole. They would want me to pack up and leave, and I couldn’t bear to leave Carlo, not yet. So, with this tumult of thoughts whirling around in my tired brain and the warm memories of the afternoon with Carlo—which I replayed over and over in my mind—it was no surprise that I couldn’t sleep. I pretended to doze, however, so at least Carrie wouldn’t bother me.
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