‘Alessandro!!!’ The heavily accented male rushes forward to pat Alexi enthusiastically on the shoulder before swooping in and kissing him on both cheeks in a really over dramatic way and hugging him heartily. All hugs and back slaps in a very OTT welcome. Alexi laughs, uttering something Italian too and hugs him back.
Italians!
But…
Who is Alessandro?
It never dawned on me that Alexi was actually short for something. I never questioned it, and now I can hear someone call him that it just does not fit at all. It’s such an old man name for someone as sexy as Alexi. I don’t like it on him one bit. Sexy Alexi is a far better title and it has a ring to it.
When the man steps away he swoops on me and I get a helping of the wet kisses on each side of my face, disturbingly so, and I try not to cringe as he rambles away in Italian chatter as though I can understand it. I don’t react, just smile politely and take the weird greeting before discreetly patting my face with a napkin when he turns his attention back to my date.
‘This is Camilla,’ Alexi gestures towards me, smiling brightly and looking a little too Gino, before answering the man in fluent Italian again, faultlessly. I find myself gazing at him intensely. There is something really hot about Alexi speaking his family’s native tongue so fluently. If you didn’t know any better you would think he was a purebred foreigner when he is like this, and it’s captivating to listen to that husky voice talk in tongues of romance. I know he must have spent a great deal of time there as he harbours an odd twang in his normal dialect, but you don’t tend to notice much unless you listen hard.
He catches my eyes on him and smiles softly, a weird moment between us that makes my skin erupt in feathery sensations and I look away uneasily; Stomach flipping and heart drumming intensely from the briefest things. Still haven’t got a grip on it.
When we are shown to the nearest table and settled down, I’m dutifully handed a paper menu that’s handwritten and the old man sweeps off to fetch us some fresh hot Italian bread, and water.
‘Alessandro, huh?’ I throw Alexi a smug look and smile, banter over a name that definitely doesn’t suit him. I just cannot associate him with it at all. It conjures up greasy pool boys looking for a quick lay with ageing rich women.
‘Yeah … Mothers! It’s the Italian form of Alexander. She truly likes to torture her kids. At least it’s not Luigino!’ He smiles back, pronouncing Gino’s full name with an accent that could possibly melt knickers and that really ends me. I start giggling at the absurdity of that name. It really is worse than Alessandro on every level, and now all I can think of is that little Mario brother computer game duo, and Gino in green overalls.
‘Really? I thought Gino was at least just that … Gino! Jesus, did your mother not like either of you much then?’ I ask through my merry giggling fit, forgetting all my stress and weird mood vibes as I relax with him. Alexi picks up his menu and bops me on the head with it, looking amused. Playfulness back on and the air clearing between us once more.
‘Yeah, something like that. She is very traditional and very Italian. My mother likes to remind us of that every day.’
‘I don’t like it … You’re Alexi, nothing else,’ I point out, and he keeps smiling at me, reminding me of a similar conversation over my use of the name Meghan. Leaning back in his chair casually he turns his menu to scan it.
‘Do you need translations?’ He waves it at me and as I look down at my own I can see it’s all in Italian and I have no clue what any of it says. It could be symbols and dots for all I can decipher.
‘Hmmm. Why don’t you just pick me something? As long as there is wine to wash it down, I’ll like it. I’m not a picky eater.’ I smirk and throw my menu down in front of me, leaning back to match his pose and watch him as he reads it.
‘Red? Your favourite colour … Okay, we could just have today’s special. It’s spinach and four cheese risotto with pancetta and mushrooms.’ Alexi glances up at me over the paper and I nod approvingly.
‘Sounds good. And yes, to red … always.’
‘I could get on board with that.’ He throws his cheeky wink back at me and that weird tension from earlier lifts a little—taking nothing from his retort except a mild flirt. He’s in a charming mood now he has food on the brain, and I can let go a little and just go with it. Early upset finally forgotten and I look around the quaint little room and really appreciate my surroundings. It has a good ambience, warm and friendly and makes for a similar frame of mind. I like it.
‘So how did you find this place?’ I probe, interested that someone like him would find someplace like this a good fit. It doesn’t seem all that Alexi to me. Not flashy, expensive or sinister enough. It’s a little homely and too family feely for our Mafia king and his avoidance of all things wholesome.
‘I kind of fell into it … literally. I was drunk, lost, trying to find my way home and ended up down here somehow one very wet night. I tried to find an exit via the side of the building and thought scaling a fence was quicker than walking back out the way I came. I ended up falling into their backyard and knocking myself out … very, very, wasted.’ He raises a brow and gives an apologetic shrug with his tale, and I burst out laughing and shake my head at him in disbelief.
‘Seems very far away from all the Carrero grandeur to get lost around here. What did they do when they found a sleeping Alexi in their garden?’ I ask, lifting the water glass to turn right way up to fill, but Alexi is fast and swoops in for the jug before I do and pours me some in a very chivalrous manner. Proof he was raised with manners anyway.
‘I started life in an apartment near here … downtown, average, far away from everyone … They just put me on a fold-up bed in the kitchen to sleep it off. Next morning, they fed me and sent me on my way.’
‘And you came back?’ I seem surprised by this but then I guess seventeen-year-old Alexi was not as closed off and untrusting as thirty-two-year-old Alexi and probably wasn’t much like he is now. I get a pang of longing to know what he was like back then and try to picture him so much younger and much less affected by his world. I wish I could have met him before all that makes him who he is hadn’t fully seeped into his soul. Maybe I would have liked him a lot more.
‘I realised I left my wallet around here somewhere, so I had to come back. I didn’t really intend for it to become a regular haunt.’ His eyes meet mine with a sort of resigned nod and he carries on filling his own glass.
‘And now here we are,’ I point out with a beaming smile as old man Italy brings us his basket of breadsticks and deposits a fresh jug of iced water on the table despite the one I’m drinking still being cold. He removes the first jug anyway as Alexi gives him an order, still in Italian. He writes it on a little pad, nods with a smile, and when the old man totters off I lean in conspiringly.
‘He doesn’t speak English?’ Nodding after him, confused that someone living here for all these years hasn’t grasped basic English and he just shakes his head in reply.
‘No. His wife does and his children, but not him. He just never learned how I guess.’
Talking of such, a girl wanders through casually, around my age, late twenties, and beams at us sitting here as soon as she looks up; bursting into overenthusiastic happiness as she spots my Lothario at the table.
‘Alessandro!’ She mimics that of the older man, accent not as heavy, and rushes over to paw and kiss Alexi on the cheeks, a little flirtier than the old man did, breaks into fluent Italian without looking my way once.