Chapter Text
"Ready, Boss?” Nino Ricci pushed open the slightly-ajar door of his boss’ office, speaking with a cheerfulness that Vittorio Puzo clearly did not feel. His face was settled in its usual annoyed frown as he pulled on his leather gloves; he was most likely repeatedly fisting his hands to stretch the material around their sheer size, but Nino stifled a chuckle as he couldn’t help but feel like it was practice for some unknown, unfortunate target tonight. Probably him, if the boss’ mood didn’t lighten soon; he did say a lot of stupid things, after all.
Vittorio simply answered him with a curt nod and strode toward the door, pulling his trench coat from the coat rack next to it and swinging it over his shoulders. Nino had been friends with this man for decades, so it wasn’t that he was necessarily afraid of him, but staring at his dark appearance reinforced the terrifying reputation Vittorio had: the only item he wore that was a color other than black was the ruby crown hanging from the pocket of his black waistcoat, and coupled with the cold expression on his face, he looked like a man no one would dare mess with. As if they were on their way to a funeral except the person who died made him more angry than sad.
The cool night air hit both men like a slap in the face after standing in the warmth of the Puzo mansion for so long. It was fall, which of course for New York meant that there would most likely be snow by Thanksgiving. Vittorio hated snow. Maybe that’s what has him so annoyed lately, Nino thought. Who was he kidding? Vittorio’s troubles had nothing to do with the weather. He opened the back door of the black Ford Sedan for his boss and strolled to the driver’s side once he was settled in. Leonard was already sitting in the passenger seat. “How long until we arrive, Nino?” the young man asked.
“The drive should take about fifteen minutes. But I’ll get us there in ten, don’t you worry,” he laughed.
“Stupido idiota,” Leonard muttered, though a smile tugged at his lips as the light insult made Nino howl even more.
“Just drive, Nino.” The man’s laughter died immediately upon hearing Vittorio’s softspoken command and clearing his throat, he obeyed.
As promised, Nino pulled in front of the luxurious Restaurant Vesuvio ten minutes later after a drive of disregarding speed zones and weaving wildly through traffic. He was starving. The quick glances he constantly shot at Vittorio while he drove, who simply stared out of the side window as he continued to flex his hands and break in his new gloves, raised his anxiety for the night ahead and made his stomach twist even tighter.
Vesuvio was one of Vittorio’s most successful businesses, one that Nino was in charge of. How long since the boss had even been here? Why was this the place chosen for a meeting he clearly dreaded attending? Vittorio didn’t wait for him to open his door, exiting the Sedan at the same time as the men up front, and waited for Nino to hand the keys to the fear-frozen valet before walking up the steps and into the restaurant. “M-Mr. Puzo! Sir.” The young blond immediately lowered his gaze after seeing the stern owner exit the car, who simply gave a silent nod of his head in acknowledgment. As if realizing all three men were staring and waiting for him to move, he quickly stuttered out of his frozen stance and hurriedly took the keys from the skinny man wearing a fedora. Nino simply shook his head and chuckled. Although Vittorio could be a ruthless enemy to the men who opposed him, he was noble enough to never act in aggression toward someone who hadn’t wronged him. The boy feared for nothing, Nino concluded.
He straightened his hat and posture. Tonight would be a very trying night for all of Puzo’s men, and he stole discreet glances around the buzzing dining room to make sure everyone was in place. Yes, tonight would be very trying, but they were well prepared for whatever might happen.
The soft jazz streaming from the band on stage was a balm, albeit a weak balm, to Vittorio’s sour mood. Nino was managing the restaurant well; it was early in the evening, but the combination of sultry jazz, Italian cuisine, and impeccable wine attracted dinner guests to the dance floor and even more through the front doors. He wouldn’t describe himself a man of the arts, but there was something about this specific genre of music and the intimate dancing it aroused from its listeners that he found alluring and fascinating. Not that he danced often. When was the last time he danced? He couldn’t remember. The only memory filling his mind was the sight of his parents dancing in the main room of their tiny slum apartment in Little Italy, after they first moved to America. He was twelve years old when his family passed through that hellhole they called Ellis Island. And he remembered the jovial feeling of spinning the light bodies of his laughing mother and Stella when his father taught him how to lead in “American dancing,” as he had liked to call it. Vittorio gritted his teeth and clenched his fists at his sides, forcing the painful memories away from him.
All who recognized him either bowed their heads in respectful greeting when he passed or fearfully looked away. How many guests knowingly spent lavish amounts of money in a restaurant owned by a mob boss? Of that, he wasn’t sure. Although judging by the high count of political leaders and prominent people of the city he had been previously acquainted with, who always pretended to live clean lives and serve the interests of the people rather than their pockets, he assumed a great deal simply feigned ignorance. He almost spat on the ground. Hypocrites.
The waiter who greeted them at the entrance led them to a corner booth, the most secluded and quiet seating in the enormous restaurant. Vittorio loved this booth. No one could surprise him from behind. It was private, but not cut off from the activity of the dining room—perfect for meetings like this. He could see the entirety of the room from here, watch the guests and every move they made. It was close enough to the stage to listen to the brassy music he liked without it being too loud or distracting. He could even watch couples dance, if he so chose to. And sadly, sometimes his field of vision was not so appreciated.
“And who do we have here?” Vittorio did not grace the man whose voice grated on his every nerve by meeting his eyes, instead lowering his attention to his cigarette case and lighting one between his teeth.
“Frank.”
“Vitto.” Francesco Juliano stood across from him, a group of ten armed men surrounding him, and took a moment to appreciate the beautiful women floating around the golden room before addressing him again. “Mind if I sit? Ha, of course you don’t!” The brute dropped himself unceremoniously onto the booth cushion opposite Vittorio and waved his hand to make his men disperse, turning his head to follow a woman sauntering past in a rather suggestive dress. Vittorio rolled his eyes at the nearby table where Nino and Leonard sat. “So, Vittorio,” Juliano drawled as he leaned forward, “I’m surprised you agreed to meet me tonight. You’ve put off this meeting for quite some time now.” His back bounced against the booth as he laughed and placed his cigar at the corner of his mouth, stretching both arms across the short backrest.
That stupid laugh. Loud, boisterous, and arrogant, just like the man himself. Vittorio fought the urge to cover his ears at the obnoxious sound.
He shrugged nonchalantly, keeping his expression neutral. “I wasn’t putting you off, Frank. Business is busy.”
“Right.” Juliano saw right through his lie, though it didn’t bother him at all. It was no secret he and Vittorio hated each other and yearned for the day to eliminate the other man. Their eyes reflected the same disdainful glint as they stared each other down. Vittorio was the first to relax, bringing his cigarette to his mouth and inhaling deeply. It had been no more than two minutes since Juliano arrived and he already wanted to put a bullet through his head. Exhaling through his nose, he turned his head up to gaze at the waiter who had finally come to their table.
“Good evening, Don Puzo.” A nod in his direction. “Don Juliano.” And a nod in his.
“Charlie.” Vittorio recognized the practiced waiter, a moustached man in his fifties who had worked at Vesuvio since it first opened and was now its faithful manager, thanks to Vittorio’s fondness toward him and his dutiful service. He was glad to be served by Charlie tonight; he was a pleasant man and Vittorio enjoyed his company. There wasn’t much in life he enjoyed. The older man allowed a small, warm grin to appear on his face when Mr. Puzo addressed him by name. “How are Vivian and Margaret? Well, I hope.”
“My wife spends as much time as she can with our little granddaughter. She’s such a beauty! They’re both swell, as is the rest of my family. Thank you, sir.” Mr. Juliano tapped his fingers impatiently on the table as he waited for the boring chatter to end. Charlie cleared his throat. “Two gins?” Vittorio answered with a barely-noticeable grin and a nod.
Prohibition was tough, but wonderful for business, of course. Nothing sold better than a staple outlawed by the government, and Vittorio was a meticulous, careful businessman. Keeping alcohol flowing in his restaurants was easy—pay off some officers with a few lousy bills or some bottles of their own and no one sees anything, and he of course never had to worry about guests tipping off the authorities. Whether it was due to his fearsome reputation, their insatiable desire for alcohol, or their sense of self-preservation keeping them out of jail, he didn’t care. They kept quiet and he made money. Actually picking it up, though, was the more difficult part. Nino usually handled the drops, and so far he excelled at that job as well. Vittorio had only been called to the docks five times in the past few years; it was only him who could thoroughly teach associates that when they promised a perfect product, he expected perfection. And after he was through teaching them that lesson, they never presented broken bottles to him again.
“You’re such a gracious host to order for me, Vitto.” Juliano glared at him, but he ignored it.
“Get what you want when Charlie comes back, then.” Snarling, the brute turned his attention to the dance floor and tapped his foot to the swinging beat. When Charlie returned with their drinks and menus, he started the conversation he’d been waiting to have for longer than he cared to admit. The longer Vitto put him off, the bigger his problem became.
“I imagine that you’re aware of Coonan’s rising activity on Long Island?”
“I’ve heard a thing or two,” Vittorio answered flatly without looking up from his menu, to the annoyance of the man across from him.
Juliano was astonished, which then gave way to frustration. “‘A thing or two’? Vittorio, you son of a—” Charlie’s reappearance silenced him, always being careful to hide his business from servants.
“I’ll take the insalata caprese, Charlie.”
“Will that be all, Mr. Puzo?”
Vittorio never ate heavy meals, and especially not in public. “Yes, Charlie.”
“Very good, sir. And for you, Mr. Juliano?”
“Same thing,” he grumbled. When the waiter walked away, he continued. “I thought you’d care more about this, given that Long Island is your territory.” His tone turned suddenly indifferent, almost lifting to make Vittorio bite, a stark contrast to the instant rage that seethed through his voice when Vitto had shown the same indifference to him.
He was no fool. “You also have some strong influence there, if I remember correctly.” Quirking his brow, he stared at the clear liquid in his glass as he swirled it. “It’s rather uncharacteristic of you to have such concern over a problem that only affects me, Frank.” Although he did control most of Long Island, he knew Juliano did some business there, too. The docks made it a coveted place for anyone involved in bootlegging, which was Vittorio’s main source of income alongside restaurants, real estate, and though it wasn’t his type of scene, a few nightclubs. He had known that Juliano had turned to other trades besides smuggling alcohol to make money—speakeasies, construction, and very likely that underground brothel he kept hearing countless men whisper about. But the man, greedy and power-hungry as he was, began to grow his bootlegging business after realizing the capital to be gained from it. He had his eyes set on Vittorio’s strategic territory.
In response, Vittorio had sent Nino and Leonard, along with some of their own men, to make friends with one of the Irish mob factions in hopes of using them to deal with Juliano. Besides, it was better to have more friends than enemies, vero?
Clearly, they had succeeded in giving him trouble because here was Francesco Juliano himself, his greed for money being the only thing greater than his pride, running to Vittorio for help. He smirked to himself, earning a questioning stare from Frank. “So I must ask you,” he said darkly as he raised his eyes to glare into Juliano’s, “why are we here?”
His eyes widened momentarily, only to be replaced with that wolfish expression he wore constantly. “Look, if your business goes down, mine does too. Call it ‘acting in one’s own interests’, all right?”
“Or have me risk the safety of my own men to look after your interests.” Juliano scoffed, but it was disregarded as Charlie delivered cold plates full of fresh tomatoes and mozzarella drizzled with basil and balsamic glaze to their table. The man grimaced at his plate like it had personally offended him. A satisfied coolness descended upon Vittorio as he recognized that familiar heat of hatred blazing in Juliano’s eyes when he looked back at him. “What exactly would you have me do, Frank? You think I’m going to start a war with Finn Coonan and his men because your smuggling business is hurting?”
“I would expect you to risk starting one because your smuggling business is hurting.”
“Not according to the reports of my capos.” Juliano stared at him in shock, obviously not expecting that blow of information. “Look, Frank,” Vittorio said as he waved his hand dismissively, “whatever issue you have with Coonan, I will not involve my famiglia in it. Deal with him yourself.”
“You’re conspiring with him against me, huh, Vitto? Aren’t you?” Juliano spat the words out of his mouth, revulsed and disgusted.
“Please don’t insult me, Frank. I don’t need to turn to a rival to deal with you.” And really, that was true. Making nice with the Irish to handle this job for him had simply been a more entertaining way to fight against Juliano’s threatening presence on Long Island. And a way to deal with a threat that kept his own manpower and resources out of the heat, but he didn’t need to admit to that. Vittorio would have loaded Juliano’s body with lead long before now if it didn’t mean starting a war with the other New York families; he figured Juliano must have followed the same reasoning as well, and that’s why he hadn’t tried to kill him yet. “If that’s all you called this meeting for, then I’ll tell you that we’re done here. Sit and enjoy the music, or get out of my restaurant.” With that, Vittorio took a bite of his food, picked up his glass, leaned back, and watched the animated jazz performers on stage while Juliano fumed across from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see him roll his head and try to calm himself down, suddenly laughing that obnoxious laugh of his and tossing the remainder of his drink down his throat before slamming the glass back on the table. He slapped his knee and stood.
“Well, amico mio, this was nice, but I gotta run.” He threw a twenty on the table and placed his cigar between his lips. Smoothing his hair back, his gaze followed a waitress walking past with a lust that had not escaped Vittorio.
“Juliano. My employees are off-limits. Now, vattene.” One more laugh and Juliano’s infuriating presence finally departed with the men he had brought. Vittorio closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, spirit tired from enduring Juliano tonight and the dread that had weighed him down for the week leading up to this meeting.
“Boss? You okay?” Nino’s heavy city accent woke him from his relaxation and he took a long drag of his cigarette.
“I’m fine, Nino. I’ll fill you in on the details later.” Although his soul seemed to be dragged down with exhaustion, his body wasn’t tired. It had been a long time since he had sat in this booth, simply observing the crowds of people enjoying a night on the town, listening to the jazz that seemed much more lively than anything in his life as of late. It had been a long time since he genuinely enjoyed doing something. “I’m going to sit here for a while. You two do what you want, as long as I have a car here when I’m done.” Nino and Leonard shared a slightly worried, slightly amused look and walked off toward the bar.
Within a few minutes, Charlie returned to Vittorio’s table to clear it. “Are you ready for me to take this, Mr. Puzo?” Don Juliano had not touched his plate even a little bit, and over half of Don Puzo’s dinner remained on his own.
“Hmm? Oh, yes please. Thank you, Charlie.”
“Of course, sir. Can I bring you something to drink?”
“Another gin.” Nodding, Charlie walked off again with the untouched plates and Juliano’s empty glass. Vittorio returned his attention to the rest of the room, absently observing the activity of the dimly-lit restaurant.
And toward the center of the room, perhaps fifteen or so tables away, stood a woman whose unfamiliar presence was striking enough for his cigarette to lay forgotten between his teeth as he leaned forward to get a better look.
He stared. How could he not stare? Even from this distance, the golden waves of her hair looked so soft cascading over her shoulder.
Soft enough for him to run his hands through.
A white headband contrasted with the silvery-gold coloring of her tresses, twisted into a loose ponytail that laid to one side of her neck. She wore her hair much longer than most of the women in the building—no, the whole of the city, probably—but that wasn’t the only thing that made her stand out. It was something about the way she cleared tables, a false image of confidence trying to mask a hesitance she couldn’t hide, like she hated being in the center of the busy room while she worked, that he found rather amusing. Given her uncertain mannerisms, as well as the fact that he had never seen her before, he had to guess she was a relatively-new employee. And even through the hesitance of her actions, the dim, golden light of Vesuvio bathed her in an ethereal glow that made her shine inexplicably.
Like an angel had fallen to Earth and decided to stand less than a hundred feet away from him.
It was fascinating enough to watch her work, but when she walked out from behind the table she was currently cleaning, there was very little that could have possibly happened in this restaurant to make him tear his eyes away from her. She wasn’t petite, but she wasn’t tall, either; Vittorio guessed that the top of her head would just barely come to his chest.
The perfect height to envelop and hold.
He didn’t force his waitresses to wear anything skimpy or revealing—after all, Vesuvio was a respectable place—but the cut of her black dress, fitted through the waist and flaring out to the tops of her knees, with the accentuation of a white frilly apron hinted at shapely legs and curvy hips.
A body type less desired by the public, but made his mind spin with thoughts he most certainly should not have been having about this woman. Circling her waist with his hands. Kissing each hip bone. Hooking a leg over his shoulder while he—
“Your gin, Mr. Puzo.” Apparently Charlie’s voice was one of the few things that could make his gaze wander away from the stunning waitress torturously working her way closer to his table. If the heat rising to his face had made him blush, Charlie gave no indication of it.
“What?”
“Your drink, sir.” The waiter gently placed the cup of alcohol in front of him, shooting him a careful look before seeking out what he had been so enthralled in watching. He held in a chuckle when he had perhaps found the focus of the boss’ attention.
“Oh sì, sì certo,” Vittorio mumbled as he quickly brought the liquid to his lips. For as sluggish as he had been this past week, this whole autumn season, really, his heart was racing as it did whenever he was caught up in the thrill of a spring cleaning. He felt truly alive.
Charlie could tell the boss was trying desperately to keep his attention on his drink. “May I introduce you to someone, Mr. Puzo?”
Vittorio would have much rather preferred to meet someone when his mind wasn’t so distracted by a waitress, but he could hardly refuse the loyal waiter. The corner of his mouth tipped up in a crooked grin as he answered, “Of course, Charlie.” The man smiled and walked away from the table, but Vittorio didn’t watch where he was heading. He raked a hand through his neat hair and straightened his clothing, trying to prepare for whoever he was about to meet.
“Mr. Puzo, sir, this is my niece Elizabeth. Lizzie Colvin is what I call her,” Charlie chuckled when he returned. Vittorio stood when the man approached with his guest, who was not at all who he had been expecting to meet. His eyes landed on that now-familiar golden hair, trailing down to a face so lovely he would’ve choked on his gin had he been drinking it. Niece? Her skin was slightly tan, smooth, glowing. She looked up at him through her blackened lashes, grey irises peeking through their pronounced length and volume, as her pink lips pulled up into a shaky smile. Then his eyes dropped to her hand being held in Charlie’s—her uncle’s —and he couldn’t help but instinctively reach for her free one, partly just to see the sight of it enveloped in his own, partly to get his lips on some part of her to find out if she was as soft as she looked.
“Miss Colvin,” he murmured before kissing the back of her hand delicately. Yes, she was absolutely softer and sweeter than she looked. When he straightened, he realized how much he towered over her; the broadness and height of his body shadowed the slenderness and height of hers, even while she stood close to him in black heels. Her eyes widened and her hand trembled in his, no doubt intimidated by the fearsome Mafia don her uncle had so casually introduced her to. Vittorio usually relished the respect and fear his domineering presence stirred in those who crossed his path, but it was almost discouraging to so easily frighten this girl he already held in high regard.
Charlie also seemed to grow more nervous the longer Vittorio remained silent. “I promise she was hired the same way as everyone else here, Mr. Puzo. Application, interview, everything. I would never use my position to—”
“I never doubted that, Charlie. I trust you.” He gave a fleeting smile to Elizabeth and regarded her uncle again. “I’m content to know Miss Colvin could find work here.”
Across the room, at the bar, Nino snickered as he drank his whiskey while Leonard stared wide-eyed at the sight of their boss so willingly kissing the back of a woman’s hand, a waitress’ nonetheless. “Did he just—”
“Yes, Leonard. Yes he did.” At the image of Vittorio grinning, as distant and polite as it was, he howled and slapped Leonard’s back. “Let’s go give him some help, shall we?”
“Wha…” Leonard’s voice trailed off as Nino pushed him off his stool. Nino downed the rest of the amber liquid and handed the glass to him.
“Now, I’m going to give you a signal behind my back, and when I do, you’re going to break this glass on the ground.”
Leonard glared at him. “What are you planning, Ricci?” Nino just laughed and wove his way through the sea of tables toward the trio standing in the corner of the restaurant.
“Excuse me, Boss,” Nino interrupted as he gave the signal to Leonard, “but I must ask for Charlie’s assistance. You see, Leonard accidentally broke a glass.” When four pairs of eyes drifted to the young man standing at the bar, he just smiled and offered a sheepish shrug of his shoulders while he pointedly avoided looking at the shattered glass below him.
“Of course, Mr. Ricci. I will find someone to clean the mess up immediately,” the waiter assured. Vittorio glared at his second before a grinning Nino could depart with Charlie, leaving him and Elizabeth standing in silence.
Vittorio really hated small talk. “It was—”
“I should—” The pair immediately quieted when they realized the other had spoken.
“Please go ahead, Miss Colvin,” Vittorio offered as he gestured for her to speak. The man regarded her with such seriousness and earnestness in his expression that she forgot to counter-offer the request, given that he was miles above her in social rank, not to mention the owner of the restaurant where she worked nights. What must he think of her?
She let out a breathless chuckle and quickly covered her mouth at her impropriety, a gesture that brought a small smile to Vittorio’s face. “Is there anything else I can bring you, Mr. Puzo?” she squeaked. The blush that bloomed across her face complimented her complexion perfectly, charming him even more. Lowering himself to sit in his booth, he shook his head.
“Thank you Miss Colvin, but I’m satisfied at the moment. I don’t wish to keep you from your work any longer, so you may go.” She walked away from him so quickly that he was shocked she didn’t trip in those heels she wore, even if they were short.
Her departure, leaving him alone in his beloved corner booth, allowed him to take the first full breath he had taken in five minutes.
It really had been a long time since he had spent an evening at Vesuvio. He decided then that he would be coming here much more often in the future. Just to make sure Nino kept things running smoothly, of course.
It had been five days since Uncle Charlie had introduced Elizabeth to Mr. Puzo. Every evening after that encounter, she clocked out of Gotham Times, rode the twenty-minute bus ride home, frantically changed into her dress and heels, rode the ten-minute bus ride to Vesuvio, and clocked in right at six o’clock before snatching her apron from the staff closet.
She enjoyed waitressing more than she expected to; given that she was a new intern at the newspaper, Edmund Davis and Mr. Kane kept her mainly behind a desk rather than seeking out new scoops on the streets of the ever-bustling New York City, and she liked being on her feet, always moving, making light conversation with the socialites she catered to. She had only been in New York for a little over a month, so she never knew who exactly she was serving, but she could gather from her customers’ clothes, their borderline snobby attitudes, and the simple fact that they ate at such a fine restaurant every weekend that they were important figures with deep pockets. Not that she really cared to know who was sitting in her area. But it was interesting to think that she, the daughter of a farmer and a seamstress, a girl who had only ever lived on a family farm in Texas, was finally pursuing her dream of becoming a reporter in the city and meeting elites she never dreamed she’d encounter while she was at it.
Uncle Charlie was a good, kind man. She loved him dearly, but due to the fact that he had moved to New York long before Lizzie or her siblings had even been born, she hadn’t seen too much of him growing up. When her mother had written to her brother and told him that his niece had graduated college and wanted to pursue journalism in the city, he and Aunt Vivian immediately offered her a place in their home until she could afford a place of her own. So here she was, journalist by day and waitress by night.
She hadn’t met anyone particularly interesting during the three weeks she’d been working at Restaurant Vesuvio. That is, until five nights ago when her uncle had thrown her into meeting the owner, a feared man she had only ever heard of. The few employees who had actually met Mr. Puzo spoke extremely highly of him, and everyone else shared the same respect simply due to the conditions of working in his restaurant: they were paid well, their shifts consisted of reasonable hours, issues amongst staff were dealt with quickly and effectively, and, most shocking to her, he treated any employee who waited on him with respect.
Before hearing such praise about him, she had pictured some fat, balding old man owning the restaurant, uncaring about those who worked for him and setting whatever working conditions made him the most money like many businessmen of the time. But the longer she worked at Vesuvio, the more she realized how wrong she had been in her assumptions about Mr. Puzo.
And then when she actually saw him, she realized she had been very, very wrong about Mr. Puzo.
The dark, mysterious man sitting in the corner booth was neither fat nor balding. Under all his dark clothing, she could tell he was a strong man, tall, possibly athletic. The sleeves of his suit couldn’t hide the sculpted muscles of his arms, nor the fabric of his pants—not that she was paying attention to his lower half—hide the muscles of his legs. His black hair was perfectly slicked, not at all greasy, but combed and parted like he was a man who knew how to take care of his appearance. And as handsome as he was, he didn’t strike her as the vain type.
Her heart had hammered against her ribcage as her uncle made swift introductions. How dare he introduce her to someone so important while she was in a uniform! Working! She had wanted to storm off in indignation and embarrassment, but her nerves kept her frozen in place.
And then Mr. Puzo had taken her hand.
She liked his hands. He had only held hers briefly, but she could still feel the heat burning through the leather of his glove and branding his touch into her skin. And oh , his lips. So soft and warm against her knuckles, kissing her in an act so respectful and yet strangely intimate. It was ridiculous, she knew, but she couldn’t help but feel like a lady in one of her beloved romance novels, receiving the chivalry of its handsome hero.
She was being entirely ridiculous. Foolish. Pathetic.
Elizabeth felt so small in comparison to him; her average height against his towering frame, her hands held between his much-larger palm and his much-longer fingers, her insignificance compared to the power she had both heard about and felt radiating from him when he stood close.
She must have looked a right mess when Uncle Charlie introduced her. Goodness, she hoped her jasmine perfume had been strong enough to mask the smell of the kitchens that stuck to her uniform, the scent of steaming Italian cooking that was delicious coming from a hot plate but not so much off a person.
She was currently hiding in the staff bathrooms while she did what she could to perfect her complexion, pinching her cheeks to be a bit more rosy, pursing her lips to make them a bit more full. She covered her face and groaned as the memories of that night relentlessly attacked her. No perfume is strong enough to hide that scent.
And even though her heart had nearly jumped from her chest when she saw Mr. Puzo striding toward that same corner booth a few mere moments ago, she never wanted to face him again. Surely he thought so little of her now, having witnessed such unbecoming impropriety while working like the poor girl she was. She had actually laughed in front of him! She wished she could crawl through one of the small bathroom windows and run as far from Vesuvio as her legs would carry her, but no, she couldn’t do that.
Instead, she squared her shoulders and smoothed her hair in the mirror. Maybe it wasn’t the most fashionable way to wear it—it wasn’t bobbed short and curled to perfection—but Mama always said that her Lizzie was blessed with such a beautiful crown of long, golden waves and she was proud of it. She pushed the front tendrils back with her white headband and straightened her apron. Then she made her way to the corner booth where the man she had both dreaded and longed to see again sat waiting for her service.