The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,28
waist is a stark contrast to the flimsy fabric of the toga-wearing nun.
Even as I wonder if they’re cold, if drafts get up their skirts, we finally make it to the other side, leaving the Vatican area and heading into Rome proper. I mean, it’s all Rome, but once you cross the river at this point, the vibe in the air changes.
As we amble down a few back alleys, I’m not surprised when Paulo stops at a restaurant.
He’s the kind of man who doesn’t look like anything impedes his mealtimes.
That belly is proof of that.
Although, by the time I’m done with my visit to the city, maybe I’ll have a food baby too. The pasta here? Yum.
When I slip inside the restaurant, I tuck myself in at the back.
It’s small, dark, a little cramped, and there’s a TV on in the background. It’s also full. I’m lucky to get my table.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here, I just know this feels right, and a long time ago, I decided that going with my gut was my best option.
Whether my gut was the cyst forcing me to be daring when I should be proceeding with caution, well, I don’t know. I can’t exactly answer that one, can I? But I just know that I can’t stop going where my instincts guide me.
When the server comes, I barely look at her as I order a tonic water.
She purses her lips when I decline the menu, but promptly gets me my drink.
Paulo orders a bottle of chianti and what looks like a board of antipasto. As he eats, he watches the news on TV, and I can’t tell whether what I witnessed back in the church was bullshit or if he just wants to comfort eat.
I can see him quite clearly—the bar has very little artifice. The décor consists of small tables, uncomfortable, rickety chairs, little tablecloths in red and white checkers, and a small shot glass with a tiny flower propped in it. The bar is scrubbed oak, scored with the passage of time, and the register looks like it’s vintage too.
It’s not the kind of place a tourist comes to. It’s for the locals, and that’s why, when I see Savio walking into the establishment, my brows rise in surprise.
He’s a local?
I mean, I guess, technically, he is. I know he’s French-Italian, but he was born on the Côte d’Azur, not Rome. Still, the waitress seems to know him, and when he sits beside Paulo, who tenses at the sight of him, she brings over a glass of what appears to be water to their table.
I’ll admit, whatever I expected next, it didn’t happen.
I kind of thought they’d discuss what Paulo had confessed. I thought there might be an intense discussion.
Instead?
They chat.
Over the news.
And even though that anger is brewing inside me once more as I ask myself if Savio is for real, I watch as he astonishes me further.
He gets Paulo drunk.
Literally.
He pours the man wine, buys another two bottles. He barely touches the glass the waitress brings for him with the next bottle, and as the afternoon progresses, he helps Paolo get wasted.
Why?
Hell knows.
Still, I watch, in bewildered amusement as Paulo bursts out into song.
When the entire bar starts singing too, my lips twitch despite the bizarreness of the situation, and I hum along even though I have no idea what song they’re singing.
About two hours after they first arrived, Savio declares, “Right, time to get you home, Paulo.”
The waitress snorts. “You’ll need to carry him. He’s sbronzo.” Wasted. She frowns at Paulo. “It’s not like him.”
Savio shrugs. “He had bad news today.”
Her face softens with sympathy, but I grow tense at his lie.
Savio curves his arm around Paulo and, together, they maneuver through the small bar. Winding along the path between the tables, I wince as Paulo nearly topples one over before Savio finally gets him outside.
Leaving a ten euro note, I quickly follow.
It astonishes me to realize that, in the time I’ve been in there, the sun has set.
I noticed yesterday how dark it got here and so quickly too. I’d actually been on the phone with Diana, who’s still in Madrid, and had commented on how dark it was. It hadn’t been in Madrid. Maybe that has to do with just how tall the buildings are here, I’m not sure. But as I peer overhead, there’s no denying the indigo sheen in the sky.
Or the dampness in the air, the chill that pervades now