“Basta, boys your age shouldn’t smoke,” he chided, and hit me on the back of the head, even though he had to reach up high to do it. He stole the cigarette from me and put it to his own lips, inhaling deeply.
“And how about bad-tempered old men?” I teased.
He smoked the rest of the cigarette, then ground it out and flicked it away. Cigarettes were foul, but they helped with hunger, and a pack lasted longer than a sandwich would.
“We’re old and on the way out anyway. We’ve got nothing to lose,” Ricardo said.
“That’s not something exclusive to age, you know. Some of us were born that way.”
Ricardo gave me a sideways glance. “And your mother?”
That little reminder felt like a shard of ice piercing my heart. Anger threatened to erupt at his poking such a rawnerve, but it drained away at the kind look on my old boss’s face.
“Exactly. Even if you had something—someone—worth saving, it doesn’t mean that you can. Then you’re lonelier than ever, worse, maybe, than if you’d never known what it was like not to be alone.”
We stood in silence for a beat or two before Ricardo spoke.
“I think that’s the most you’ve ever spoken to me at one time.”
That pulled a chuckle from me. “You sound like my teacher.”
“Ah, Signora Vasco was cursed with you as a student, wasn’t she? Poor soul. She’s aging rapidly, teaching that class.”
“The school year’s almost over. She’ll recover. She’s well-meaning and irritatingly optimistic,” I muttered, and pushed myself off the wall. “We had career day today.”
“Yeah? What did you tell her you wanted to be?”
I grinned at him. “What else? Sicario.”
Ricardo coughed, and I patted him on the back when he didn’t stop.
“Take it easy, I’m not getting paid yet to take you out.”
“Very funny,” he said, wheezing. “You told your teacher during career day that you want to be an assassin?”
“Well, she said to think about your talents . . . so . . .” I sighed and shrugged.
Ricardo shook his head. “If you need help coming up with a list of your talents, I’ll tell you them. You work the coffee machine like you designed it yourself, you cook well, you clean diligently, you’re always on time. You respect the customers, you help with the books. You have a lot of talents, Massimo. A bounty. You’re just not counting those ones.”
“So, I can be a barista the rest of my life with those gifts?”I wondered curtly, flattered by his compliments while knowing they were undeserved, and feeling pissy because of it.
Ricardo shrugged. “I’ve no children. You can take over the bar, and I’ll retire. Problem solved.”
My breath hitched in my chest. I couldn’t turn to look at the old man who had treated me with kindness from the very start, even when I’d fucked up. Especially when I’d fucked up. In my most selfish heart, I wanted to take him up on that offer. Become part of his family. Keep the café going and make sure this town would remember him, even when he went... but I couldn’t. I was a person who ruined things. Everything I touched crumbled to ashes. I didn’t want to be Ricardo’s burden. He didn’t deserve that.
He could tell my answer by my expression. He sighed. “Come to church with me this Sunday, Massimo. It’s not too late?—”
I tutted and shook my head at Ricardo. Hope was a dangerous thing. Hope that a soul could change, be redeemed or saved... that a life could turn around, could be deadly. I wouldn’t risk Ricardo for an ill-fated shot at changing my life. I knew my worth, and it was lacking.
“You think some man in a costume can save my soul? Cleanse me from my sins? My confession would burn a mere mortal to ash on the spot,” I murmured.
Ricardo held my gaze. He couldn’t understand a life without faith... in a greater power, in humanity, not only in others, but in yourself.
“There is no forgiveness for me. I know what I am. I know I’m destined to burn—I do not fear death, or the hell that awaits me. But I will see my vengeance served before I go... and then I’ll happily burn.”
Ricardo stared at me for a long moment, like I was the Antichrist, and then crossed himself.
Ouch. If I had a functioning heart, that might have hurt.