[Il Giardino] When nothing matters but a memory [Luciana]

November 12th was not a day that Iago looked forwards to every year. In fact quite the opposite. One might have thought that the date of the fire would make him the most mournful, the day he’d lost the gentle hearted woman who had turned him from a billionaire playboy to a caring, if not loving, husband, and responsible business man. But the dark haired man could not help but feel that his wife had done in death what she had failed to do in life. She’d given him the drive to get clean, to stop screwing around with various younger women, to do what he’d always been too afraid to do and abandon the Moriarty Legacy and forge a new one. He had found peace in her death, in that way, knowing that Isabella would be proud of the man that he had become. No. it was their wedding day that haunted him. They’d had one anniversary together, before her death, and Iago had worked through it, arriving home late after having finally remembered, thanks to an all too snide owl from his sister Lara. He had been a terrible husband, though she had always insisted otherwise. They were both busy, and with her caring for their children, her job had fallen on him to handle as well. She’d never faulted him for it, but he knew it had to have hurt her. The only chance he’d ever really had, and he’d worked. And what was he doing now? Working of course. Granted there were always the welcome introductions by one or both of their twins charging into his office, but today, on the 12th, Lara always took them to the Costellos. The entire family had learned quickly that it was best to leave him to his book keeping and avoid him unless there was some sort of horrific family emergency that could not wait until the morning to impart to him.

The quill in his fingertips snapped, and Iago let out a rather undignified swear, instinctively looking up to see if his children were around before realizing that they were in fact out of the house. He’d broken two today, and that made a third, the ink running across the page and pooling in the cracks. Of course he could have cleaned it, but he simply didn’t have the energy to do so. Not today. Not anymore. It was late, and his dinner still sat beside him, picked at but otherwise untouched. Even the elves had made themselves scarce, as though they knew that today was not a good day. Throwing a handkerchief on the ink frustratingly, Iago cleaned his hand quickly, with his wand, since the ink would undoubtedly stain his fingertips for days otherwise. He was done. He needed air. A long walk. To lose himself in the beauty of Neroli and forget who he was for a time.

He didn’t even remember grabbing his light coat, though he must have, as he found himself locking the Violet door that marked the entrance to his home on the street, wearing it draped across his shoulders but not fully on. He shook his head, letting out a little sigh as he looked up at the sky, not dark enough for stars, but gray, violet and black. The sun had already set; the day almost done. He let his mind simply blank out and started walking, letting his feet decide where to take him, first to the river bank where the inky black water almost seemed to soothe him in a strange way, reflecting the night sky as the stars began to come into being one by one. It was November, so it was not quite late enough that everything was closed, and Iago found himself wandering away from the water towards the gardens. Lara loved taking the children to the gardens. He stopped abruptly, staring off into the distance and sighing to himself.

A drink. That’s what he needed. A drink. Wine. since Isabella’s death he’d avoided liquor. He tended to get stupid when he drank too quickly. But as he lifted his head, the warm inviting lights of Il Giardino almost seeming to call to him as they flickered in and out amongst the heavy ivy coverings. The Welsh transplant wasted no time, walking in and greeting the hostess with a quiet word, and politely informing her that no, he would not require a table, and was perfectly content to sit at the bar. It had always felt strange to him, dining alone. And he wasn’t exactly here for food, though he was no fool and new better then to drink on a nearly empty stomach. For a moment, he felt bad for his elves, knowing they had worked hard and prepared one of his favorite dishes, hoping to bring some cheer to his day of misery. But in a strange way he took comfort in the fact that on some level, the creatures understood it was a hard day for him.

Finding a seat in the corner of the bar, away from other customers, Iago said nothing and calmly waited for the woman behind it to make her way over to him, busy with drinks for the tables and the customers at the far end. He suspected he rather had the look of a man who just wanted to be left to himself. When she finally made her way over, he greeted her warmly, insisting that it was no bother that he’d had to wait, and asked her to simply bring him a cheese and meats board with his wine; Barbera, though anything dry would have sufficed. She was pretty, of course, and any other day he might have been a bit flirtatious, but today he barely even took note as she returned with a glass so perfectly clean even grandmother Costello could not have found a flaw. And though his family was the last thing he wanted on his mind, Iago found his eyes narrowing as he watched her pour his drink expertly, though his gaze was on the bottle instead.

Of course it was a costello wine. Even when he had finally gotten his family to stop smothering him in their worry and concern, they still found a way to be present when all he had wanted was to be left alone. Business had been doing well for their Vineyard, since iago had taken over distribution for them through his and Lara’s company, so it should not have surprised him in the slightest. But Lara handled the more mundane side of things, regular shipments and deliveries, monthly payments, the sort of jobs that he found tedious. They were perfect for her however, and she could easily handle them and watch the children at the same time. He hadn’t known that this place served his family’s wine, or perhaps he might have chosen somewhere else; because now was he needed more than anything was to get family off his mind.

Dinner service wasn’t yet over – when Italians dined, they dined for hours – but the kitchen was entering the time of the night where orders were coming slower, and for the after-meal dishes: cheeses and fruits, desserts, digestives and so on. The Italian witch was doing her third walk-through of the evening, a reminder to the chefs that she could – and would – appear at any time to oversee things.

Luciana had never aspired to own a restaurant, but when asked by her father how she wished to prove her ‘business acumen’, she had taken all of a few days before deciding the best direction for her to show she was more than just a potential trophy wife. Enzo Bertinelli did not believe women belonged in the organisation, except as messengers between husbands and brothers and fathers and sons, but Luciana had made her case: if it was not her, it would be someone from outside the family – someone who didn’t have the Bertinelli name. He had relented as much as to allow her to try.

So she would try. The old trattoria had been gutted, painted and polished. A new name, befitting Luciana’s true passion, and staff she had chosen herself – none of the usual goons provided by her father. If it weren’t for the fact he’d swindled some poor family out of the place before gifting it to her, it would have been entirely her own. The building had stood empty for some months before renovations had begun – the old employees had walked out, rather than work for l’Omertà.

“Luisa, we need more Chianti and Lambrusco,” Luciana ordered the slim, tanned brunette who was following her with a quill and clipboard. “And grappa, tell the Romanos.”

She stepped through from the storeroom to the bar and pushed her thick, dark hair back over her shoulder. She was in a knee-length navy dress, with long sleeves, a fitted waist, and a low neckline – tailored to flatter her curves. Her light eyes scanned the room, appeased that they had almost a full dining room again. She could not rest, though. Could not allow the first few weeks of curious interest to delude her into thinking this was a success. She needed to work at it. Her gaze fell on a solo diner – drinker? – at the bar. Not that she had any intention of turning patrons away, but Il Giardino was not the sort of place she expected to see men drinking alone – there were plenty of bars suited for that purpose throughout Neroli.

She watched him for a moment, from the shadows, interested. He wasn't old, though he was certainly older than her. Not unpleasant to look at – rather pleasant, in fact, to be alone. He had ordered a red; Luciana glanced at the bottle in the Stefani’s hand as the barmaid placed it back on the shelf: a barbera. A good one, too. He didn’t seem overly impressed, however. Luciana moved from behind the bar and approached him from the customer side, holding her hand up as she saw Stefani take a step toward the man. She would handle this.

“Not to your taste?” Luciana asked in her native tongue – knowing full well that he hadn’t yet taken a sip – and leant her forearm on the bar, all the better to look at him from this closer proximity. “Cherry and blackberry, a hint of vanilla.” She offered him a demure smile, “If you would prefer something else…” she trailed off.

Isabella would have loved it here. All the plants, especially. He couldn't help himself but to think of her tonight, even as he conversed with the bartender about wines. She'd always wanted to see the Costello vineyard as well. But he'd never taken the time to bring her. He'd been working of course, so caught up in himself, and the business, that he hadn't bothered to so much as take a weekend portkey or even a day trip with her.

Iago’s attention turned elsewhere, grateful for the sudden distraction, when he was spoken to in italian by a young woman. She wasn’t dressed like the others, in perfectly pressed uniforms and well tailored clothing. No, her level of refinement was a step above, probably several steps above. So she was important. Manager perhaps? It wouldn’t be unusual, she looked to be no older then Lara had been when she’d taken over the Wilted Rose. another thing they’d lost in the fire. No, she looked like a Bertinelli. The familial resemblance was strong, and Iago was well aware of the ties this bar had to a certain family. It didn’t bother him any, as he paid his protection fees like other sensible businesses in Neroli, and even did business with them. Since Rosewood imports handled the Costello wines, obviously more business then he realized.

“And dry as my sense of humor.” he murmured, smiling at her softly, before shaking his head. “No, signorina. It's perfectly to my liking. In fact I probably sampled it at the vineyard. That year was a particularly good one as well, the rains fell right to get the flavors just so. My cousin Gaspare was immensely proud.” he hadn’t meant any offense by his reaction, and hoped that she would not take it as such. “Iago Costello.” he introduced himself, before swirling it in the glass to let it breathe a bit. “I handle all of their sales for them, though my sister tends to handle more local business.” he felt the need to clarify why he hadn’t been seen around here before, at least not by her. Any other night he might have been more drawn to the lovely brunette, but tonight he just couldn’t find it in himself to let his gaze linger on her gracious figure.

“Its simply that tonight I came here to get away from my family.” he added, with a soft chuckle. “But apparently, it would appear they’ve found a way to follow me after all.” he lifted the glass to her in a playful toast, before taking a sip. And he hadn’t been wrong. This one was indeed one of his favorites. He was pretty sure there were two or three bottles in his own wine cabinet back home. "They're good people, but sometimes in an effort to be there for family in rough times… sometimes you just need room to breathe… like a good red wine."

An accent – English, she thought, or from somewhere around there. Luciana smiled pleasantly, doing her best to be a likeable face for the business; one of many things she had learnt over the years was that, though fear was a good motivator, being seen to be fair and honourable was just as important. She was mildly surprised as the man began talking of the vineyard and the conditions that had produced this particular wine.

Ah. She smiled more genuinely now that she knew who he was. “A pleasure to meet you, Signore Costello.” She wanted to know him better – largely for selfish reasons. He, or indeed his family, might prove to be helpful in the future. She knew them to have an unproblematic relationship with her father and his business, so that was a good place to start when making ‘friends’. Luciana signalled at Stefani for a second glass, “Do you mind?” She waited for his response, then took a seat next to him – hoisting herself up onto the stool as gracefully as possible. She held her hand out to shake his, “Luciana Bertinelli.”

A soft smirk stretched across her full lips. “I know that feeling,” she confided in him; she was curious, however, why he would have need to escape from his family. Could he not just demand they leave him alone? He was a man, after all. People had to listen to him.

Stefani placed the glass in front of Luciana and the Italian witch picked it up, inhaling softly before taking a sip of her own. “Mm,” it was a good red. Not her favourite, but she wouldn’t have stocked it if it had been poor quality or finish. “Good people,” she repeated, wondering what he meant by that. Her family were certainly not good people, but they did have a code and they looked after their own. “Well, you are welcome to breathe here for as long as you like,” she smiled, “but perhaps we ought to talk about something other than family, or business – the two are the same thing for us both, I think.”

One of the waitresses brought forth the antipasto board, featuring salumi, cheeses, and some other complimentary nibbles. “How long have you lived in Neroli, Signore Costello?”

“I will certainly not object to company.” Iago knew from both personal experience and from Lara’s reports from the Wilted Rose that men who drank alone were either drunks, or trying to get laid and bothering female customers. He might have joked about that out loud, but the last part had been him ten years ago, and he didn’t want to give her a reason to think of him as either. He wasn’t that sort of man anymore… much. Granted he wouldn’t mind finding a woman to share some late night company of a different sort, but not tonight. Not this week. It could not have been further from his mind as she sat down beside him, gesturing for the bartender to bring her a glass as well.

It was unsurprising that someone from her family, much less a woman, would find herself understanding the feeling of being crowded by family. Gabriella had that problem, though Lara less so. She simply just told them all to mind their own business or disappeared for days on end, insisting upon her return that she was grown and didn’t need a minder. But Lara always had that way about her, better then even he did. “Good people, and good vinters” he echoed with a smile as she repeated part of what he had previously said, even as she took a sip of her wine.

He let out a soft, if not melancholy chuckle at her suggestion. “Yes… that subject as it were, would be a good one to avoid for us both.” he answered with a faint smile. “I came here October of 1998… so almost exactly four years ago.” but the whys of that involved far too much of the subjects they had both just agreed to avoid. “I can see why...” he wouldn’t bring up his family again. “Everyone I speak to loves this place so much. It is perhaps one of the more beautiful places that I have ever lived.” and unable to help himself, he could not help but inject a little deprecating humor about his own country. “Then again, any place that doesn’t have England’s miserable weather is going to be nicer.” but it wasn’t just that. There was a sense of history and culture here, a wizarding culture, not constantly in spaces shared by muggles. He could walk down the streets and not have to hide who he was like in other parts of the world, where to get from one area to another you often had to pass through the non magical parts of the city. And little vitriol towards him or his family, even from those that knew the name Moriarty and recognised him as such. “Though there are times I miss it, despite that.” and everything else that had flitted through his mind as he picked at the board.

“Have you ever been to England, Signorina?” he asked, curious if she did much traveling, even if just to make conversation. He assumed she had at least been to France, considering that was where Beauxbatons was located. And if things could not be sorted out, where his children might end up attending. But at least now, matters were being looked into.

The Italian witch had perhaps been bold to presume he wouldn’t say no, but as he proved her right she felt vindicated in her assumption. She smiled, “They are some of our more popular wines.” Probably shouldn't admit that she preferred a different kind of red, he didn't need to know.

She frowned the tiniest amount, scrutinising him. “Four years,” Luciana rolled her lips softly. She’d only been out of Beauxbatons for two (and a half), and suddenly she found herself wondering how much older he was, and indeed why he’d chosen to move here – other than Neroli being far superior to anywhere in England. Questions for later, she felt. Her smile grew wider as he praised her home city. “It is beautiful,” she nodded, allowing half a laugh to escape her full lips as he mentioned the English weather. “I have heard it’s…” she pulled a sympathetic face, rather than say ‘awful’ out loud, and laughed a little more. The brunette lifted her wine glass to her lips and took a slow sip. “Have you lived many places, Signore Costello?”

Luciana lowered her glass, placing it back on the bar and folding her hands. “I have never lived anywhere else – except Beauxbatons, of course.” She pushed her hair over her shoulder and shrugged, “I cannot imagine living anywhere without magic.” It was obvious that she meant in a settlement that wasn’t exclusively witches and wizards.

“I’ve been,” she admitted. “Only to London, though.” She wasn’t entirely convinced there was much in England that would interest her outside London, if that was supposed to be their best city. She tried to think how to offer her opinion on the place without potentially offending him – she didn't know where exactly he was from yet. “It was... busy.” And so very different to what she had grown up with; Luciana had lived in Neroli her whole life, in a magical city with no contact with the muggle world. Beauxbatons and Chatoeil had been more of the same. If she had had much interaction with muggles as a child (if any) she didn’t recall. Perhaps that was why she didn’t find them overly interesting.

The Italian tilted her head and rested it on her fist, elbow on the bar, still gazing at him with interest. “If I was to go back, not to London, where would you recommend?”

Her question made the welshman think, before shaking his head. “Three. Four if you count Hogwarts. Wales in my childhood and youth, London when I began to take over parts of my father’s business, and Neroli.” Neroli when it had all crashed down around him. But there was no need to drag the conversation down. “But I spent time in France, other parts of Wales, the Costello Vineyard… I went to Bulgaria and Russia with my father on business a few times.”  not that he’d paid too much attention other then the women. He didn’t need to speak the language to flirt. It amazed him how much had changed, even about himself. And it was for the best, he couldn’t help but feel. Definitely for the best. “That is one of the things I love about Neroli… but as much as, in theory, I prefer the culture, the climate, the… everything… I still miss home.”

Iago nodded when she had admitted to only having visiting london. “It depends on whether or not you prefer a city, or if you enjoy visiting more natural settings. My sister and I used to take long rides up the coast of Wales on horseback. She was good at knowing where to go to avoid muggles.” It was one of the few times that he and gabriella had actually spent time together. But, he realized slowly, that he really couldn’t think of anything. “There’s of course a huge focus on quidditch there...so many teams...” he let out a soft laugh. “I’m not doing a very good job of talking up my home...” he grinned, helping himself to some of the meats on the tray. “You’re probably wondering why I want to go back there so badly if i can’t think of anywhere good to recommend.”

“But I used to be the sort of man that young women’s father’s warn them about. I was more interested in who I could meet then where I was meeting them.” shrugs, almost unable to believe he’s admitting that. “Fortunately for everyone around me, life had a funny way of smacking some sense into me.” he took a sip of his wine, realizing for the first time where he’d be if things hadn’t played out the way they had.

“You’ve been around.” She smiled, not realising the double meaning behind her words might ring true for him. Luciana had once thought she might travel more, try and live somewhere away from her family, but found she suited Italy – Neroli, specifically – much better than anywhere else she had been. It was far easier to be the big fish than the little fish, and she liked being the big fish – or, the big fish’s daughter.

“I like both,” she admitted, “when the city looks like Neroli, at least.” The brunette smirked. “It feels more like a garden, London was very…” she shrugged one shoulder, pulling a face. “Grey. Not enough green,” she gestured around the room, at the lush plants hanging from the ceiling. Neroli itself was much the same; there were trees on almost every avenue and lane, and vines crawling up and over buildings. There was a reason she felt more at home here, over and above simply having grown up here. “Do you think you’ll ever move back?”

Luciana grinned, glad that he was becoming more talkative. Glad also that he too was the type to stay away from muggles. “Not a fan?” she asked, sipping her wine, referring to quidditch; she wasn’t one. Broomstick politics aside (how many trees had to be cut down each year for the latest broom model? Just to go a few miles per hour faster?), it just wasn’t her cup of tea. She much preferred winged horse racing.

“Oh.” Her brows knitted together, red lips stretching into a slow smirk. “Used to be, not anymore?” He answered her, in his way, and she nodded. “I have the opposite problem,” she took another drink of wine, licking her lips, “I have to warn boys about my father.” If they didn’t already know, that was. She bit her lip, wishing she’d said men not boys. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, so she was trying to convince herself. “But we said we weren’t talking about family.” She smiled again, reaching to pluck some cheese from his plate and nibble on it. “How do you spend your day?” She knew he was obviously involved – at some level – in wine, but she hadn’t come across him before so she assumed he might dabble elsewhere, too.