Page 48 of Dagger in the Sea

“She’s worried about you,” Turo said.

“She’s a mum. Isn’t that what they do? Doesn’t your mum worry about you?”

He took in a deep breath and shifted his gaze out to sea. “In her own way.”

“Have I said something wrong?”

He turned back to me. “No, why?”

“You got a bit moody there. Like me.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed, and he reached for his espresso. “What’s really upsetting you, other than getting shot at? I know last night was frightening for you, of course it was, but you’re much too young and gorgeous a girl to be mourning anything. Your life has just begun.”

“Why are you talking like an old man? You’re not that much older than I am.”

“How old are you?”

I signaled for another cappuccino. “Twenty-three. You?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Hmm.” I’d been right.

“At your age—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t you dare,” I cut him off.

“At your age,” he continued, “I felt I had the whole world in the palm of my hands. It was a joke though, I came to realize.”

My cappuccino arrived. “Grazie.” I stirred in a spoonful of sugar. “Turo, you’re too late. I already made that mistake and learned my lesson two years ago.” My eyes pricked, and I swallowed my fresh coffee. My tongue blazed with the hot brew. “Last night was another reminder that I can’t hold on to anything.”

“You held on to me.” His voice was low, intimate, but not in a tender way, and my stomach knotted, heat flaring through my system.

“Yes, I did.”

“And I’m still here.”

“Yes.”

“And you got me out of there,” he said.

“Luca did that.”

“Because you insisted.”

My ringtone went off, slicing through the magnetic pull of our words, the hypnotic lure of him. I glanced at my phone.

Him again.

Third time this morning. I still didn’t want to listen to his concern and lame sentiments. And his incessant phone calls were pointing to what I suspected, weren’t they? No, I didn’t want to believe it could be true. I didn’t want to hear it, not now, not yet. I hit the ignore button and flipped my phone over.

The boat thwomped on the water, making us sway back and forth with the movement. The wind was relentless, the sea had turned choppy.

“Bongiorno.” Alessio and Luca sat down at the table.

“Good morning,” said Turo.

The Aliberti brothers gave their order to the steward, and their espressos arrived quickly along with an ashtray. Another steward broughtcornettosandsfogliatelle—the Italian versions of a croissant—colorful sliced fruit artistically arranged on a huge white platter. Alessio munched on a cornetto, Luca on an apricot, Turo a few strawberries.

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