Definition...

This was my original definition project...before I switched it to "smile" and then to "mischief." My chosen word was "vendetta."

The bell on the door rang into the dining room of the trattoria, startling the afternoon patrons out of the haze of humidity and Turkish cigarettes. Frank Sinatra played on the jukebox, singing his heart out about feeling a part of it. The maitre’d took me in, from my styled coif to my stylish stilettos and led me back to a small table near the kitchen. “Espresso, grazie,” I whispered, lighting a cigarette of my own.

“It’s too warm for espresso, sigñora,” a voice rumbled in my ear. A tower of a man squeezed himself into the chair across from me, all right angles in Italian silk. His back was to the kitchen so I couldn’t see his face, only the outlines of his Hebridean jaw and the gleam of lustrous black hair. “Might I suggest a limoncello?”

“Prego, señor,” I answered, tapping ashes into the crystal center of the red tablecloth. Muscles rippled across his jaw in what I assumed to be a smile. “So how is this business handled?”

“Vendetta?”

The room paused; even the smoke stopped swirling around the ineffective ceiling fans. He placed both hands against the table as if to back away, but I leaned on my elbows and took a long pull at my cigarette, engaging his full attention with my low-cut blouse.

“It is a very serious matter,” he sighed. “We need to make sure that you are not entering into this lightly.” He pulled an envelope from his crisp jacket pocket, laying the contents on the table. A pocket watch, a gold locket, a ruby ring. I dashed quick tears from my eyes as my crossed leg hopped slightly under the table, betraying nerves.

“You must strike the blow yourself. What was taken from you cannot be restored, but it can be corrected. An eye for an eye, as the Persians say. You understand, yes?” he murmured. Not even the napkins on the table could hear him. But I could. My heart could. Our limoncellos steamed in the hot damp of the trattoria. “The Family cannot do this for you.” He waved his hands dismissively. “In America, of course it is different. Contract killers and drive-by shootings. But here, in the Old Country, the blood debt is for you to collect.” I sat and absorbed his words, letting the tears dry on my cheeks.

“Have it your way.” The shots were more like popping noises. The patrons did not stir. My companion slumped gently to the table. “Vendetta is best served over ice, don’t you agree?” I swept my family’s property into the envelope and slipped it into my handbag, along with the silencer. I threw some lira to the table and emerged into the cleansing afternoon sunlight that only the Amalfi Coast could provide. One down, seven to go, and not a spot on my white linen suit.

It was a good day.