Page 46 of Just for a Taste

J ust as the sun was emerging from the horizon, the small city of Cisternino came into view over the steady incline I had been traveling along.

The small town, surrounded by scenic dairy farms and olive groves, was an island of whitewashed stone. Narrow brick streets were sandwiched between angular buildings stacked beside one another and joined with steep staircases. Greenery interspersed the structures, massive trees marking the corners of various town squares. Every inch of the city was lovingly decorated, with each house surrounded by tropical plants, brightly painted doors, and windows against the walls of white. It would have resembled a cute pastoral diorama if not for the rare scooter skittering in and out of the streets. Old-fashioned streetlights had just flickered off, bringing my focus to the way the sun twinkled on the surface of the distant ocean.

Dirt road transitioned to gravel, and in the distance, I could even see paved sidewalk. With how quickly my legs gave out when I sat on a pedestrian bench, it was a wonder I had even remained upright so long. Now in cellular range, I retrieved my phone again.

To my relief, the only message was from Basilio. No rebukes from Noor, and none of the hundreds of messages I knew I’d get from Zeno when he finally woke up. Just the same old photo of a rose that had been my companion for months, with a single notification from Basilio covering its surface:

Here’s the address to the cafe. They aren’t open yet, but tell them that Basilio de’ Medici will be dining with you at eight and they’ll let you in. Sorry I’m late! Looking forward to our date~

I rolled my eyes at the message but plugged the address in. The cafe was on the very edge of town, on the corner of its street.

In any other context, the little restaurant would have charmed me, with its traditional decor and the fresh flowers on every wrought-iron table. But now I wondered how on earth I was supposed to even have a sip of water with the turmoil in my stomach. I grimaced at the chiuso sign hanging against the window and knocked on the door a few times.

It took a minute or two for the owner to open the door. He was a young, handsome man with an apron tied loosely around his waist and flour covering his hands. He looked confused, then annoyed, then something else entirely.

“Oh!” he said, his full lips curling into a tiny O to match. “Are you the one sent by—”

“—Barone de’ Medici,” I finished his sentence for him, trying not to show how bitter the name was on my tongue. “Yes. I am.”

He pulled a seat out for me immediately, skittering about in that same desperate-to-please manner I had seen from the shopkeeper of the plant shop months ago. The man rambled to me at length, but with how preoccupied I was, I only caught the bare skeleton of his explanation—something about how he was the youngest son of some noble family that was closely allied with the Medici, how he had opened a store in this quaint little town with the blessing of his parents, and so on. I didn’t even latch on to his name. It was only when I saw he was looking at me expectantly that I realized he had asked a question.

“Sorry, what was that?”

He frowned for a split second, then forced a smile. “It’s all right, Signorina Bowling! Basilio told me he is about fifteen minutes away. Please let me know what you would like to drink in the meantime. My treat.” He rattled off various options, but once again, my mind was elsewhere. Had I introduced myself? Would Basilio have told him who I was by name?

Once the man’s voice lilted in that way that foretold the end of my options, I made deliberate eye contact. “I’ll take that last one, thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll make that for you right now.”

When he retreated into the kitchen, I relaxed the tiniest bit. My shoulders were still midway to my ears, but at least I didn’t have to worry about making small talk at a time like this. What good would being this tense do for the creation of a peace treaty?

Just enjoy yourself and forget about the enemy, Cora , I told myself, closing my eyes. For the next fifteen minutes, it’s a normal morning at a normal cafe.

The drink that materialized in front of me when I opened my eyes certainly helped with the illusion. I had apparently ordered an affogato, and the smell of vanilla ice cream drowned in hot espresso was delightful. I turned the drink from side to side, marveling. Despite the speed at which the man had made my drink, his attention to detail was remarkable. Elegant curls of chocolate shavings were just beginning to melt, save those shielded from the heat atop a fresh leaf of mint.

“I made the whipped cream this morning,” the man said, gesturing to the generous dollop on top of the ice cream. “The milk is from one of the local dairy cows.”

I picked up a straw and a spoon, eager to dissect the meal, but before I could dig in, he stopped me.

“Wait!” the man cried, holding a hand up.

I froze in place, brow raised.

He let out a shy chuckle, hand returning to the nape of his neck. “It may be silly, but I enjoy honoring the traditions of this place. While in Rome, you know?”

I gave an understanding nod and tried not to make it obvious that my attention was mostly focused on the ice cream sinking into espresso. To my relief, his explanation was quick enough. “There’s a single coffee bean hidden in the whipped cream, and you’re meant to eat it first.”

As he wiped down the tables around me, I dug into it and quickly found the aforementioned bean.

“Hmm,” I replied, popping it into my mouth. “Like the plastic baby in a king cake.”

Though still preoccupied with cleaning, I could see the man make a strange face. I realized it did sound rather unusual if you hadn’t done the tradition before. Warmth crept over my cheeks. I chased the bitter bean with two heaping spoonfuls of ice cream. Beyond being a stranger, this was a friend of Basilio’s. Did it really matter what he thought?

I shoveled down the ice cream and drank the espresso, savoring every bite and sip. It had been a good ten minutes at that point, but instead of feeling energized, I just felt . . . foggy. That was when it hit me.

This was a friend of Basilio’s.

Even ten minutes later, the bitterness of the bean still lingered on the back of my tongue, but it didn’t taste like the acidity of a coffee bean. I picked up the drink to examine it closer, then widened my eyes. “Oh—oh no.”

On the napkin he had set my drink on, in the halo of condensation, was a quickly scrawled, Sorry .

I turned to see the man, but he had already vanished, and everything was already beginning to feel dreamlike.

As the whirring of an electrical vehicle grew near, an overwhelming heaviness passed over me. With all my effort, I peeled my eyelids apart with my fingers, but even my arms struggled to remain upright. I cursed to myself aloud and pushed up against the table, hoping against all odds that I could take advantage of the last spurt of adrenaline to run away. But even the screeching of the chair right under me sounded distant, and the sight of the silver car pulling up beside me looked blurred. I couldn’t tell if the lines darting across my vision and tingling of my arm were some benzo-riddled hallucinations or a sudden torrent of rain.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The world tilted, and the streetlights transformed into diagonal lines as I fell. I never hit the ground.