Page 36

Instead, they chat.
Over the news.
And even though that anger is back to churning inside me as doubt collides with it, I watch on, growing more and more astonished.
Savio pours the man wine and even buys another two bottles. Barely touching his own glass the waitress brings for him, he helps Paolo get wasted.
Why?
Hell knows.
Still, I watch in bewildered amusement as Paolo bursts into song.
When the entire bar joins in, 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, Paolo.”
“You’ll need to carry him. He’ssbronzo.” Drunk.The waitress frowns at Paolo. “It’s not like him.”
Savio shrugs. “He had bad news today.”
Her face softens with sympathy, but I grow tense at what I know to be a lie.
Savio curves his arm around Paolo and, together, they wind through the spaces between tables. I wince as Paolo nearly topples one over before Savio finally gets him outside.
Leaving cash to cover my bill, I quickly follow.
It astonishes me to realize that, in the time I’ve been in there, the sun has set.
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 that the sun has disappeared, making me huddle into my anorak with a wish for the heavy coat Paolo’s wearing.
I watch as Savio wends a path through the streets with as much ease as he had the tables in the small taverna.
“Come on, Paolo, there’s no need to despair,” he chides. “Things will get better.”
Huh. I’m close enough that I know Paolo hasn’t said a thing.
“I promise. Stop talking that way,” he tuts. “Listen to me, we’ll get through this.” Then, just before he shoves Paolo down an alley: “You want me to leave you here? Are you sure? Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Unless Paolo lives on the streets, which I doubt, because his clothes are too nice and he’d been able to afford to eat in that restaurant—and nothing is cheap here—then Savio just tossed him into that alley like he’s trash.
Which he is, sure, but still...
I hurry along, cringing at the sound of my boots tapping against the cobbles before I look around the corner. Paolo’s too drunk to even realize what’s happening, but in the morning, his head is in for a world of pain after all that cheap wine he drank at the bar.
A part of me wonders if Savio intends to beat the shit out of him, but when he grabs Paolo and drags him so his back is to the wall without kicking him, I’ll admit to being disappointed.
And more confused than ever.
What on Earth is happening here?
In the inky shadows, I struggle to see, and I squint a bit until I hear the metallic click of a switchblade.
Taken aback, I surge forward.
The closer I move, the more I see. Paolo is slouched over, butt to the ground, legs splayed before him, his eyes closed, head bobbing like it doesn’t belong to his neck.
But Savio, crouching over him, has his sleeves pulled high with leather gloves on his fingers where they’d been bare before. He’s shoved Paolo’s cuffs high up on his forearm too, and that switchblade?