for her affection, was genuinely concerned. He felt like embracing them, but had to make light of the matter. “I know, but I don’t want to wait until graduation. Quitting now makes sense for me. I make good money at the fascio, and if I work longer hours, I can make even more. Work is my future, and why shouldn’t my future begin today?”
Elisabetta nodded, sympathetic. “I understand completely. I’m trying to stay until graduation, but that may not work out.”
Sandro met his eye. “But, Marco, what will your father say?”
Marco felt anger flame in his chest, at his father. “I’ll explain it to him, but honestly, I don’t care. I’m growing up and I have to make my own decisions. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely.” Sandro’s expression darkened. “Lately, I’ve been thinking along the same lines. We can’t always do what our parents say. We have to do what we think is right, no matter what they say. We’re adults.”
Marco felt validated, if surprised, as Sandro never deviated from his parents. Elisabetta remained silent, and Marco realized she had been an adult for a long time, in that she had to support herself and her drunken father, with no mother at all. His heart went out to her, and he loved her all the more.
Sandro checked his watch. “I’m late, I have to get to work.”
“Me, too.” Elisabetta nodded.
Marco looked from Elisabetta to Sandro, and back again. Maybe leaving school would help him win her, since he would be able to provide for her sooner than Sandro could. He didn’t say so, as he didn’t want to hurt Sandro’s feelings. It wasn’t easy to love the same woman as his best friend.
And Marco had a feeling it was only going to get harder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Elisabetta
19 June 1938
Elisabetta hustled from the kitchen with a platter of fettuccine alla romana, a pasta with sausage, short ribs, and pomodoro sauce. The tray felt hot on her forearm, but she wasn’t allowed to hurry at Il Cacciatore, the fanciest restaurant in Trastevere. She had just started working extra shifts here, since Casa Servano and Nonna had helped her get the job, for which Elisabetta was grateful, as the pay was better and she was able to bring home leftovers for her father and Rico.
She crossed the packed dining room, which was served by six other waitresses, a cadre of busboys, and a sommelier. Chatter filled the air, as did the clatter of dishes and silverware, mixing with the aromas of sizzling braciola, a house specialty. She would make money today, as Italy had just won the World Cup and Rome was celebrating. Il Cacciatore’s food was excellent, though overpriced, and its dining room was decorated to perfection, with the finest white tablecloths and centerpieces of fresh sunflowers. Sunshine poured through its large front windows, bordered outside with wisteria that made a beautiful frame.
“Here’s your pasta, sir. Buon appetito.” Elisabetta served a man at a table with his wife and two young sons.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding.
“May I get you anything else?” Elisabetta asked, setting the tray on the sidebar.
“No, thank you,” the father answered, and Elisabetta checked her station to see if anybody else needed anything. She spotted a party of six being seated at one of her tables by the window, and in the next moment, she realized that it was Sandro with his parents and another couple—with a pretty daughter about their age. Sandro was smiling at the girl, his handsome face alive with animation, and the girl was smiling back.
Elisabetta’s heart sank. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the dinner, and he didn’t know that she was working here today. It hadn’t occurred to her that he would be interested in another girl, but maybe he was. He could have become impatient, waiting for her to decide between him and Marco. But he had said that he loved her, and she had never known him to be anything but true to his word.
Elisabetta stalled, loath to serve them. Sandro sat down next to the daughter, chatting her up. She had rich brown eyes, shiny, dark hair, and a blue dress with a tailored cut. The families had been celebrating the World Cup victory, dressed up in nice clothes, wearing the blue scarves of the Azzurri. As a group, they looked sophisticated, well-heeled, and respectable.
The restaurant manager motioned to Elisabetta, signaling that she serve Sandro’s table. She braced herself, took her pad from her apron pocket, and walked over. “Hello, welcome to Il Cacciatore,”