9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

M uch to my surprise, Ricardo Martinelli, the undersecretary of agriculture, was a pretty cool dude. Tall, lean, mid-forties, with wavy black hair and deep brown eyes that stole your breath. He'd been appointed to his post by the new president who had been recently voted into power just last year. He was unabashedly single and not averse to changing plans on the fly. When the eatery he had chosen notified us en route that they'd suffered a plumbing emergency and were closing for the indefinite future, he glanced at me as if to ask if I knew of a place.

"If you're open to something less prissy, I have a friend…well, he's kind of a new acquaintance who I met when I arrived. He also does yardwork for my aunt, a big strapping fellow, incredibly friendly, who works at a lovely little restaurant," I offered as we lounged in the back of his limo, trying to decide what road to take where. His dark eyebrow rose. "It's called the La Festa dei Leoni."

"Perfect," he said, relaying the address to his driver, who tapped it into his phone, and off we went.

He sat back, talking animatedly about organic olives and how pleased he was with all the changes that the Bonetti mills had made over the years. I nodded along, not knowing one damn thing about our farms other than the obvious. I knew nothing about the work my father had done in the past two decades to improve his groves by implementing earth-friendly means to control insects, choosing better fungicides, and increasing the wages of his workers.

Truth be told, I was rather stunned to hear this stranger talking so warmly about my father, the same guy who threw me to the wolves. By the time we were cruising by the famous town hall of Firenze with its rusticated stonework, imposing clock tower, and reproductions of the statue of David and Hercules, I was sure this man was speaking of some other Tommaso Bonetti. He had to have been. My father was an uptight prig who valued nothing more than money and prestige. This man of the people and the land that Signor Martinelli was gushing about was not the same man who'd shipped me off to sleep under an underpass.

Okay, perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration. I'd been shipped off to sleep in a villa worth a few million euros, which was kind of…no, it wasn't similar at all.

The limo slowed, then stopped, the driver jumping out to open the doors for us. No sooner had the car slowed, fifteen motorbikes flew around us while two cars that had to stop for ten whole seconds began beeping their horns.

We hurried to the sidewalk. Ricardo spoke to his driver, turned to me, and gave me a charming smile.

"He will go park somewhere until we have the need for him. This is the place, yes?" He waved a hand at a small caffè with wide-open doors. A man stood on the street, older, with a black shirt, white tie, and black slacks, calling to people as they passed. He looked our way, and I noted the same proud nose that Donvino wore so well.

"I think so," I replied, my eyes darting to the sign of a regal lion of ye olden days, rearing on its back legs, with the words La Festa dei Leoni painted under the roaring feline.

"Come in, come in, we have a wait list but a good bar," the man said, waving us into the eatery before shouting at a slim girl in a similar outfit to show us to the bar. The place was small but airy, with tan walls, tiled floors, and about fifteen tables of dark wood. There were red shutters on the walls with flowerpots resting under them, a look that reminded me of the streets of Florence. A balcony looked down on the ground floor, flowering plants cascading over the railing, and people seated at small tables eating. The smells rolling out of the hidden kitchen made my tummy rumble. "Oh look, up there we have a table for you. Maria, she will seat you."

"Grazie," I said, then fell in step behind the lovely Maria, who led us up some circular stairs that overlooked a small bar which seated perhaps ten, to the second floor. This seemed to be a couples-only grotto, each table set for two with flickering candles. It was considerably more private up here, secluded, a perfect spot for lovers to coo and flirt while down on the main floor the tables were bigger.

"May we see your wine menu, please?" Ricardo asked the young lady.

"Yes, your server will bring it," she replied, then scurried off, leaving us to smile awkwardly at each other as soft Italian music floated through the garlic-scented air.

"So, you know my father," I opened with as we stared at each other over a fat candle in a squat glass holder.

"I do, yes, and your aunt. I am sorry she is under the weather. She is always such a joy to dine with," he said, his sight leaving me to grab onto something behind me. I looked up to find Donvino at our table. His black shirt, white tie, black slacks, and red apron looked so good on him. His eyes rounded in surprise, flying from Ricardo to me.

"Hi!" I merrily said. "Bet you weren't expecting me to show up here tonight."

"No, I…no, I was not. Here is the wine menu you requested. I…sorry, it is busy, and I am…my name is Donvino, and I will be your server tonight. Can I bring you something from the bar to begin with?"

"Hmm, what do you suggest for wine?" Ricardo asked.

Donvino replied, his gaze moving to me and then my dinner companion, his answers growing more and more clipped as he and Ricardo conversed about wines, something I knew little about. I'd much rather be enjoying the sight of Donvino's biceps in that straining cotton than gibbering about—

"What do you think, Arlo? Would you like a nice Barolo for the meal?" Ricardo asked me as I daydreamed about being locked in those muscular arms of Donvino's.

I snapped back to the here and now. "Sure, yes, that sounds wonderful."

"I think you'll like it. That will be all for now. Bring the wine and then give us time to decide on our meals, please," Ricardo said to Donvino, who was staring at me as if I were a frothing werewolf seated at one of his tables.

"Sì, yes, excuse me, signors," Donvino replied, turning on his heel and disappearing down the stairs. I gave the agriculture undersecretary a long look. He was now going on about the wine, the fact that it was restricted to only being made in eleven districts in the Cuneo district, and that he quite enjoyed the berries, fruit, truffles, and other earthy notes of the wine Donvino had suggested. I'd not really cared for how out of hand this man had sent Donvino off. As if my friend was just some common server. Oh. Oh.

I turned in my seat as Ricardo went on and on about wine. Donvino was a common server in a rather common eatery. He was also a gardener/muscle/handyman for my great-aunt. All very common jobs that my dinner companion obviously took to mean he could be snotty to such people. It struck me then how much I suddenly disliked the word common being used to describe Donvino. Also, and this made me feel like a roasted turd, I too had thought of servers as not wholly important. Hell, as I slid back around to stare at the candle, I realized that I had spent my whole life being a bit of a snob, just like Ricardo, my aunt, my father, and all the rich boys I associated with. One really couldn't call them friends. I sucked their dicks. They sucked mine. Not exactly BFF material.

"…mentioned to your aunt that while I was not wholly onboard with such radical changes at the Bonetti mills, she seemed to think your father knew best, and so it seems he did. Imagine using sheep to browse the orchards to add natural fertilizers to the soil instead of using synthetic nitrogen."

I gaped at the man. What the hell was he talking about? Synthetic what-zee-who-its? "Oh yes," I covered as best I could. "My father is a genius." I nearly choked on that. Thankfully, Donvino arrived, opened our wine, poured us both glasses, and took our orders without making direct eye contact with me at all. I kept trying to engage him, but he only smiled that smile that those who deal with the public paste on. Ricardo dismissed him rather rudely after we had ordered.

"That man is my friend," I snapped after he had waved Donvino off as if he were a fly instead of a human being.

"Ah, I am sorry. I thought you said he worked in the gardens at your villa."

"He does, yes," I softly replied as if that were something shameful. "And he works here. He's trying to save up his money to make a rowing team so that one day he can row for Italy. I think that's quite an admirable goal."

"Sì, yes, quite admirable. I meant no disrespect to your friend. I will leave him a generous gratuity."

"Well, okay," I mumbled, feeling less and less like a good friend to Donvino and more of the snotty rich brat my father accused me of being. That did not sit well.

The food came quickly. The involtini de manzo I had ordered was placed before me with professional courtesy. Donvino left us to enjoy the wonderfully prepared beef rolls served with a side of perfectly al dente rigatoni smothered in the same tomatoes, garlic, and wine sauce that coated the main dish. I ate, talked, and did my best not to make a fool of myself due to my lack of any agricultural knowledge whatsoever.

Whenever I would look about, I would find Donvino watching us, his expression hard to read. It could have been just him doing his job by keeping an eye on his tables, but it felt somehow more intense than that. I could feel his gaze on my back throughout the meal into dessert. I nodded, I laughed, I felt like a total fraud. My aunt was going to answer for this forced outing. I had no clue why she had sent me in her place. Feeling ill my ass. She and her giddy biddy buddy, Se?orina Cappello, had been quite spry after confession. Another wasted outing as I had done nothing but sit in that dark box for five minutes until the priest asked me about my sins. I'd replied that my sins were mine and that I really didn't do this whole scene. He told me to do ten Hail Mary's and sent me on my way. Or at least I think that was the conversation. His lack of English made it a tad tricky to suss out.

"I'm going to use the men's room before we go," I stated suddenly, rising to my feet and placing the cloth napkin that had protected my white skinny jeans. Ricardo nodded, rose, and watched me make my way to the circular stairs. I spied Donvino at the bar. I scurried down the stairs and wiggled through the crowded eatery until I could wedge myself in between him and a rather round woman sipping a margarita, her Texas twang making her stand out like a badger in a chicken yard. "Hey," I said as Donvino glanced my way.

"Did you need something?" he asked, his sight flickering upward to the romantic little balcony and then to the drinks being placed on a round plastic tray. It was much harder to hear down here. The tables and bar were packed with tourists and Florentines enjoying a Saturday night meal and cocktails.

"No, well, yeah, sort of," I stammered as the lady next to me laughed so loudly it made my fillings vibrate. "I just…"

"Are you here on a date?" he blurted out, his gaze now right on me.

"A…no, no ! What? No. What a silly thing to ask."

"Oh? He is known for a gay man."

"I…he's what?" I gave my head a shake. Surely I had misheard him.

"He is gay. That is known to all. First LGBT man in office. Out man. Is he your date?"

The barkeep, a gangly older man with eyebrows that looked like weasels sleeping on his forehead, placed a tall glass of beer on the tray next to two flutes of something bubbly and pink.

"No, he's not my date . He was supposed to meet my great-aunt for a meal. It's been boring as fuck. All he talks about is olives, sheep, and nitrates. I think…are you sure that man is gay?"

"I know what I read. He is touching you all night."

Had he been? I mean, sure, he had reached out to pat my hand or rub my forearm as he blathered on about his prestigious job and how lonely it was for a man like him to be in public office. Oh yeah, okay. Shit. He had touched me a lot now that I had my mind on Ricardo and not Donvino.

The barkeep snapped out Donvino's name, making him startle. "You should go. He is waiting for you."

I turned my head to see Ricardo standing by the bottom of the stairs, his sight on me and Donvino. He seemed okay with chilling there and I turned to say that to Donvino, but he was gone. I spun to find him climbing the stairs, his back straight, his delightful ass right there . Was he mad at me for having a business dinner? What the absolute hell was he upset about? And why did my aunt not mention that the man she was "too sick" to meet for dinner was as queer as I was? She and I were going to have a long talk when I got home. This whole thing felt like a setup to me.

Blowing out a breath of pure exasperation, I plodded over to Ricardo, rubbed my belly, and let him lead me outside to meet his limo.

"Would you like to go to a club?"

Gods yes, I so wanted to go to a club, but not with this man. I wanted to check out the gay scene in Florence with Donvino, a guy who I suspected was bi or pan but had yet to come right out and say so. I should go with Ricardo, throw myself into the grind and sweat of a gay club, and maybe even let him take me to his place to fuck. It had been ages since that infamous night on Fire Island.

"I think I should get home and check on my poor, sickly aunt," I said instead, then spent the ride home silently mulling over why I hadn't chosen the party scene. That was so unlike me. I wasn't sure who Arlo Bonetti even was right now, but whoever he was, he was a massive party pooper.

***

Ricardo waited in the driveway until I got inside, giving me a small wave of his hand before I ducked into the darkened foyer. The house was silent, so I crept upstairs, tiptoeing past Se?orina Cappello's guest room, then stopping outside my great-aunt's door. I could hear her television playing, the volume rather loud, and so I rapped once, cracked the door, and stuck my head in.

Her room was alight, the lamps all on, glowing a soft safflower on the gold filigree on the oils hanging on the wall. Ginerva and Se?orina Cappello were resting in her massive bed, glasses on, prim nightgowns of lavender and rose with tiny pearl buttons with matching robes covering their necks and arms. A thick duvet of white and gold swirls rested on their laps.

Both women stared at me openly. "Oh, I didn't realize you were having a slumber party," I said loudly so that I could be heard over an Italian dubbed version of Oceans 11 , the original version with the Rat Pack and not the newer one with Clooney. Both were good, but nothing could beat Frank, Dean, and Sammy. No way and no how.

My aunt studied me over the top of her glasses. Se?orina Cappello smiled and dropped what looked to be a fig into her mouth.

"Did you wish something?" my aunt tersely asked.

"Well, I just wanted to make sure you were feeling better." Her dark eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. "Imagine my shock when I found out that you were so ill you couldn't make the dinner with Signor Martinelli tonight. When I saw you last, you seemed to be the picture of health. Was your tummy upset?" I glanced at the massive bowl of—yep, they were candied figs—sitting on the cover between my aunt and her friend. "If you two ate that bowlful, I could see why you'd be too sick to talk trade."

"I only had a few figs," Ginerva replied coolly, even though her back was up. "My dyspepsia came on suddenly, so I opted to send you in my stead. Did you and Signor Martinelli have a nice night? I do hope you read up on the company as I requested, so you had a basic knowledge of agriculture and olive farming."

I took a step in, arms folded over my chest, the very picture of one tiffy gay man. "You set me up."

Ginerva rolled her eyes. Se?orina Cappello offered me the dish of figs. I shook my head and then waited, foot tapping.

"It was not a setup," my aunt finally replied. Se?orina Cappello sighed dreamily when Dean Martin entered the frame. "It was you stepping in to do the job that you are required to do."

"Okay, so first off. I will repeat this again since not one soul ever listens. I do not want to run the company." My aunt muttered something in Italian that made Se?orina Cappello cock an overly plucked eyebrow. "Second, I can get my own dates, thank you very much."

"Arlo, it was merely a business meeting with a handsome, respectable older man. Your taste in men seems to run to those who are less than acceptable for a Bonetti. Many gay men in Italy would have been thrilled to be out with Ricardo. He is considered quite the catch, isn't he, Vittoria?"

"Mm? Oh, sì, uomo bellisimo," she replied just as Frank Sinatra was being dressed down by Jean Willes. God I loved old movies. And songs. And steamer trunks. Just not older men who had been wrangled into a blind date.

Ginerva motioned to her bed buddy as if that agreement ended the conversation.

"Still, I don't appreciate you doing that, so please do not do it again in the future. Now, I'm going to bed."

With that, I stormed off, head high, to the sound of something glass being whipped at Frank Sinatra's head. If only I could lob an ashtray at the wall and have Dean Martin and Peter Lawford peek in to see what the hubbub had been.

I resorted to shouting into a pillow in my room. Not quite as satisfying but chucking ashtrays or candy dishes at old ladies wasn't exactly acceptable behavior. Nor was lobbing something at a blue-eyed crooner, but the rules back then were a lot more lax when it came to whipping things at men in skinny ties.