Page 92 of Forgotten Sacrifice
Vince gives my hand a squeeze, encouraging me along. “Scusate, Gran Maestro D'Agostino? Grazie per averci incontrato. Sono Luna Barone, di cui vi parlavo,” Vince says.
“Ah, sì. Il Maestro Internazionale del New Jersey.” Grandmaster D’Agustino says, looking at me.
I nod. I’ve moved up in ranking to International Master, one step closer to my dream. “Attualmente sono un Maestro Internazionale, ma vorrei che tu mi aiutassi a diventare un Gran Maestro,” I explain, glancing over to Vince, who’s shocked expression is priceless.
Vince
The little con artist speaks Italian. Fluently, I might add.
“One game,” the Grandmaster tells Luna, switching overto English. “If we reach a draw, I coach you here in Naples for three months.”
Not fucking happening.
“If I win, you enjoy Naples before your return trip to the States,” he continues.
“And if Luna wins?” I interject.
“And if Luna wins, I move to the States, become the resident Grandmaster of your new club, and coach her for free for a year.”
Luna takes a seat across from him, extending her hand with that little ember of fire in her eyes. “Let’s play.”
Vince
“I’m proud of you,piccola.You never cease to amaze me.” She swiftly bested the Grandmaster, who looked rather shocked at the defeat. Not a shock to me, as I already had the paperwork drawn up and ready to be signed. It’s a done deal.
Her cheeks flush. “Thank you. I’m pretty proud of myself.”
“As you should be. Come on, we’re going to celebrate your victory before we fly home.”
We stroll through a more relaxed neighborhood, and something in the window of a jewelry shop catches my eye.
I pull Luna inside, and we leave with her wearing a silver half moon pendant. “A belated birthday present and apology for me being an asshole.”
“I love it.” Luna kisses me on the cheek, and I want so bad to turn my face and taste those lips on mine, butI refrain. She told me she’d kiss me when she gets her freedom, and I’m not ready to let her go.
We reach the pizzeria, and the hostess escorts us to our table. I pull out Luna’s chair for her.
“Such gentlemanly manners, Mr. Vincenzo.” She bats her eyes.
“Sit down before I turn you over my knee in this packed restaurant,” I whisper in her ear.
Her lips curl as she takes a seat, and I walk around the table and take mine.
Our server appears, and the first thing Luna asks is, “Do you have soda?”
“I bring you Chinotto. Italy’s soda. And you, sir?”
“Sparkling water.”
The man disappears, and I point to Luna. “Do not, under any circumstances, ask for ranch.” I want to preemptively avoid disaster.
She crosses her arms. “Have you ever tried ranch on pizza?”
“Luna, we are on hallowed ground. Where pizza originated. The arguably best pizza in the world. The equivalent would be ordering the most expensive Wagyu steak on the menu, and asking for a bottle of steak sauce.”
“I love steak sauce!”
I exhale heavily. “So much I have to teach you.”
