Chapter 39

There was nothing I wanted more than for this evening to be over.

Everyone was just so warm and friendly. Even with all the teasing, it was obvious they all loved one another and were comfortable in each other's company.

It was really weird. Almost unnatural.

While the others chatted animatedly, Alfonso approached us. Remembering the embarrassing circumstances of my arrival in Cavalieri, I sidled closer to Matteo as I shifted slightly behind his protective body.

Alfonso smiled as his gaze moved over my attire. Not in that creepy way my father's friends would look at me, always stopping at my chest for longer than was polite, but more in a polite, appreciative way. As I slipped my hand into his outstretched one, he bowed and kissed the back. "May I offer my congratulations, signorina. And may I say, you look beautiful tonight."

Matteo's arm tightened across my back. "Don't go trying to compete for my girl, old man," he teased.

Alfonso winked at me before placing a hand on Matteo's shoulder and shaking his head. "As if there would be a competition."

Matteo nodded. "Exactly. Wait…"

I covered my mouth as I laughed.

Matteo moved his hand to pinch my ass. "Don't you encourage him."

"Afraid I'll choose a better option?"

He leaned in close. "Yes. That's why I'm not giving you a choice." He then gave me a hard kiss on the mouth.

The whole room burst into a round of cheers, applause, and shouts.

Completely embarrassed, I buried my face against Matteo's chest.

I was saved by a matronly woman announcing dinner. I later learned her name was Rosa, their beloved housekeeper, but everyone treated her like the de facto nonna of the family. Just like they treated Alfonso, their general operations manager and head mechanic, like family.

As Matteo led me into the sprawling dining room, I shook my head.

Everything about this was weird.

My offer to help was ignored as each family member filed into the kitchen and returned holding a platter.

For the antipasti course alone, there was asparagus with a Parmesan butter sauce and caponata di melanzane. The roasted eggplant was garnished with farm-fresh boiled eggs. Then came a brightly decorated porcelain bowl piled high with acciughe fritte. The lightly tempura-battered anchovies were served with a garlic aioli on the side. There was even a wooden board with pesche grigliate con Burrata e prosciutto.

And this was just the appetizers.

I glanced at the antique grandfather clock tucked into the far corner of the dining room.

It was already past six thirty p.m.

Fino would be waiting for me on the veranda off the library in an hour and a half.

As his cousins circled the table pouring glasses of Cavalieri Montepulciano, Matteo lifted my plate and asked what I wanted to eat.

Knowing he wouldn't take no for an answer, I pointed to the Burrata. "I'll take a half of a peach and some Burrata but no prosciutto, please."

After selecting the prettiest peach half on the platter, he spooned some creamy Burrata next to it. He then forked several spears of asparagus on my plate. With a wink, he said, "Rosa would have my head if you didn't have at least a little of the asparagus. She's very proud of her butter sauce."

I gave him a slight smile.

After his Uncle Barone led everyone in grace, they all started talking at once over each other.

Alfonso, Enzo, and Matteo talked about the status of clearing the brush and overgrowth from the vineyard fields. Apparently they were concerned about the pace of the project and resolved to start a controlled burn of the dried brush as soon as possible.

Bianca and Amara chatted about new artwork for a set of special edition wine labels.

While Gabriella and Milana talked about the latest fashions and what she'd be able to wear once the baby was born.

Rosa and Cesare debated the old Italian wives' tale that a baby would be born with birthmarks if the mother didnt indulge in her pregnancy cravings.

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."

Bianca clapped. "Oh, how exciting! I'm sorry I missed that."

Matteo continued. "She's the children's favorite teacher at the Academy of Music in Palermo."

How did he know that?

"Although I haven't heard her play it yet, Matteo said, I have it on very good authority from Dante that she is also the only cellist in Sicily who was invited by the Church to play Mozart's Sinfonia Concertante for the Pope's visit last spring."

Gabriella raised her glass in a toast. "That is very impressive, my girl. I'm familiar with that piece and I cannot imagine the courage it took to play it in front of His Holiness, no less."

"Is there a video or recording of the performance?" asked Amara. "I'd love to hear it."

Milana's eyes lit up. "We should host a party and invite everyone we know to listen. What a brilliant way to introduce Antonella to the village."

Barone pointed to Alfonso. "We could work it into the winery festival program for the Festa di San Giuseppe."

Alfonso nodded. "I could have the men set up a screen with some speakers. We could project it onto the side of the main winery building."

Rosa then chimed in. "While everyone listens it would be the perfect time to serve the zeppole di san Giuseppe."

"Great idea, Rosa," responded Bianca.

My eyes teared over.

It was the proudest moment of my life. The Sinfonia Concertante was considered one of the most difficult pieces of music for any cellist to perform because of its complicated arpeggios, quick scales, and the necessity for precise bowing.

I'd been a nervous wreck about performing it in front of so many people, let alone in front of the Pope. I'd practiced for three months straight, until the tips of the fingers on my left hand cracked and bled and my right hand cramped from holding my bow for hours straight day after day.

When the day finally arrived, neither my father nor Antonia could be bothered to attend.

And here was a table of complete strangers talking about making a scratchy, second-rate recording of it the centerpiece of their Feast of St. Joseph celebration.

I broke.

Throwing my napkin over my plate, I pushed back my chair and ran out of the room.

As I crossed over the threshold, I heard Barone's deep baritone say to Matteo, "Let her go."

Yes, Matteo, for your own sake… let me go.