Salvatore Dalla

I had invited her out, like on a date—that's what it was—and I could hardly believe it; I had never done this before and didn’t even know how to go about it.
I knew that dates were supposed to be enjoyable, but I wouldn’t consider myself a pleasant company.
“Amapola?” I called her attention.
“Yes.”
“You understand my position, then. Even though I offered a tour of the sights, we won’t be able to go down. You understand? To do that, I would have to close the place, and since I decided only when we got here, I didn’t have enough time for that.”
“Don’t worry, Salvatore.” She diverted her attentive gaze from the glass, knowing she was admiring every place, even from afar. “I understand.” Without me expecting it, she held my hand that was resting on the gear shift of the car. “Sorry,” she apologized when I stared at her in surprise. Amapola surprised me with her impulsive behavior; I wasn’t used to that. Like me, the people around always calculated every action, but she didn’t act that way.
We passed in front of the Cathedral of Palermo, Teatro Massimo, and the Cathedral of Monreale, and just seeing her excitement while observing the places from afar irritated me because I couldn’t take her there to admire them up close.
Around nine o'clock at night, I decided it was time for us to have dinner. Amapola’s enthusiasm brought out a few laughs from me, which I definitely didn’t do often, especially several times in one day. She was really working miracles.
“Do you like fish?” I asked when I stopped at a restaurant serving Mediterranean food, though as a good Italian, passionate about pasta, I loved the cuisine from this region that mixed elements from the sea and the land.
“Yes,” she replied, shrugging. I remembered that her financial situation wasn’t the best, so she probably wasn’t used to eating very varied dishes.
“Great, then I’m sure you’ll like it here,” I said, trying to put her at ease.
After my men did a sweep of the area, the upper floor was closed off for just the two of us, and I led Amapola into a very upscale setting. I had been here several times, so I hoped she would appreciate it as much as I did.
We were visited by the head chef and the restaurant owner, a common practice, to make it clear that our service would be prioritized and exclusive.
As soon as they left, the maitre brought us the menu and the wine list. Amapola, as soon as she opened it, put it back on the table, leaving the ordering up to me. I didn’t know if she had been shocked by the prices of the dishes and wines or if she really didn’t know what to order.
“Well, since we’re in a Mediterranean region, let’s try some local dishes, okay?”
“Yes, of course, I’d love to,” she said with a smile on her lips.
“Do you drink?”
“Not much.”
“A bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, per favore,” I ordered the wine, and while he withdrew, I focused on the orders. I wanted her to have a good experience, and I believed she was because she had kept a smile on her lips since we left the property.
“Are you sure you don’t want to choose?”
“Yes, please choose.”
“For the appetizer, we’ll have caponata di melanzane, for the main course pasta with sarde, and for dessert, cannoli,” I ordered when he brought the wine and poured it into our glasses.
“It’s all so beautiful here,” she said after tasting a bit of the wine.
“Did you like it?”
“Yes, it’s delicious.” She ran her tongue over her lips, trying to collect any residue of wine that might be there. I knew she hadn’t done it intentionally, but my cock immediately sprang to life; I would definitely have that scene in my mind for a long time.
“I’m glad you liked it,” I said. “Amapola, tell me a little about yourself.” I wanted to steer the conversation into safe territory. I could ask one of my men to send me a dossier about her; Amadeo probably already had one, but I wanted to hear it from her mouth.
“There’s not much to say,” she shrugged.
“Then tell me what little there is.” I leaned back in my chair and sipped the wine while she began.
“Well, I live with my father alone, not far from your property. My mother and he had an accident about two years ago. It was in that accident that he lost part of his arm,” she explained. “He worked as a baker, and my mother did some domestic work. They were good to me; I was always their priority.” I noticed the sadness in her voice.
“And after the accident?”
“After the accident, my father became addicted to alcohol. He was in love with my mother and couldn’t bear losing her. I myself, having suffered a lot, had to be strong, and since then, I’ve taken care of him as best I can.”
“So that’s why you went after him and offered to take his place?” I asked, resting my elbow on the table and crossing my hands over it.
“Yes, they were always very good to me; it was the least I could do for him. I know he would do the opposite if he were in my place.” I looked at her, searching for any hint of a lie on her face, but I found nothing; she was being sincere.
“And you, Amapola? What were you doing before your parents’ accident?”
“I was studying.”
“Studying?” I asked, surprised, and she smiled, nostalgic.
“Yes, I was in a Business Administration program on a full scholarship, but even so, even though it was little, we had some costs to keep me in university, so I had to drop out.”
“And then, Amapola, what did you do when you left the course?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged again and took a sip of her wine; I noticed she really didn’t drink much. “I started taking care of him and did some domestic work, just like my mom did. That’s what often saved us from hunger.”
“You didn’t deserve to go through that,” I said, and in an unexpected impulse, I held her hand that rested on the table.
Our brief moment was interrupted by the maitre, who brought the appetizers I had chosen.
I admired Amapola as she ate, feeling satisfied; she really seemed to enjoy the dish.
“Tell me a little about yourself?” she asked, embarrassed, but I knew she was curious.
“Unlike you, I actually have a lot to say, but unfortunately, I can’t, piccola. My position requires the utmost discretion.”
“Tell me what you can, Salvatore. I’ll be satisfied.” She surprised me with her answer, and I found myself rummaging through my mind for something I could tell her.
“Well, my parents also died, but in an attack, not in an accident like yours.”