Angel's Mafia (gxg) ✓

IV | Memoire

"THAT IS NOT FUNNY."

"Come on. It's a little funny."

I shake my head. "You think it's funny because you weren't there. Believe me, it was terrible. It was awful. It was-"

"Humiliating? Embarrassing? Awkward?"

"Hey!"

Vittoria grins. "What? I thought we were just supplying words."

I give her a look. "Well, we weren't."

Just then, the waiter arrives holding two plates. Penne for me, gnocchi with basil for Vittoria. The scent of tomato sauce and grated Parmesan cheese is heavenly.

Around a forkful of pasta, Vittoria says, "So . . . this all happened this morning?"

I swallow and nod. "This morning. Which begs the question-how much did I drink last night?"

Vittoria's eyes flicker guiltily. I may have met her only a few days ago, but as my roommate, I've noticed one particular tell of hers-that conscience. That guilty, guilty conscience.

As she dips her fork into the gnocchi, her eyes dart away. "Well, the alcohol I ordered was a little stronger than what you . . . Americans . . . might be used to. Here, in Italy, we drink wine with everything, which means our tolerance is high."

I finish for her. "And you need stronger drinks to actually get drunk."

Vittoria nods, a nervous smile twisting her lips. "Sorry, mia cara."

I wave her off. "It's fine. Just please-a warning next time?"

Her answering grin is devilish.

I dig into the plate, and Vittoria says, "When do you think you'll see her again?"

I shrug. "Probably never. I don't even know her name."

Vittoria narrows her eyes. "Listen here. This isn't your little Americano city . . . Las Vegas? New York?"

"Los Angeles," I supply.

"Right. Los Angeles. This is a small city, and everyone knows everyone. Chances are, I know your little girlfriend." She twirls her fork in the air, and a wide grin splits her face. "Oh . . . I know. You'll see her at the Gala this venerdi!"

Venerdi. Friday.

"Gala? What Gala?"

Vittoria's eyes are dreamy, lit by the glow of the golden light bulbs. "Oh, it's just the most beautiful art ball in the world. The university students are all invited, and they put these great works on display for everyone to see. Once, they even had the Mona Lisa brought over."

Images of the Desperate Dancer painting in the woman's room flit through my mind's eye. I push them away. She was lying. She had to be. I didn't steal anything.

"And she'll be there?" I say doubtfully.

Vittoria opens her mouth to respond, but in the next second her arms are across the table and she yanks me down to floor.

Gunshots ring across the restaurant. The window shatters. Glass sprays.

Screams pierce the dark, and then I hear it: The sound of an engine, roaring. Then wind rushes through the broken windows, and the vehicle takes off.