Chapter two
Evelyn watched the interaction between Alessandro and the red-haired woman, her mind racing. An opportunity presented itself when the woman excused herself to use the restroom. Sandro was momentarily alone, his gaze drifting idly around the osteria. It was a fleeting window, and Evelyn knew she had to seize it.
Taking a deep breath, she finished her wine and approached the table with a casual air. "Excuse me," she began, her Italian laced with a slight, deliberate hesitation, as if she were still finding her footing in the language. "I couldn't help but notice… the wine here is quite good. Do you know the vineyard?"
Alessandro's dark eyes flicked up to meet hers, a flicker of something akin to annoyance crossing his features before being quickly masked by a polite, if somewhat detached, courtesy. "It's a local blend. Nothing remarkable." His voice was deeper up close, a low rumble with a hint of an accent she couldn't quite place.
"Ah, I see," Evelyn continued, undeterred. "I'm Elena Rossi. I'm in town researching the history of the Italian community here. Everyone has been so welcoming." She offered a small, friendly smile.
A flicker of something – perhaps interest, perhaps suspicion – crossed Sandro's face. "Elena Rossi," he repeated, the way he said her name making it sound both like a question and a statement. "And what aspects of our history are you finding… most intriguing?"
"Oh, everything," Evelyn replied smoothly. "The traditions, the family structures, the way the community has preserved its heritage over generations." She let her gaze drift meaningfully around the osteria, taking in the familial atmosphere. "It's quite remarkable."
Sandro's eyes narrowed slightly. "Family is important," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Just then, the red-haired woman returned to the table, her arm looping through Sandro's. "Everything alright, amore?" she asked, her gaze flicking to Evelyn with a hint of possessiveness.
"Everything is fine, Isabella," Sandro replied, his tone softening slightly as he looked at the woman. "Signorina Rossi was just admiring the wine."
Isabella offered Evelyn a tight smile. "Ah, yes. It's… local."
Evelyn sensed the dismissal in her tone. "It was a pleasure," she said, offering a polite nod to both of them before retreating back to the bar.
As she sat down, she could feel Sandro's gaze on her back. She didn't turn around, pretending to be engrossed in the conversation between the bartender and another patron. But the awareness of his attention was a tangible thing, a weight between her shoulder blades.
Later that evening, as the osteria began to empty, Evelyn lingered, nursing another glass of wine. She watched as Sandro and Isabella finally rose to leave, his hand resting protectively on her lower back. There was an undeniable intimacy between them, a closeness that spoke of a deep connection.
As they disappeared out the door, Evelyn pulled out a small notebook from her purse. "Isabella," she wrote down, underlining the name. Another piece of the puzzle.
The following days fell into a pattern. Evelyn became a regular at the Osteria Romana, always polite, always observant. She struck up conversations with the older patrons, listening intently to their stories, their anecdotes about the neighborhood's history. She learned about the families, the businesses, the subtle dynamics that governed their lives. And she always kept an eye on Alessandro Moretti.
He was often there in the evenings, sometimes with Isabella, sometimes with other men who carried the same air of quiet power. He was a man of few words in public, but when he spoke, people listened. Evelyn noted the deference in their eyes, the subtle nods of agreement.
One afternoon, Evelyn "accidentally" bumped into one of Sandro's associates, a burly man named Marco, outside a local bakery. Feigning clumsiness, she spilled her bag, scattering her "research notes" – carefully crafted documents filled with innocuous historical facts and a few strategically placed questions about local families.
Marco, initially gruff, softened slightly as Evelyn's feigned embarrassment seemed genuine. He even helped her gather her things, glancing curiously at the papers. Evelyn made sure he saw the name "Moretti" mentioned in a historical context, nothing incriminating, just a name woven into the fabric of the community.
Slowly, subtly, Evelyn was weaving herself into the tapestry of their world. She was becoming a familiar face, a seemingly harmless outsider interested in their history. But beneath the façade of Elena Rossi, the journalist's mind was working tirelessly, piecing together the fragments, waiting for the moment to uncover the darkness she knew lay beneath the surface. And with every stolen glance, every veiled interaction with Alessandro Moretti, a dangerous and undeniable pull began to take root, a thread of something forbidden and intense that threatened to unravel her carefully constructed plan.