Chapter 29
‘I didn’t mean to imply that you were spoilt. I appreciate the Mondelli name has been a mixed blessing
for you.’
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‘And the Markos name?’ she said, d to be able to turn the conversation onto him. ‘Has that been a
mixed blessing for you?’
He raised a shoulder. ‘The Markos name is nothing special. It doesn’t stand for anything.’
‘Yes, it does. It stands for hard work, determination and guts.’
‘Guts?’
‘Ro told me you got into Columbia on a schrship. That alone tells me how hard you’ve had to
work to get where you are.’
‘We all have our crosses to bear, whatever background we’re born into,’ he said quietly. He tapped on
the dividing window. Amidst a hail of tooting horns, the car came to a stop. ‘We will walk from here.’
* * *
The taverna was exactly what Alessandra had been hoping for. Set off the beaten track, its marble
tables with checked paper table-cloths were crammed inside and out, every one of them taken. Inside,
a man yed an ordion, the music only just audible above the raucous noise of the patrons, while
pictures of celebrities lined the walls in haphazard fashion above empty bottles of wine with melted
candles rammed into them.
Just as she was thinking they would never get a table, a balding man of about sixty wearing a white
apron stretched around possibly thergest pot belly she’d ever seen ambled over to them, his arms
outstretched. In a flurry of Greek, he pulled Christian into a tight embrace, pping kisses on his
cheeks, all of which Christian returned before stepping back and putting an arm around Alessandra’s
waist.
‘Mikj—Alessandra,’ he said, before adding, ‘Mikj doesn’t speak any English or Italian, agapi mou.’
Her offered hand was ignored as she was wrenched from Christian’s hold and yanked into Mikj’s
embrace, which finished with an affectionate ruffle of her hair, much as if she were a child.
A small table materialised for them against the far wall. Mikj pulled the chair back for her, fussing
over her until he was certain she was sittingfortably—although howfortable anyone could be
when crammed like a sardine was debatable. He plonked aminated menu in front of her then ruffled
her hair again for good measure before disappearing into the throng.
Christian took the seat opposite. The table was so small his long legs brushed against hers. She waited
for him to move them but realised there was literally nowhere else for them to go unless he twisted to
the side and tripped up all the waiting staff.
She craned her neck around, trying to ignore the heat brushing up her legs. ‘This ce is wonderful.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You like it?’
She nodded. ‘This is exactly how I imagined a Greek restaurant to be. You can feel the energy—you
don’t get that in high-ss restaurants.’
His eyes crinkled. Seeing it made her realise how tense he’d been up to that point. Although unfailingly
polite, a barrier had been put up. Was it being here, in his home city, that had caused its construction?
Or had she been so wrapped up in her own problems that she hadn’t fully appreciated the effect their
situation was having on him? Or abination of both?
‘The best thing about this ce apart from the food?’ he said. ‘It’s tourist-proof—all the people in here
are locals.’
‘Don’t tell me you own it?’
‘No. This is all Mikj’s.’
‘Is it always this busy?’ It was a Monday evening, hardly the busiest night of the dining week.
‘Always.’
Alessandra looked down at the menu. It was all in Greek.
‘I can rmend the stiffado,’ Christian said. ‘Beef stewed in a wine and tomato sauce. The stuffed
courgettes are good too.’
‘Can I have both?’
Heughed. ‘You can have whatever you like. It’s all good.’
‘Have you eaten everything on the menu?’
‘A dozen times each.’
‘No wonder Mikj treated you like his long-lost son.’