I lived near a town called Mensano, about an hour south of Firenze – which you probably know as Florence.
Mensano is a tiny but beautiful place. It was a walled village from medieval times that looked out over the gorgeous fields of Tuscany. Perhaps 200 people live inside the town walls.
But I didn’t even live in Mensano. I lived along the mountain road to the village.
My father owned a café visited by locals and a few tourists passing through on their way to somewhere else.
My mother died when I was only 12 years old, and ever since then I was his only helper in the café. He would cook the few dishes we offered on the menu, and I would serve the customers.
It was a lonely, boring life.
I loved my father, but it was not what I wanted for myself.
I was 20 years old. I had hoped to move out when I finished school at 18 – perhaps to Florence! – but I didn’t have nearly enough money.
And my father had begged me to stay. Without my help, the café would go under because he couldn’t afford to pay anyone else.
Plus he said he would die of loneliness without me, which broke my heart.
So I stayed.
Yet I yearned for something – anything – else.
I soon learned to be careful what you wish for.
I lived with Papa above the café. Our closest neighbor was a 65-year-old widow who would walk a quarter of a mile every morning to have coffee and flirt with my father.
At 51, Papa was much younger than her. He had been older than my mother, and they had had me much later in life (at least compared with what was common in rural Italy).
Despite six years of flirting, the widow still hadn’t made any headway.
Papa had loved my mother fiercely, and he still mourned her passing every day.
Sometimes I felt like my own life had ended with hers.
Seven days a week, I took orders for coffee, pastries, and the occasional meal.
On Sundays I would walk to the church in Mensano for mass because we were too poor to own a car. Then I had to walk back home in time for afternoon lunch in the café.
My father was not devout. He never attended mass, and despite my complaints, he forced me to work on the Sabbath.
Every Sunday I would joke, “If I have to spend an extra year in Purgatory because of you – ”
“Didn’t you hear, Alessandra? The Pope got rid of Purgatory years ago,” he would tease me. “And you don’t do anything bad enough to go to hell, so you’re fine.”
“That’s because there’s nothing to do around here that’s bad enough for hell.”
Little did I know, something ‘bad enough’ would come and find me.
It was a Monday night. I remember the day because it was odd to have anyone in the café for dinner on a Monday, much less a stranger.
He was in his 30s and ugly, like a toad with fat lips. I could tell by his accent that he was from the north, far away from Florence. When he came in, he demanded a table where he could sit with his back against the wall.
He was curt and rude and had a nasty habit of staring at my breasts whenever he talked to me. I dress very conservatively, so it wasn’t like I was inviting his gaze – but he still looked at me like a piece of meat, which made my skin crawl.
As soon as I took his order, I retreated to the far end of the café and waited for my father to finish cooking his meal.
The ugly man was constantly darting his eyes around the stone walls of the café. No one else was in there except for him, me, and Papa working in the kitchen – but the man seemed afraid that a boogeyman would suddenly appear from the shadows.
Apparently he knew something I didn’t.
I had just delivered his pollo al limone – chicken with lemon – when the ugly man said something odd in his northern-accented Italian: “Tell your father my compliments to the chef.”
I was struck by the fact that he said it before he’d even had a bite of the food.
Then I realized I hadn’t told him my father was the cook.
There was no way the ugly man could have known my father had cooked his meal unless he had been here before… or somehow knew about the café.
I thought of asking him how he knew, but I disliked him so much that I just nodded and went back to my perch at the far end of the café.
After ogling me some more, the ugly man began wolfing down his food.
Then the door to the café opened up and another man walked in.
He was tall, well over six feet. He was dressed in a black trench coat and wore a black hat, so it was hard to see his features – but his short blond beard and icy blue eyes suggested he wasn’t Italian. He was, however, very handsome.
Just as I was about to welcome him, the stranger turned to the ugly man and pulled out a pistol.
The ugly man froze with a forkful of food in his mouth. Then he scrambled for something in his pocket – probably a gun, too – but he wasn’t fast enough.
BANG BANG BANG!
Fire exploded from the blond stranger’s gun.
The ugly man’s body jerked three times. Then he slumped to the side and fell out of his chair.
I screamed in horror as blood pooled on the stone floor.
The blond man turned to me, and I felt an electric spark as his icy blue eyes met mine.
I was sure I was dead – that his gun would point at me next –
But instead the handsome stranger put his weapon away and hurried out of the café.
My father ran into the room just as the front door banged shut.
My father cried out, “Alessandra, what happened?!”
I just stared at the corpse in shock.
The only dead body I had ever seen was at my mother’s funeral…
And I had certainly never seen a man murdered before my eyes.
Before too long, I would see many, many more.
My father took one look at the dead man and suddenly became even more frightened.
Later, I would wonder if he recognized the ugly man – though in my shock, I didn’t consider the possibility at the time.
“Did you see who did this?” he whispered.
I nodded mutely.
He grabbed my shoulders and forced me to look at him.
“You must never tell anyone what he looked like,” he said hoarsely. “Especially not the police.”
“But – ”
“PROMISE me.”
I promised him.
It was probably the one thing that saved both our lives.
