“Sure, but you’ll have to choose from regular sugar or honey as a sweetener.” Walking to the kitchen, I turn the machine on. It roars to life, gurgling as it warms the water from the reservoir.
“Lucky for you I ordered a honey oat milk latte,” Vinnie says as she comes to a stop at the kitchen island. Leaning into it, she rests her elbows on the marble and watches me.
As I reach for a mug, I turn my head toward her. “Are you lactose intolerant?”
If she is, I can’t make her a latte. But there is a bodega on the corner…
No. I do notoweher anything.
Her head shakes, the loose curls bouncing. “No, I just wanted to try the drink.”
I say nothing as I move to my fridge and reach for the whole milk inside.
When I complete her drink, I set it on the island in front of her and move to the other side, pulling out a barstool to sit on. She pulls the mug to her lips, blowing on the liquid as steam rises in front of her.
“This is delicious, thank you. And thanks for letting me borrow a shirt,” she says, but she’s not looking at me. Instead, she’s still looking around my apartment. Or at least what she can see of it.
Silence stretches between us, and I’m surprised that it’s not uncomfortable. While she looks around, I look at her, watching as she sips her coffee. Her hands are wrapped around the mug, holding it tightly.
For some reason, my heart begins to race.
“What do you do, Vincenza?”
Slowly, she returns her gaze to mine. “I own an independent publishing house.”
“Ah,so that is why you seemed to have an interest in my books earlier.”
She grins. “Yes. Books are my love language. I’d rather spend my time in the company of thousands of words than a group of people.”
“Ironic for someone who’s considered a socialite in the tabloids.”
Her brow raises in question. “Youof all people should know you can’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
“Sì, this is true.”
Silence surrounds us again. Vinnie chews on her bottom lip nervously. I can practically see the wheels in her head turning. She wants to say something, but she’s holding back.
“You look like you have something on the tip of your tongue.” Curiosity gets the better of me, despite part of me not wanting to further engage. The more time I spend in her presence, the weaker my resolve becomes.
I should not bethisintrigued by her.
She hesitates, but finally speaks her mind. “I was just thinking about this quarrel between our families. It's ridiculous.”
Anger spikes within me. Ridiculous? My uncle was murdered at the hand of her father, and she’s calling itridiculous.
As they so frequently do, her words echo through my mind again.“It has nothing to do with me.”
I can feel my nostrils flare as I force the oxygen from my lungs,attempting to calm myself before I speak, in fear of what I may say.
“What do you remember of that day?” I ask through gritted teeth.
Setting the mug down, she thinks several long seconds before answering. “I was young, Sly…”
“As was I, yet I remember every moment. What doyouremember?”
A sigh of exasperation leaves her lips before she responds. “I remember my mother coming into my bedroom, urging me to put on a dress I hated. I remember walking into the sitting room and seeing your family, then all of us moving to the dining room. After dinner, my father dismissed us, and we all left.”
“And after?”
