* * * *
Giovanni, the maître d’ at Raphael’s, smiled as we entered. “Signore Bascopolis. Signore Matheson. It is good to see you again.”
“Thanks, Giovanni. How are you?”
“Eh. Come si, come sa.”
Wills murmured something in Italian, and Giovanni’s face lit up.
“Grazie! Grazie!”
I cleared my throat, and Wills smiled and slid his arm into mine. “It looks like you’ve got quite a crowd.” There was a line of people waiting to be seated.
“This is true. I cannot leave my post tonight, not even to…” He rolled his eyes toward the archway that led to the restrooms. “Nino will take you to your table.” He checked off our names and snapped his fingers.
“You would want to come here,” an overweight man growled at the plainly-dressed woman beside him. He glared at me, sneered at Wills. “It’s a cryin
