Face to Face

Amelia’s was a five-star restaurant where the Hollywood elite mingled with LAs movers and shakers in nearly every industry. It was fair to say not a single person dining in the Italian restaurant was worth less than a few million dollars, except for maybe Bart. Rome wasn’t sure what photographers were making these days, but he didn’t think it was that much. As he stood on the threshold of the impeccably decorated establishment, he took a few deep breaths and tried to still his raging heart. He could do this….
“Ah, Mr. Verona. It is nice to see you,” the Maître d said with a nod as they approached his post. “I am so glad to see you are alive and well.”
Rome raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t dug into what the papers were saying about him while he was gone, but it seemed like an odd comment. He couldn’t let it bother him, though. Instead, he just muttered a thank you as the short man with a finely groomed, pencil thin, dark mustache greeted Bart and then added, “I will show you personally to your table.”
Again, Rome thanked him, but it wasn’t necessary or him to walk them across the restaurant. Rome could see exactly where they were going. His parents were sitting in the back of the room where there was more privacy, their eyes glued on him as he made his way across a richly embroidered carpet in shades of burgundy and navy blue. The soft Italian instrumental music might’ve calmed someone who was merely on a first date or thinking of proposing, but Rome’s heart couldn’t be tamed. Even looking at his father’s face made anger well up inside of him. His mother made him want to shake his head in disgust.
“Here we are,” the Maître d said, ushering them to their seats. Rome hated that he would have his back to the door. When Bart lifted his chair and moved it to the end of the table so that he would be able to see the entry point, despite the fact that he seemed to be encroaching on Mrs. Verona’s space, no one said a word. Rome hid a smile and settled into his chair across from his father, wishing the table were wider so he’d be less inclined to follow his first inclination and reach out with a left hook, sending his father tumbling out of his chair.
Once the Maître d had left, and before a waiter could come and interrupt them, Rome’s mother gushed, “Oh, baby, it’s so nice to see you. You’re so tan! I might not have recognized you if….” She stopped talking. If she hadn’t seen pictures of him recently? Making his way from Texas to his new house?
“Hi, Mom,” he said, trying to keep his tone as light as possible. He wouldn’t say it was nice to see either of them. That was a step too far.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with us.” Monty Verona tugged at one cufflink, clearly uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to being in this sort of position, where he was sitting across from someone who wasn’t eager to see him. When he met with clients, they were grateful to be in his presence. Owners of other companies who might have a chance to work with him considered themselves the luckiest people on earth. His son stared at him, his eyes slightly narrowed, not commenting, and Monty swallowed hard enough that Rome could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down in discomfort. Good. Let him feel a little pain.
They both turned their attention to Bart. “You’re looking well,” Lacy said, offering him a smile. “How have you been?”
“Busy,” Bart replied, his countenance not far off from Rome’s. A picture of a much politer neighbor boy came to mind. Bart was always so nice to Rome’s mother whenever he’d come over to hangout in the game room or swim in the pool. Today, he was a different person, and Rome couldn’t blame him. His friend had recently gone to a lot of trouble on his behalf, and he realized just how much he owed him for taking the time to be there.
“Still taking pictures?” Monty asked, trying to infuse some lighthearted banter into the conversation.
Bart only nodded stoically and then shifted his eyes to Rome.
Catching his drift, Rome clarified, “Bart is only here to make sure nothing happens to me,” he explained. “He won’t be partaking in dinner and would prefer to stay out of our conversation.”
“Oh,” Lacy said, her eyes widening slightly before a hint of hurt seeped into them. “That’s too bad.”
“You can’t honestly think you’re in harm’s way, sitting in a crowded restaurant in the middle of LA’s most prominent dining area, do you?” Monty asked, chuckling nervously as if even he knew it was a stupid question.
Rome raised an eyebrow, ready to unleash all of the reasons why he did, in fact, think he was in danger. But he didn’t get to that. Before he had a chance, a waiter was there, thrusting a bottle of wine into his face. “How are we this fine evening?” he asked, his cheeriness completely out of line with the table he was serving.
Monty answered on their behalf. “Just fine. Give us a bottle of the Argyle Pinot Noir, ‘17.”
The waiter’s eyebrows raised at the expensive order. “Yes, sir.” Whether or not he recognized the man he was speaking to remained to be seen, but now he knew the ballpark. “I’ll be right back. It’ll give you a chance to look over the appetizers.” He smiled broadly as he gestured at the menus each of them had in front of them, save Bart who’d left his behind at his original spot since he wouldn’t be eating. Rome didn’t think he’d be eating much either, but he’d at least play the part.
The waiter walked away, but none of them moved to open the menu. Instead, Rome calculated whether or not there was a point in responding to his father’s comment and decided the moment had passed, so he let it go.
Getting into the meat of the argument before they ate would go against his father’s agenda. He was a stout man, shorter than Rome and heavier with a barrel chest, and he appreciated good Italian food. He would want to eat and then “discuss business.” While Rome knew it was likely a waste of time to bring up any of his talking points before Monty had consumed a full plate of spaghetti and meatballs, he didn’t want to sit there all night either.
“I want an explanation,” he said, his voice as soft and even as he could muster. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention from the surrounding tables. Just over his right shoulder, he could hear the cackle of an older woman telling a story to her husband, and the annoying sound was almost enough to draw him to turn his head around. He didn’t want to be that person.
“Yes, yes,” Monty said dismissively waving his hand. “We’ll get to that. Let us enjoy our meal first.”
“I assure you, I won’t be enjoying anything until I get some answers,” Rome replied, folding his hands together over the menu. He wanted to get home, back to Ella. Every moment he was away from her was another death, especially when he was worried something might happen to her.
Monty stared at him, his eyebrows heavy over his dark eyes. His mother sighed loudly, and Rome looked to her. “We didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said, an acquiescence to Rome’s wishes Monty would have to find a way to forgive.
“You didn’t?” he asked, trying to keep his emotions in check. “You do realize… if you’d stayed out of it… if you would’ve left me alone… Ella would’ve never done what she did.” He wouldn’t go so far as to say she’d killed herself, not when she hadn’t. They didn’t know that, and he didn’t intend to tell them, but as far as they knew, she was dead, mostly due to the fact that his parents had interfered with their relationship.
“We are very sorry for your loss, son.” Monty’s tone actually sounded slightly apologetic. “We know how much you cared about the girl.”
“The word is love,” Rome replied, looking his father in the eye.
“Loved her,” Monty corrected, clearly not realizing Rome had not spoken in the past tense. “We know that now. We didn’t quite grasp the situation at the time. I was only thinking it would be best for you to leave so that the police didn’t come looking for you, Rome. I wanted to give the lawyers a chance to sort everything out. And they have.”
The waiter came again, pouring them each a glass of the requested wine. When Bart passed, he said, “Are you sure? This is our most expensive bottle on hand.”
“I’m certain,” Bart replied, his words leaving no doubt he meant it.
“Very well. May I bring you something else?”
“No, thank you.”
“Water?”
“No.”
His tone had lost all appearances of politeness at that point, and the waiter’s face fell slightly, as if he were personally injured by Bart’s drink choice, or lack thereof. He recovered enough to ask, “What will we be having this evening?”
“Damnit,” Monty muttered, picking up his menu. “We haven’t even looked at the menu.”
“I’ll give you a few moments.” The young man, whose name tag read, “Cristino,” though Rome figured it was actually Christopher, based on his lack of an accent, started to walk away.
“Give us a moment while you wait right here,” Monty said sharply, halting the kid in his steps. “I’m starving.”
Rome wasn’t sure why his father even bothered to look at the menu. He’d order the same thing he always did at an Italian restaurant, but Monty pored through it anyway, mumbling to himself as he searched for something appetizing. Rome’s mother ordered the osso buco while her husband continued to try to decide. “I’ll have the lasagna,” Rome said, without even opening the menu. He wasn’t hungry anyway--why bother looking at the menu? Every Italian restaurant had lasagna.
Eventually, Monty closed his menu and said, “Spaghetti and meatballs. Extra meatballs.”
“Yes, sir,” Cristino replied, taking the last of the menus. “I’ll bring out the bread and salads and get your order in right away.”
Monty waved a hand at him, as if the last few seconds of his life had been stolen away by unimportant gibberish.
Once he was gone, the uncomfortableness weighed them all down again. One of them would have to reopen the topic at hand. Rome had no problem being the one to do so, but he had a feeling no one would actually be enjoying this expensive meal.
Monty Verona lifted his glass to his lips, took a sip, set it down, and said, “That’s a fine wine. Now, where were we?”
Rome swallowed hard, remembering exactly where they were. “We were at the part where you tell me why you thought it was a good idea to kidnap your son, fly him across seas, and keeping him from his wife such that she took drastic measures to end her own suffering.”
His father’s eyes wavered slightly as he saw the situation from his son’s perspective. A low chuckle escaped his lips, and he picked up his wine glass again, taking another slow sip. It was going to be a long night.