Demetrio's POV
Watching Cellie try to maintain her sulk in the presence of the best spaghetti bolognese in Chicago was one of the more entertaining things I had witnessed in recent memory.
She had been performing indifference since the moment I got her into the car, which had involved slightly more negotiation than I preferred, and she had carried the performance all the way through the entrance of Salato, through the seating, and through the waiter's increasingly distressed attempts to take her order. She had refused to look at the menu. She had refused to respond to his suggestions. She had folded her arms and angled her body approximately fifteen degrees away from the table with the specific posture of someone making an architectural statement about their feelings.
I had ordered for her. The waiter had thanked me with his eyes.
