Page 15 of My Stepbrother's Wedding
“Uhh, movie star, of course.” I felt my face flush.
“Good,” he said coolly. “Because I thought you might have been disrespecting me.”
The man’s gaze made my skin crawl. I had the premonition no one would ever find my body if I crossed him. My heartbeat quickened. “Forgive me, Uncle Vito.”
Vito walked around the desk and stood next to the door. As we moved toward the exit, he pinched my cheek. “Cute kid.” When I looked at him, he gave me a gentle slap. “Uncle Vito will take care of you.”
My knees went wobbly. Dad grabbed my hand and led me out of the shop.
Vito gave me a predatory smile and watched us leave. We marched in the direction of the town square. Once we’dturned a corner, my heartbeat went back to normal. I glanced back to make sure we weren’t being followed.
“Vito seemed like a very nice man,” Elizabeth said.
I gave her a sidelong gaze. “Are you serious?”
“He said he cared about family. I love that about Europeans.”
“I thought he was a mob boss.”
“Oh, Wini, it’s just his culture.”
I gave Dad an incredulous glance. He shrugged. “Either way, let’s try not to exchange more money.”
Chapter 6
We walked down another white cobblestone path, past boutiques and street vendors, until we came to a restaurant with a familiar McDonald’s logo on the front door. The smell of grease met us as we stepped inside. A woman in her fifties stood behind the counter, wearing an unwelcoming sneer and a hairnet. The menu was in English and had a fast-food appearance, but the room’s layout was nothing like a McDonald’s. The furniture in the empty dining area looked like something from a yard sale, and the old wooden floorboards creaked as we approached the counter.
“Can we get three hamburgers?” Dad asked.
The woman scowled and punched the cash register. “You want drink?”
We ordered two waters and a Coke. Dad paid, and we huddled around a corner table, taking in the peeling wallpaper and water-stained ceiling. My arm slid across something slimyand red on the lip of the table that I hoped was ketchup. I cringed.
The hairnet lady laid three hamburger patties on the grill with the enthusiasm of someone at a funeral. Then she walked out the front door. I watched through the window as she bought two water bottles and a Coke from the store across the street. She returned and set them on our table before returning to the kitchen, never speaking or making eye contact.
“I don’t think this is a real McDonald’s,” Elizabeth whispered, her observation as obvious as her frayed red hair.
“Well, McDonald’s ain’t that good anyway,” Dad grumbled.
“Do you think a fake McDonald’s will be any better?” I said.
Dad frowned and shared a nervous glance with Elizabeth.
A few minutes later, Mrs. McGrumpy set three plates of food in front of us. The burgers didn’t look bad, even if they had fries shoved inside and were covered in a strange white sauce. Still, my intuition told me to beware. Dad was the first to lift the sandwich to his mouth. He took a small bite and made a face like an infant being force-fed peas.
“What does it taste like, dear?” Elizabeth asked.
Dad dropped the sandwich onto his plate and forced a swallow. “It’s … different.”
Hardly a resounding endorsement, but he hadn’t gagged or fallen over dead, so I took a hesitant bite of my own. The meat tasted rare, and the cream sauce left an overwhelming, bitter aftertaste. I glanced at the empty kitchen and saw a pan of the suspicious sauce. “How long do you think that stuff has been sitting out?”
“Too long.” Dad rose from his seat. “Let’s get a gyro. I saw a place near the town center.”
Elizabeth took a sniff of her burger. “Agreed.”
***
The gyro stand was a vast improvement over the imitation McDonald’s, although we discovered waiting patiently in line was not a local custom. Regardless, we were able to push our way to the front of the mob and order dinner. The workers even spoke a fair amount of English. We scarfed down the gyros on a bench in the city plaza as tourists swarmed past us.
