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was asking the girl to sacrifice her virtue for the family. But hadn’t her family been sacrificing their reputation to the Magliones for generations? They’d been played for fools long enough. Wasn’t the sacrifice of a daughter a small price to pay for shaming the man? For letting all the neighborhood know that the greengrocer was so detestable that the Rossis preferred to buy their tomatoes from a Sicilian instead? It was the Magliones’ turn to be shamed.
    Had she been less stubborn, had she not already committed to her course, she might have realized that the disturbance she felt in her stomach was not indigestion but rather the pricking of her conscience. But Mama had long treated her conscience the same way she treated Papa. And over time they had both decided it was much easier to simply acquiesce than to try and argue with her. Besides, it was the family’s honor at stake, and sometimes honor had the habit of masquerading as righteous indignation.
    Papa sighed. “If the Sicilians are the only ones who sell good tomatoes, then buy your tomatoes from the Sicilians.” A man couldn’t eat his pride, after all. And it made him want to weep, thinking of all that good parmigiana di melanzane gone to waste.

    Julietta fairly wept herself the next morning. She was late. If she didn’t reach Zanfini’s frutta e verdura in time, she wouldn’t be able to see the man. And if she didn’t see him today, then she wouldn’t see him again until Monday.
    Dio ce ne scampi! God forbid!
    In her haste she stepped right out of her shoe. Shoving it back on to her foot, she started up once more. She rounded the corner onto North Street and then stopped. He wasn’t there. He’d already gone. A wave of disappointment and regret swirled through her stomach.
    He was gone.
    “Buon giorno.”
    She nearly jumped right out of her flimsy shoes. The voice was male, so she fixed a smile to her face before she turned.
    It was him !
    In all his handsome glory. Dark, curling hair. Thick, dramatic brows. He was perfect. Bold and daring. She knew he had to be. He wore colored shirts, didn’t he? Instead of the boring white ones propriety always demanded? And what he didn’t wear was a hat. Or a tie. She flipped a look toward him that was both bold in its directness and demure in its brevity. “Where’s your truck?” A strange question to ask, perhaps, but Julietta had always been one for going directly after what she wanted, and the truck was part of the man’s great appeal. She’d never been in a truck before. Or a car, for that matter. And she wanted to go for a ride.
    He smiled. “I gave it to my friend.”
    She couldn’t know it, but her face had fallen.
    “For the day. I gave it to him for the day.” He shrugged. “And night.” And now that he was finally standing here, talking to this girl that he’d been watching, he began to wish that he’d kept it. There were such wonderful discoveries to be made at the end of dark alleys, in the cab of a truck.
    “Oh. Well . . .” She looked up at him once more. Smiled. “Arrivederci.”
    Good-bye? “But – ” He was already talking to her back. “Wait!” Wait? Did he have to sound so desperate?
    She turned on her heel. Stood there, hand on her hip. “Do you have a name?”
    “It’s Angelo. Angelo Moretti. But – ”
    “Then good-bye, Angelo Moretti.”
    “But I don’t – hey! – what’s your name?”
    He was speaking to a phantom. She had already turned the corner. She was gone.
    Laughter erupted behind him as a second man emerged from the alley. “But, but, but – ” He snorted. “You sounded just like your backfiring truck.”
    Angelo shoved a fist into the man’s chest and a sheaf of pink papers into his hand. “Shut up, Armando. And go distribute these.”
    “Sure. Anything you say.”
    “And be on the lookout.”
    They always were. They may have kidded around while they went about their business of distributing produce, but they were dead serious about