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“If you’re going to hover like a ghoul, at least have the courtesy to look me in the eyes,” Amaretti snapped, glaring at the tell-tale shimmer against the sand.
Risotto stepped out of the shadows, allowing the invisibility shroud to fall like a curtain. The last rays of sunset caught the bells of his hood and the metal buckle on his chest; his leather loafers crunched with every step on the shoreline. “I wasn’t sure whether you wanted company.”
Amaretti scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. Alice in Chains manifested in front of her, the chains interlocking into an X between them in the sand. “How about now?”
He levelled her with a look that made seasoned mafiosi piss their pants and start selling out their nonnas. “Vittoria.”
“Are you here as my boyfriend, my boss, or my roommate?” Another set of chains manifested between them, obscuring half his face. “Or have you come to put me out of my misery?”
“Your gallows humour is reductive,” he replied dryly, stretching his arm out. An iron spool materialized, latched onto her chains, tugging on them gently. “Talk.”
“Is that an order?” She pulled her chains back, walking her fingers up his bare chest and smirking. “You came out here to hunt me for sport and punish me?”
He grabbed her hand before her nails could graze his collarbone. “Vittoria.”
A cool gust of wind whipped across the beach, causing the bells on his cap to jingle softly, bouncing on his shoulders.
She dropped her gaze from his to where his weathered fingers curled around the worn leather of her jacket. “Why are you so worried?”
“You’ve been off all week.” His free hand caught her chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting it up and her to meet his eyes. “You hate the beach.”
For a moment, she just stared up at him, jaw set in annoyance under the warm touch of his fingers. There were multiple situations she could have handled better this week, and if she was being honest with herself for once, she knew that Risotto had noticed.
He always did.
It started when Prosciutto came home with more fish than usual, Pesci trailing behind him with a bag full of vegetables, oil and fruit.
“I wasn’t aware we were giving up meat for Lent this year,” she commented, propping her head up on her fist as Prosciutto unpacked sardines and Pesci passed him the onions. “Or is there someone down at the market that caught your eye?”
Melone chuckled beside her, leaning forward towards a scowling Prosciutto. “Did a fisherman’s daughter thaw your cold heart?” Prosciutto turned to glare at them, and Melone’s grin only grew. “Did you bring Pesci to reel you back to shore before she could sail away with you and the rest of our lira?”
“There was a sale on fish and vegetables this week,” Prosciutto replied, glaring at both of them as Pesci started on the onions. “Not that I expect you imbeciles to know that.”
“And Risotto said he’d make us pasta con le sarde if we could get a good price on sardines,” Pesci added triumphantly, pinching one of the sardines and holding it up to Amaretti, wiggling it around. “In honour of La Festa Di San Giuseppe next week.”
Father’s Day.
Suddenly, the fish was too close to her face, with memories of her father at the helm on his fishing boat along with Paolo. They were smiling, waving as little Bruno grasped her hand tightly, jumping and waving back.
How do we say goodbye to our papàs? she asked, scooping him up into her arms so he could see their fathers better.
Bruno beamed brightly, his two bottom teeth missing. Ari… arrivederci!
She hadn’t even realized she’d materialized her stand until a chain smacked into Pesci’s hand. He yelped and jumped back, the fish skidding across the counter before sliding across the floor.
“Ouch!” he whimpered, tears springing to his eyes. Prosciutto spun on his heel, and even Melone raised an eyebrow. “That hurt.”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, reaching forward to take his injured hand in hers. He flinched away, and she felt the phantom burn of her own tears burn her eyes. “Pesci, I’m sorry—”
Formaggio’s voice cut through the tension. “It smells like shit in—” he cut himself off as he stomped on the sardine, causing the guts to explode onto Pesci’s and Prosciutto’s pants, before sliding forward and landing face-down in Melone’s lap.
“Will you be taking me to dinner too, or did you want to keep sampling before you decide?” Melone asked, laughing when Formaggio recoiled, shoving off his lap angrily.
“Which of you shitheads dropped a fish on the floor?” Formaggio snapped, eyes immediately snapping to Pesci.
“Why don’t you do us the courtesy of using your eyes?” Prosciutto snapped. “Or does that part of your brain not work as well?”
That launched a full-scale argument between the two of them, with Melone occasionally chiming in to stoke the flame. Amaretti took it as an opportunity to slide off her chair, wrap their singular ice pack in a towel, and hand it to Pesci.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said, pressing a kiss to the spot beside the welt. “It wasn’t you, little bro.”
“‘S o-okay, big sis,” he mumbled, wiping his tears off the back of his hand. “Doesn’t hurt too bad.”
“Still.” She ruffled his hair, pressing another swift kiss to his temple before ducking out of the kitchen before the other noticed her absence.
It took her all of three steps to ram face-first into Risotto’s chest, the frames of her glasses skidding up her nose. “Ouch,” she grumbled, even as he readjusted her frames for her.
“Are you okay?”
“Well, your pecs nearly broke my nose, but—”
“I’m talking about Pesci.”
Embarrassment burned her cheeks, pulling away from him. “He’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t get why everyone’s making such a big thing over some fucking fish.”
His brows knit slightly. “It’s tradition in Sicily. You don't like fish?”
Amaretti opened her mouth before shutting it. How could she find the words to tell him that she’d been bribing Melone to eat her fish at dinner because it tasted like death in her mouth? That the last time she’d truly enjoyed fish was around a well-loved wooden table with Bruno over-salting everyone’s plates? Back when her father’s warm laughter was more than just a distant memory she’d forgotten the exact shape of, and Paolo and his wife made sure the table was overflowing with fried goods on Father’s Day?
“No,” she replied flatly. At the hurt that crossed Risotto’s face, she felt the guilt kick up again, so she leaned up to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “But for you, tesoro, anything.”
And run off before he could say another word.
Father’s Day had loomed over her head throughout the week, casting a shadow on her interactions with the rest of her squadmates. She could feel Risotto watching her, just as he had with the incident in the kitchen.
She kicked open the door to his study a few days later, brushing by Sorbet and Gelato without much acknowledgement of either. “I want to go with Sorbet on the job,” she demanded, arms folded across her chest.
Sorbet’s face flushed bright red with anger, and he pulled away from his partner. “You can’t just barge in here in the middle of a briefing that doesn’t involve you just because you’re fu—”
“This was meant to be a private meeting,” Gelato cooed soothingly, wrapping an arm around the blonde man and pulling him back into his lap. His tone did nothing to soften the daggers that he shot at Amaretti around his boyfriend’s head. “Our leader was giving us the lay of the land.”
She turned on her heel to where Risotto was staring at her over the well-worn monitor on his desk, mouth set in a deep frown. “Please?”
“Sure, pull girlfriend privileges in the middle of a job,” Sorbet snapped, shifting forward on Gelato’s lap before the dark-haired man pulled him closer. “Risotto, are you going to let your girlfriend throw her weight around like that?”
“We have structure for a reason,” Gelato chimed in, resting his chin on the other man’s shoulder. “Hierarchy. Last I checked, she didn’t make the rules around here.”
“Enough.” Risotto rose in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “While perhaps they could benefit from Alice in Chains’ ability to restrain, I will not be dictated to in my own office.” He looked at Amaretti pointedly before shifting his attention to the two men in his seat. “Neither will I tolerate any insinuations that I would prioritize personal relationships in a work context. Sorbet, Gelato, you’re off the mission.”
“Bullshit!” Gelato snapped, wrenching himself out of his boyfriend’s grasp before jamming a finger in Amaretti’s face. “You come in here, acting like you own the place and—”
“Gelato,” Risotto interrupted coldly. “Enough.” His frown deepened as Sorbet rose, pulling Gelato’s hand away. “Sorbet, take Gelato with you to get a tune-up for Ghiaccio’s convertible. Pick Illuso up from the airport at 14:00.” He threw the keys to the other man. “Tell Ghiaccio and Melone I have a job for them.”
“Yes, boss,” the two mumbled in sync, linking arms before leaving. They muttered to one another as they left the room, and Amaretti could swear she’d heard her name and the word “bitch” come up more than once before the door slammed shut.
Risotto stepped in front of her before she was able to dash after them. “Vittoria.”
She leaned against the desk, sitting next to his neatly organized folders. “Yes?”
His jaw ticked slightly, tapping his fingers against his biceps. “Explain yourself.”
She looked down at her gold nails, noticing that one of the tips had broken off since the morning. “Didn’t see you earlier and didn’t know if they’d left.”
“You didn’t knock.” His eyes narrowed. “Or ask.”
She shrugged, and his scowl deepened. “Sorry, boss.” She swung her legs, tilting her head to the side. “Am I in trouble?”
He stared at her, something between concern and annoyance flickering in his red and black eyes. “You’re going to clean the shower, and Ghiaccio is going to inspect it when you’re finished.”
“Ris, that’s inhumane—”
“I will not have them question my objectivity,” he interrupted, sighing heavily. He stepped between her swinging legs, warm hands resting on the spade cut-outs on her thighs. “You’re taking over the cleaning after dinner this week.”
She scowled, mind drifting back to the fish sitting in the fridge and desserts for a feast day she’d come to resent. “Whatever,” she mumbled, voice cracking as she felt the burn of tears threatening to smear her mascara. “Anything else, boss?”
His thumb ran across her skin soothingly, and she bit the inside of her cheek until it drew blood to avoid the emotions from tracking their way down her cheeks. “You tell me.”
Her arms wrapped around his waist, burying her face in his warm chest as she attempted to regulate her breath to the tempo of his heartbeat. “Not now.”
One of his hands pressed against her lower back, the other carding through her hair gently. “Hmm.” His lips brushed against her hairline, the baubles of his hood knocking against her temples comfortingly.
It all ended up coming to a head the night before Father’s Day, when she and Melone were taking a stroll through the market.
“Wanna tell me what’s got your thong in a twist?” Melone asked, scooping a cherry out of his gelato with his tongue.
She shot him a glare over the rim of the glasses, nibbling on her buccellati. “I don’t wear thongs.”
He smirked. “Yeah, I know.”
She groaned, flicking his nose. His tongue flicked out, licking the crumbs off her finger. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you taste stressed,” he commented, holding the cone towards her. “1000 lira for your thoughts?”
Before she could react, a little black-haired boy with eyes as blue as the Mediterranean sea ran up to her with a fish too large for his small body. “Signora, would you like to buy a fish?”
Eyes so blue and sincere, it felt like she was back in 1992 staring down at Bruno’s dimples and missing-tooth smile.
She choked on the cookie, tears springing into her eyes as the buccellati felt like razor blades inside of her throat as she attempted to breathe.
“Shit,” Melone mumbled, dropping the gelato to the floor as he bent her slightly, delivering measured blows to her lower back. “Ragazzo, go get help.”
She couldn’t stop the flood of tears as Melone cooed reassuringly in her ear, forcing the half-chewed cookie out of her airway and onto the street.
“Mi dispiace, signora,” an unfamiliar man’s voice cut through her coughs and tears. “My son didn’t mean to startle you; he got too excited. I brought you some water.”
She yanked her glasses off to scrub at her eyes, mascara and liner smearing all over her hand. Without her glasses, there was something achingly familiar about the silver-shot black waves of the man in front of her, warmth in his dark eyes that reminded her of being five years old, waking up bleary-eyed in a hull surrounded by fish.
Back when the world was only as big as the vessel, and every tear could be wiped away with hands that managed to hold titles like father, and mother, and sole provider with the same ease he did snell knots without breaking eye contact.
“Grazie papà,” she rasped breathily before she could stop the words from pouring out. The water burned on the way down as the embarrassment scorched her skin like a sunburn.
“Signora?”
She fumbled with her glasses, shoving it back in the direction of the man. With the lenses on, the familiar details sharpened into the confused dark green eyes of a strange man with the wrong nose, and a child that was not the second coming of Bruno Bucciarati.
“Retti?”
Melone’s voice sounded so far away as she stared at the ants swarming towards the melting gelato and half-chewed fig cookie.
The sun was too bright, the city too loud, the air too thick and unfamiliar.
So she did the only thing she could—she turned on her heel and ran.
Until Melone’s voice couldn’t find her, until the strangers winked out of her periphery, until her lungs burned and her eyes ached and her feet ached from pounding on stone.
Until she was standing on the shore, far away from tourists, where her only witnesses were the cloudless sky and the sun mocking her with its relentless cycles and the godless sea that had claimed the centre of her universe with one cruel storm.
And for once, she let herself scream.
Until the birds fled, and her Stand manifested beside her, chains beating the cruel waves as though they might change their mind and return his soul to her.
Until she was doubled over with her hands buried in wet sand, the salt in her tears returning to the sea.
Until the sun made its course in the sky, and all she could offer it were choked dry sobs with her head screaming with a migraine, and her midsection ached from sobbing.
And suddenly she was empty, alone, with nothing to show for it but the distinct taste of shame.
Until now.
Risotto’s thumb stroked her chin gently, the other releasing hers finally before slowly coming around to rest on her hip. “Talk.”
She leaned against his hand, feeling the exhaustion of the final week catch up to her. “Did Melone tell you what happened?” The embarrassment from earlier came flooding back. “What I said to that man.”
He nodded slightly. “He recounted what he assumed you said.” His hand slid across her jaw, cupping her cheek. “I thought I’d clarify.”
“I fucking hate Father’s Day.” Somehow, her body still found new tears to roll down her face.
His red eyes softened, hand sliding up into her hair and pulling her into the warmth of his chest.
The sobs started again, wet then dry then wet again, her fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket as he held her. Until her knees buckled and she slumped into his body, one arm propping her up against him and the other stroking her hair like she was still someone precious and irreplaceable.
She pulled away finally, wiping her fogged-up glasses on her crop top. “There’s a tattoo of these stupid frames on your chest now.”
He looked down at the red imprint on his chest thoughtfully before pulling her into his lap princess-style. “It’ll fade.”
She laughed weakly, leaning her head against his shoulder and looking up at him. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”
“I’ve been where you are,” he said, brushing the tear-soaked hair behind her ear. “A few years ago.”
She sniffled, rolling the O bell of his hood between her fingers. “When?”
He looked away for a long moment, shoulders hunching forward. Something about him looked younger, somehow, and more wounded than the unshakeable shadow he presented himself as.
“I remember the screech of tires from the collision.” His grip tightened on her slightly, eyes glazed over as she drifted beyond somewhere she could reach. “Maccarello in my arms, too young to have the words to describe what had happened to him.” His jaw set, and she shifted her hold from the bell of his hood to the warm skin of his face, the beginnings of stubble pricking her fingers. “He died horribly, and the world kept moving around us. Like a current around rocks.”
She turned his face gently, and this time when she met his gaze, his eyes were glassy. “It’s the worst day of your life,” she whispered, thumb tracing his jaw. “And people are rushing to work around you like somehow your whole world erupting around you is a traffic jam.”
He leaned into her palm. “Nothing made sense. They sent me to go to school as if nothing had happened. Cousin’s kid doesn’t qualify as ‘next of kin,’ even if I was in the room when he was born.”
“That’s fucked up,” she whispered, resting her free hand against his chest. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Me too.”
He pressed his lips to the inside of her palm. “That’s fucked up.”
She leaned up, kissing his cheek gently. “You were too young for that shit.”
He offered her a small smile. “You too.”
The sea didn’t feel so cruel and endless with the feel of Risotto’s heart against her side, his arms holding her tightly. His large hand cupped her cheek, thumb tracing soothing patterns beneath her frames.
“It’s less bad.”
“Hmm?”
“The ocean.” She shifted in his lap to face him, cupping his face in her hands. “I don’t hate the beach when I’m with you.”
He leaned forward, lips pressing against hers. An arm wrapped around her midsection, the other finding the nape of her neck as she deepened the kiss.
The wind caused the bells of his hood to jingle softly, the sand warmer where their bodies pressed into it.
He pulled back after a long moment, resting his forehead against hers.
“Thank you,” she whispered, toying with the R bell of his hood.
“For?”
“Finding me.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “But if you want to spend time at the beach together, ask me next time instead of masquerading as part of the scenery.”
He quirked a brow. “Next time?”
She shrugged. “I think you could convince me.”
The corner of his mouth pulled into a smile. “Deal.”