VIDAL

TWELVE

Monday morning found Camilla hunched over her desk, her posture tense, her fingers hovering above the keyboard. She'd arrived early, determined to throw herself into the day's work and not dwell on the frustrating encounter she'd had with Enzo over the weekend.

Outside her office door, the soft hum of co-workers' voices and the distant ring of a phone offered a familiar backdrop. Inside, though, the air felt heavier, tinged with lingering annoyance and questions she couldn't shake.

She tapped out the final lines of a letter for one of Giulia's clients. Formal salutations, careful phrases—each sentence another brick in the wall she was building to keep her mind off him.

Enzo.

Even thinking his name frustrated her. She sighed, saving the document before pulling up the next draft.

A knock at her door startled her. She glanced at her calendar—no appointments scheduled this hour, and Giulia would have simply popped in.

"Come in," she called, her voice more brisk than she intended.

When the door swung open, Camilla's heart gave a small, disbelieving jolt. Enzo stood there, leaning against the frame, dressed in a well-fitted jacket and slacks that somehow seemed too polished for this ordinary Monday. His gaze met hers with a calm directness. He held a slim notebook in his hand.

"Enzo," she managed, her tone clipped. "This is unexpected."

He stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him, as if they were coconspirators and not two people who'd parted on tense terms.

"You left your notebook," he said simply, lifting it slightly as though in proof. "I found it after you ran out. Thought I'd return it."

Camilla's eyes narrowed. She remembered fleeing that encounter, anxiety gnawing at her, and yes, her bag had felt lighter. She cursed herself silently for the oversight.

Still, something in his voice—too casual, too neatly timed—made her suspicious. She folded her arms over her chest, refusing to let the relief of having her missing notebook back lower her guard.

"So you came all the way here," she said slowly, "just to hand me this?"

There was a note of disbelief in her voice. Enzo's mouth twitched, not quite a smile.

"I was going to be in the area," he said, too airy by half. "It seemed convenient."

Camilla pressed her lips together.

"Convenient for you, maybe," she muttered, accepting the notebook when he offered it, her fingertips brushing the back of his knuckles. The contact was brief, but enough to remind her of the warmth he'd once projected, of the confusion that still lingered between them. She set the notebook down on her desk as if it might bite.

"I appreciate it," she added stiffly, "but I'm very busy."

Enzo shrugged, refusing to be dismissed so easily. "I won't keep you long," he replied, his gaze flicking over the letters sprawled on her screen, the neat stack of client files.

"Though I was wondering—would you like to get lunch later?"

Camilla's brow shot up. Of all the things he could say, that was near the bottom of her expectations.

"Lunch?" she repeated, voice edged with skepticism. "Why?"

He let out a low sigh. "To talk. Properly. Without rushing off this time." The sincerity in his tone gave her pause.

Still, her pride bristled at the idea of him waltzing in and asking this so casually after he'd stirred up so much uncertainty.

She glanced toward the door, as though expecting Giulia or a client to appear. Instead, what she caught was a movement in the corridor—Kevin, hovering just out of sight, likely passing by. His reflection in the glass panel beside the door indicated he'd heard something. His posture stilled, his silhouette sharp against the hallway light.

"I'm not sure if that's a good idea," Camilla said, voice quieter now. But Kevin's silent presence nagged at her, and perhaps, perversely, that made her want to prove something—that she could handle this, handle Enzo.

"Fine," she said at last, a hint of reluctance coloring the word. "Lunch. But I don't have a lot of time, so it'll be quick."

Enzo inclined his head, accepting her conditions without complaint. "I understand," he said simply. "I'll meet you in the lobby at noon."

Hours later, Camilla stepped out of the firm's lobby, her heels clicking against the polished floor, her mind still balancing a half-finished brief and a pang of curiosity over this "lunch" with Enzo.

She found him waiting by the entrance, leaning casually against the glossy marble wall. He straightened when he saw her, a faint, warm smile lighting his face.

"I only have an hour," she reminded him, arching a brow. The crisp midday sun fell across their shoulders as they stepped onto the busy street. "Just so we're clear."

Enzo nodded, unfazed. "An hour is plenty," he said. He offered a hand out, not to hold hers, but in a gesture to lead the way.

Camilla followed, expecting a sleek black car, a posh rooftop lounge, something dazzling to match her initial impression of him.

Instead, he hailed a cab and directed the driver to a lower part of the city—older, quieter streets with modest storefronts and laundry lines visible from open windows.

The taxi pulled up to a small, unassuming building with a faded awning that bore an Italian surname. The paint on the doorframe was chipped, the sign slightly crooked, and in the window was a display of handmade pasta and fresh bread that looked as if it had come straight from someone's grandmother's kitchen. Camilla blinked, surprised. This was not the opulent showcase she'd braced herself for.

Enzo pushed open the door, a bell chiming softly, and they stepped into a cozy interior lit by warm, low-hanging lamps. The aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh herbs enveloped them instantly.

Before Camilla could take it all in, a stout man in a chef's coat emerged from the back, face lighting up at the sight of Enzo.

"Enzo!" he exclaimed, throwing out his arms in a welcoming gesture. His accent was rich and rolling, the voice of someone who learned English as a second language but still wore their old tongue like a badge of honor.

"You brought a friend!" Enzo nodded and introduced Camilla with pride in his tone.

The chef—Salvatore, as he introduced himself—shook her hand warmly, as if she were family. Camilla found herself smiling, charmed by the genuine warmth. Salvatore ushered them to a booth tucked into a quiet corner. It was clearly reserved for Enzo: a bouquet of fresh wildflowers adorned the small table, and the soft glow of a candle flickered against the wooden paneling.

Once seated, Enzo ordered a bottle of wine without hesitation, speaking with Salvatore in fluid, affectionate Italian that Camilla caught bits of: "Qualcosa di leggero" (something light), and "Ha bisogno di un assaggio dell'Italia" (she needs a taste of Italy).

Enzo turned back to her, his voice quieter but no less sincere. "We'll have a series of small plates," he explained, "I want to show you Italy—my Italy—not just what you'd find in a brochure."

Camilla leaned back, heart softening. She'd expected pomp and dazzle, but instead he'd brought her here—authentic, welcoming, personal.

It was impossible not to be impressed. She found her earlier suspicions wavering. Perhaps she'd misread him entirely.

As they waited for the first courses, the distant clatter of pots and the hum of soft Italian music filling the silence, she cleared her throat.

"About yesterday..." she began, softly. Her voice carried no anger now, just a lingering curiosity.

"Why did I leave? I felt like you were toying with me, treating me like I'm stupid. It's frustrating, Enzo. I needed space."

He nodded, leaning forward slightly. "I know," he said, his tone serious. "I understand why you felt that way. I wasn't fair to you. I was worried you'd see too much, ask too many questions I couldn't answer. I tried to keep you at a distance, and that came off as manipulation. I'm sorry."

The sincerity in his gaze matched the warmth of the wine he poured into her glass. Camilla heard the quiet regret in his voice. His words felt like an olive branch offered without fanfare.

She lifted the glass, taking a small sip, relishing the crisp notes that danced across her tongue.

"Thank you for saying that," she replied. Her shoulders relaxed, the last of her bitterness melting away. "I won't pretend to understand everything about you, or what's going on in your life. But I can accept that you're trying—trying to be honest, or at least honest enough that I don't feel fooled."

Enzo acknowledged her words with a slight incline of his head, and a slow, gentle smile that made the room feel a touch brighter. In that moment, they left the incident of the previous day behind, consigning it to an awkward chapter now closed.

The candlelight flickered, and somewhere in the kitchen, Salvatore hummed an old Sicilian tune.

Shortly after their conversation settled into a gentler rhythm, Salvatore reappeared, balancing a tray laden with small plates. He set them down one by one, murmuring a few words in Italian to Enzo, who nodded and answered back with a quiet smile.

Camilla watched this exchange with interest—there was an ease between them that suggested old ties, shared memories.

"First course," Enzo said, turning to her. On the table rested a small plate of heirloom tomatoes drizzled with olive oil so green it almost glowed, a dollop of creamy burrata in the center, and a scattering of basil leaves.

"This," he began, voice low and earnest, "is a classic antipasto—simple, meant to awaken your palate. The olive oil is pressed by Salvatore's cousins in Puglia, I believe, and the burrata is flown in daily. Try it with a bit of salt and see how the flavors dance together."

Camilla did as instructed, spearing a piece of tomato and burrata. The brightness of the tomato, the rich creaminess of the burrata, and the peppery bite of oil and basil made her eyes close involuntarily. She hummed softly, impressed.

"It's so fresh," she said, smiling at Enzo. "I could eat this forever. Did you learn all this just by eating?"

Enzo chuckled lightly, leaning forward. "I've always had a... private fascination with food. Studying it, tasting it, understanding what makes something special. It's a secret hobby of mine, you could say." He ran a hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. "I never really showed anyone this side before."

Before she could respond, Salvatore returned to whisk away the empty plate, replacing it with a small bowl of handmade gnocchi, coated in a delicate butter-sage sauce. Enzo's eyes lit up at the sight.

"This is gnocchi alla salvia," he explained. "It's about texture—light, pillowy dumplings that should melt in your mouth if done right. Taste the sage—the herb is subtle yet transformative."

Camilla savored the gnocchi, nodding appreciatively. She asked questions: how the dough was formed, where the sage was grown, whether it was a dish from southern or northern Italy.

Enzo answered patiently, detailing regional differences, and she listened with genuine interest. The tension of earlier misunderstandings faded, replaced by a sense of discovery.

The third plate that arrived was a small portion of braised short ribs, dark and glistening, paired with roasted seasonal vegetables.

"Not traditional in the strictest sense," Enzo admitted, "but the technique comes from slow, patient cooking Italians are known for. It's comfort food—tender, rich, a dish that makes you feel at home no matter where you're from." He watched her closely as she took a bite, her delighted expression rewarding him more than he expected.

Finally, Salvatore brought a fourth and final dish: a miniature tiramisù presented in a delicate glass.

"This," Enzo said softly, "is our last taste of Italy for today. Espresso-soaked ladyfingers, mascarpone cream, a dusting of cocoa. Everyone knows tiramisù, but tasting a truly authentic one..." He trailed off, letting her discover it herself.

Camilla spooned up a bit of the dessert, her lips curving upward as sweetness and coffee mingled on her tongue. She couldn't help but grin at him.

"And you can cook this well too?" Camilla asked, her voice filled with impression.

"I'd like to think so, but no one's food is better than Salvatore's in this city." Enzo said, "I'd love to cook for you sometime... maybe this weekend?"

Camilla paused for a moment, considering the implications before responding, "I'd love that."

Enzo didn't respond, only sipping the glass of wine before her.

"I can see why you love food," she said, voice quieter now. "This is... all of it... it's like stepping into another world." Her eyes shone with appreciation, both for the meal and for the man who orchestrated it.

A soft silence settled. She dabbed her napkin against her lips, considering her next words carefully.

"My mom loved to cook, too," she offered. "She could turn the simplest ingredients into something that felt special. Growing up, I never understood it fully—just thought it was normal. But now I see... it's an art, and an act of love."

Enzo's gaze softened at her mention of her mother. "I wish I could've met her," he said quietly, no trace of flattery or pretense in his tone, just sincerity. The energy between them shifted again, warmer, more personal. It felt like a rare admission—he wanted not just to impress her, but to know her life, her roots, the people who made her who she was.

In that gentle lamplight, cradled by the cozy walls of this small Italian haven, Camilla realized how her perspective of Enzo was changing. His presence, once so suspicious, now carried a quiet depth and a thoughtful soulfulness she hadn't imagined.

No, she didn't know all his secrets. But at this moment, it didn't matter. She wanted to trust the feeling that was blossoming in her chest—something softer, more vulnerable. She wanted to believe that, whoever Enzo truly was, there was something real and good at his core.

After finishing the last spoonful of tiramisù, Camilla wiped her lips and smiled softly, feeling pleasantly full and more at ease with Enzo than she ever thought she would.

The warmth of the little restaurant, the glow of the lights, and the comforting hum of low conversation enveloped them both. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so at ease with someone she barely knew—at least, barely knew on the surface.

Enzo signaled gently to Salvatore, who approached their table with a broad grin, thanking them for coming. He and Enzo exchanged a few words in Italian—compliments on the meal, hints of gratitude—while Camilla admired how relaxed Enzo looked speaking his native language.

It felt like she'd been allowed a glimpse behind one of his many guarded doors. After settling the bill, they stood to leave, Camilla shrugging her coat back on, Enzo adjusting his collar with a quiet confidence.

Outside, the early afternoon sun filtered gently through the narrow streets, gilding the old brick and wrought iron. They walked side-by-side toward the waiting car Enzo had arranged. Camilla paused to admire a window display—fresh pastries from a neighboring bakery—when a thought crossed her mind.

"You know," she said, turning her head slightly so he could hear, "I ran into Aleks in the lobby before I left your building the other day." Her tone was casual, just another piece of conversation to fill the walk. "He's... well, he struck me as kind of weird. I can't put my finger on it, but something about him felt off."

She expected Enzo to respond with some mildly humorous quip, or at least an understanding nod. Instead, she felt the atmosphere chill.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his shoulders stiffen, his jaw tightening. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, more controlled, as if he were gripping something too hot to hold.

"You saw Aleks?" he said, his words devoid of the warmth he'd shown all through lunch. "Did he bother you?"

Camilla blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. "No, not exactly," she said carefully. "He just made a weird comment about me being there. I brushed it off, but it stuck with me. He didn't do anything overtly wrong, but he made me uncomfortable."

Enzo nodded curtly, and the silence that followed felt thicker now.

His posture changed, becoming more guarded as they approached the sleek black car waiting at the curb. Camilla could sense a tension radiating from him that hadn't been there moments before when they were talking about Italian recipes and memories.

It was as if the mention of Aleks's name had drawn a dark curtain over the sunny mood.

He opened the passenger door for her, his movements efficient, lacking the earlier gentle ease. She frowned slightly at the change but decided not to press him. This day had been too pleasant—too surprisingly lovely—for her to ruin it by prying.

She slipped into the passenger seat, and he closed the door softly but firmly behind her.

From inside, she watched him walk around the hood, his features set into a controlled mask. He climbed in, started the engine, and navigated back toward her office. His conversation was limited now—no talk of food or family—and his eyes stayed fixed on the road. Still, as she glanced his way, Camilla caught a faint flicker of worry in those dark eyes.

Despite the odd tension that had settled between them, Camilla couldn't help feeling pleased about their time together. Before, she'd harbored so many doubts and questions.

Now, at least some of them had eased. She'd seen a softer, more earnest side of him, a glimpse of vulnerability behind his guarded front.

Yes, something about the mention of Aleks had clearly unsettled him, but maybe that was just another piece of his complicated puzzle.

As they headed back toward her office, Camilla decided that whatever Enzo's reason to this shift were, this afternoon's shared meal and laughter had been worth it.

Camilla stepped back into the office that afternoon feeling unexpectedly buoyant. The memory of lunch with Enzo lingered in her thoughts, softening the usual tension knotting her shoulders. Their previous spat—tense words and emotional barriers—seemed to have melted away during that shared meal.

Now, as she settled at her desk, she tried to focus on the letters she needed to draft for Giulia's clients, though her mind kept drifting back to Enzo's earnest grin, the taste of good wine, and the warmth of easy conversation.

She opened a half-finished document on her computer, fingers poised above the keyboard. Before she could type a word, Kevin appeared at her door, leaning casually against the frame. He studied her for a moment, eyes narrowed in curiosity.

"So," Kevin said, his tone almost too mild, "how was that 'meeting' you had?" He tapped a file against the doorframe, the quiet rap-rap-rap underscoring his words.

Camilla hesitated, recalling how she'd brushed off her midday disappearance as an 'appointment' that morning.

In truth, she'd just said the first thing that came to mind, not wanting to detail a personal lunch with a man whose role in her life remained unclear.

"It went fine," she said, forcing a neutral smile. Kevin nodded, not looking convinced.

"Look, I'm not prying," he said, his voice carefully casual. "But lately you've been a little... distant."

His vague concern made her bristle slightly. "I can handle myself," she replied, maybe a bit sharper than intended. "It was just lunch."

She tried to dismiss the conversation by glancing back to her screen. Kevin paused, as if wanting to say more, then sighed and pushed off the doorframe.

"Okay, sorry. Got it." he said quietly, before walking away.

No sooner had he left than Giulia breezed in, a stack of files in her arms. She said nothing at first, just gave Camilla a once-over, her gaze steady and knowing. Giulia rarely pried outright; her power lay in making people aware of her presence.

"Everything is in order for the letters?" she finally asked, voice smooth.

Camilla nodded, tapping the screen. "Almost done. Should have them ready shortly."

"Good," Giulia replied, setting a file on the desk. But before she left, she gave Camilla a small, pointed look—one that said she knew something was amiss, even if she wouldn't comment directly.

It left Camilla feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and unease. It was as if Giulia understood there was more to Camilla's life these days, and that other eyes in the office were watching.

By late afternoon, the tension had dulled into a background hum. Camilla managed to finish her letters, send them off, and even wrap up a few other minor tasks. When the workday ended and the sun dipped lower in the sky, she left the office building with a lightness in her step again.

Her thoughts drifted to Enzo—his calm manner, the subtle jokes, the feeling that beneath all the mystery, he was kind. She found herself smiling at the idea of seeing him again, imagining what else he might reveal if given time.

Her mind remained in the clouds on her train ride back to her area.

Back at her apartment block, the streets were quieter than usual. She turned onto her street, humming a tune under her breath. Maybe she and Enzo could meet again soon, under better circumstances.

Maybe she could learn about his life, his family—whatever it was that made him both guarded and gentle. The idea warmed her, dispelling the memory of Kevin's inquiry and Giulia's knowing stare.

Then something caught her eye. A car, parked near the corner, had been there that morning too. Same model, same small dent on the bumper. She wouldn't have noticed such details normally, but something about it snagged her attention.

As she walked closer to her apartment building's door, she thought she spotted movement in the reflection of a storefront window—someone slipping out of sight, ducking around the corner.

Her heart gave a small, uncertain jump.

Was she imagining things?

Just the city's random rhythms playing tricks on her nerves? She paused, keys in hand, scanning the street. The car remained, engine off, windows tinted. The figure—if it had been real—didn't reappear.

She swallowed, pushing down a flare of unease. Nothing had happened. And maybe nothing would. Still, the prickle at the back of her neck lingered as she slipped inside the dimly lit entryway and hurried upstairs to her apartment.

Locking the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, letting the silence of her home soothe her.

Despite the oddness she'd felt both at work and outside, she couldn't deny that thinking of Enzo calmed her. She might be imagining trouble where there was none.

After all, she had decided to be more open-minded, to trust him more than her instincts of suspicion. Perhaps the world around her hadn't changed at all—just her perspective. And if letting Enzo in meant feeling a bit uncertain, she'd learn to navigate that.

For tonight, she was tired and hopeful. She set her purse down and considered what tomorrow might bring.

A call from Enzo, perhaps. Another small step toward understanding.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to let go of the lingering strange feelings, focusing instead on the memory of his voice and the comforting warmth of his presence over lunch.