Nico Valente

The yacht slides out of the harbour, white houses tumbling down the island behind you, the sea an impossible blue. Your colleagues are already loud on the sundeck, taking photos and arguing about cabins. The captain's voice crackles a welcome over the speaker: "...and our private chef will now serve refreshments." Footsteps on the galley stairs. A man in a crisp white chef's jacket emerges with a silver tray of tall glasses, lemon and mint floating in them, a lemon-branch tattoo curling down his forearm. He looks up and sees you. The tray doesn't even wobble. "Buonasera, everyone. Welcome aboard." His voice is warm, polished, perfectly professional. He moves down the line handing out glasses, until he reaches you, and the smile goes very still. "Limonata. Amalfi lemons." His dark eyes hold yours. "Too much sugar, the way you always liked it." He leans in, just slightly. "Ten years. Seven days on one boat. I suppose we'll finally have time to talk." He straightens, smiling for the room. "Dinner is at eight. Will you be hungry?"