“One look at you and I have to say, walking away from the business was the best decision I ever made.”
I guess my exhaustion is more obvious than I thought. He turns over the glass, fills it, and places it in front of me.
“Not helping. But it’s good to see you, man.” I look down at the glass of water. “I think I’m going to need something stronger than this.”
“A bottle or glass of red?”
“Better make it just a glass, as the meeting isn’t done for the day.”
He wanders off, shaking his head.
Emilio never wanted the pressure of the family business, much preferring to run his own small pizzeria with his wife. I can see the appeal. And whenever I’m in Naples on family business, I always make it a priority to visit. There’s something about sitting here overlooking the harbor, eating pizza and drinking a glass of wine from our family vineyards, that reminds me of carefree summers. I may have been born in Manhattan and love a deep-pan pizza as much as any New Yorker, but my heart beats with the passion of an Italian.
The family ties to Italy have always been strong, especially for my father, who spent nine months of the year here rather than with his American wife and four sons in Manhattan. Then every summer, my mother would pack us up and fly us all to Italy to spend the break cruising the Amalfi coast or staying in the family villa perched on a headland overlooking the Mediterranean. There was no summer camp, but we didn’t mind because instead, we spent idyllic, fun-filled days with our Italian cousins or family friends.
My eyes close behind my sunglasses as I try to remember those happy days.
The last ten years of my life have been anything but fun. A playboy lifestyle is something my brothers and I could all have been accused of in our early twenties. In fact, it was almost encouraged by our father. But by twenty-four, those expectations changed dramatically. At least they did for Ant and me as the two eldest boys. We were the ones expected to take over the family business, like my father before us. Groomed and molded into his image. A man, even then, we barely knew.
Emilio’s voice jolts me from my reverie and my eyes pop open. “Here’s your wine. And have you decided what you would like to eat?”
“Grazie mille. But no food yet.” The ball of stress in my gut has taken away my appetite.
“Let me know when you’re ready.” His grin is broad as he disappears again, and my gaze wanders to the nearby tables.
The restaurant is relatively busy. A few young families, some couples obviously on dates, and two elderly ladies who are smiling at me. I smile back. But then I seeher. A beautiful young woman sitting alone. She glows gold as the final rays of the sunset spotlight her table, while the rest are now doused in shadow.
I don’t know why she captures my attention the way she does. Maybe it’s the light? Or is it the sweep of bare shoulder where her T-shirt has slipped off? Or the bundle of silky brown hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head, with curling strands escaping to frame her pretty face?
She leans forward with concentrated effort as she writes in a notebook.
Maybe it’s that. It’s unusual to see people writing rather than skimming their fingers over phone screens, posting on social media, or taking Insta-worthy selfies from different angles that are still basically all the same. I see a lot of tourists doing that and, honestly, I don’t get it. When I get to escape from work for a vacation, the last thing I want to do is spend that precious time on my phone.
I glance down at my cell phone sitting on the table, silent. I switched it to mute the moment I stepped outside the meeting. Switching off is one of the ways I keep my sanity in the crazy world of business—or, more appropriately, the crazy world of my family.
The woman raises her head, her hand sweeping back her hair with the graceful movement of a ballerina. Maybe that’s it—she’s a dancer. Her straight posture, long, elegant neck, and slim build have me imagining her gliding effortlessly across a stage.
I can only see her profile as she stares out toward the boats. She raises the pen to rest on the pillow of her gloss-free, full lower lip. She’s a natural beauty, requiring no adornment other than a simple white T-shirt, jeans, and white kicks. Plain gold studs adorn her ears—the only jewelry I can see from this angle.
There is nothing about her that screams to be noticed, yet I can’t look away.
I gesture for my cousin. “What’s wrong?” he asks, looking at my untouched glass of wine.
“Nothing.” I pick it up and take a sip. “See, delicious as always. But that girl over there?” I tilt my head in her general direction. “Do you know if she’s here alone?” I ask in a low voice so only he can hear.
“Victoria, the Australian girl?”
My guess was an American tourist, but Australian makes sense too.
“She’s here alone, the same as last night.”
Never have I been more grateful to my cousin and his friendly nature than at this moment. He has the unique ability to make his customers feel so comfortable that they open up to him about their entire life stories in some cases.
“Could you ask her if she would like to join me for dinner or a drink?”
“Prego, cousin. But please, she is a nice girl.”
I can’t help the faint smile. “Emilio, you forget I’m the gentleman, not the playboy of the family.”
