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everything about him suggested the words “well kept.” His thick silver-streaked black hair was artfully cut, and his firm tan face owed more to artistry than nature. His clothes were expensive, from his hand-tailored shirt to his Italian silk tie and designer suit, not to mention his pricey two-toned black–and-cordovan oxfords, polished to a mirrorlike shine.
    â€œTable for one,” he said, crossing his arms in a clear signal.
    â€œUh, Mr. Parisi, we’re not doing a regular luncheon service today, and we don’t serve dinner for an hour and a half—”
    â€œâ€˜Luncheon service,’ is it?” He looked pointedly around at the Casa Lido’s interior. “Please. As if you can’t find me something to eat in this glorified pizza joint.”
    I gripped a luncheon menu tightly. “We offer grilled pizza as a summer dish. We are
not
a—”
    He held up a large palm. “Spare me the details.” He stalked past me and took a seat at a table for six. “I’d like a house salad with grilled chicken. And not some soggy piece of meat you pull out of the fridge. Cooked to order.” He smiled and crossed his arms again. “I’ll wait.”
    A sound from the bar caught my attention, and Cal jerked his head in Parisi’s direction. I frowned and shook my head, hoping he wouldn’t feel the need to leap over the counter and protect me. I’d handled worse customers than Gio Parisi. Frankly, I was more afraid of what my grandmother might do if she came back and found him eating in her restaurant.
    â€œOh, and, miss?” Parisi said. “You can also bring me a bottle of San Pellegrino and hot water for tea. And that I
don’t
want to wait for,” he said softly.
    â€œI’ll bring that right out.
Sir
.”
    â€œAnd I want that chicken well-done,” he called after me. “And the dressing on the side!”
    In the kitchen, Tim had dinner prep well under way. I watched his skilled hands slicing and trimming veal for the special, and I hated to break his concentration. “Hey, Tim, can you throw some chicken on the grill?”
    He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and scowled at me. It was a look I remembered well. “What for? I just cleaned it.”
    â€œListen, Gio Parisi’s out there. He’s insisting we serve him. Just make the chicken. He wants it well-done. I’ll throw the salad together.”
    â€œForget it.” He slammed his knife down on the count-er. “I’m not feeding him. No way.”
    â€œ
Chi
?” Mr. Biaggio came through the door with a large cardboard box filled to the top with lettuce and other assorted greens. He set the box down with a grunt and grinned broadly. “Who are you refusing to feed, Timoteo?”
    I couldn’t help smiling at his accent and at his efforts to make Tim’s Irish name Italian. “Hi, Mr. Biaggio,” I said. “Gio Parisi is out in the dining room.”
    â€œNo!” He lowered his thick brows, and his face reddened. “That
cafone
, the nerve he has to come here.” He shook his fist high in the air. “Victoria, I will be happy to throw him out for you, just like the garbage that he is!”
    â€œI appreciate that—I really do, Mr. B—but I don’t want any trouble. That’s the last thing the Casa Lido needs.” I filled a kettle and set it on the stove to boil, sliced some bread, and pulled a San Pellegrino from the drinks cooler. “Tim, please. Let’s just give him lunch and get him the hell out of here before Nonna comes back.”
    â€œOh, I’ll give him lunch, all right.” He struggled to jerk open the door of the heavy refrigerator, then threw a pack of chicken on the counter and scrubbed his hands with a fury. “I’ll make the damn salad.”
    â€œOkay, but don’t dress it.”
    â€œGot it. And by the way, tell Lockhart to stay the