It had just been another quiet day at the restaurant. Most of their regulars were at work. Usually his parents took the time to rest and prepare for the evening, where they would all return.  

He always asked his parents why they didn’t move.

But his father usually dismissed it, instead telling him a story. “I almost moved that one time. But then, a tourist came, your mother made him a meal, and he paid us just enough to survive for the days.”

And so, they were still here, their shop on the main road linking it to the ferry of their small rural village. 

Frankie kept working, setting and rearranging it at all while waiting for a customer.

He heard the door open, knowing that it was a customer.

There were few customers in the summer, as few came down. They usually had more during the winter, as it was cooler.

His parents often saved for these months, or used it to improve their restaurant.

Frankie looked at who came in.

It was a young couple.

The man dressed in a white shirt, with a waistcoat, holding his coat on his hands. He was already sweating. The woman had worn a long white gown, with a simple hat.

They took a seat, scouring the menu for their choices.

Frankie had come to them once he saw a hand raised. “What would you like today?”

By the time the man finished, in the Salenzian dialect no less, they ordered eight items. Enough for a small family.

“Are you sure, Signore?” He smiled, just double checking.

They nodded, confirming his order.

His father had sent him to handle most of the customers, for he knew Salenzian and standard Itorian dialect. His parents made the food.

He had gone to the public school here, one of the few that trusted it. It had taught him both languages, and even a little Rovian.

”What would you like for the wine?”

“The finest wine in your cellar, and that would be it.” 

“It would cost thirty lire, Signore.”

He nodded, breaking into a smile.

This was going to be a profitable couple. He reached to arrange the table.

Then, the man went into his jacket, taking out one hundred dollars note. He had given a twenty-five lire tip.

He glanced at the amount. “I cannot take this much.” 

The man only smiled, insisting. “Keep the rest as a tip. Perhaps you could tell us a little about Salenzo as an exchange.”

This was around what they earned in a few days. They were wealthy, without a doubt, but why would anyone come here.

The woman was pretty, with big brown eyes and blonde wavy hair. Her nose was an aquiline that only enhanced her charm. Her husband had brown hair, and deep blue eyes, with a firm jaw, he was handsome.

There was something familiar about the two of them, Frankie looked again, but he could not remember where.

He looked at it again. But nevermind they had food to serve. 

“Are you sure you checked their order?”

“Yes, they have just given me everything. They only asked for a story in return. I don’t think it would be that bad to tell them.” 

His father took a moment to think. “Well, a story is cheap, and they’re travelers.”

“They speak in the Salenzian dialect so you can talk to them.” His father loved to do that, sometimes to travelers.

Feliciano always said that he was too old to learn the dialect. He went into the kitchen to handle the preparation of the food, despite his own reservations about asking for stories.

His mother, Calcedonia, was staring out. “What is it I hear about some generous customers?” 

She was the one who prepared everything. 

“It’s two rather special patrons in the restaurant, who are travelers. They’re generous.”

“Then, I shall do my best to impress them. Besides, they’re travelers and it’s a slow day.” 

His mother went back into the kitchen to help with the food.

Frankie went to take the cutlery, as well as two wine glasses, before setting it on the table.

“Is there any reason you’re here?”

“Just stopped by, the horses are far too tired.”

And explained why they were here in the middle of the day. The only customers in the sultry afternoon were the occasional patron who slipped in or a neighbour looking to buy something. 

“Are you from the north?” He asked.

He nodded, but he didn’t boast about it.

His wife, however, kept her smile. “I’m more interested in what goes on here.”

“I agree too.”

Frankie stared, they both had genuine curiosity. He knew when it was manufactured.

Although most ignored or never asked, Frankie didn’t mind, mostly serving them to the best of his ability.

Life was hard here, but things had gotten better, and so people continued to work.

“I think it’s been mostly the same, although there're more schools. And more have left for Rovirna or other places.”

“Why didn’t you, it’s okay if you don’t want to answer?” She asked.  

Frankie wondered too, but there were many. This was all he had known, even if he thought about moving into a better city and planned it.

For more money, a chance to give his parents a better life. He was still young, in his early twenties.

“I love this place, it’s my home. And I’m still learning from my parents, I’m still nowhere the cook that they are.” 

She acknowledged him. “I see, thank you for answering.”

He had reasons, though he did too. “I would like to move out. There’s more money to be made there, and a chance for a better life.”

“Is it more common now?” The man asked.

“The schools have been helpful a little, even if life is hard here.” 

He knew it too. He wanted to leave the town that he was from the island, but it was so hard to. 

“Is anyone demanding any money from you?” 

Frankie was a little unsure, she did not want to try this at all, this was not something he wished to reveal. “I cannot say, times are getting better.” 

“Don’t worry, it’ll be between you and me.” She gave a sweet smile.

Frankie still did not think he wanted to reveal. He had to know their reasons first.

“Is there a reason you asked?”

The man gave a smile. “We’ll let you into a little secret, look at the note.” 

Frankie agreed that this was the best way. He held it up, wondering.

There was something familiar about the face at the front. Once he had the chance to put it together, he could agree the resemblance was undeniable.

It was the face of the Queen, the most famous Queen in Itorian history. But it wasn’t the woman, but the man who bore a stronger resemblance. He had her eyes, and her nose too.

“You’re the King.” 

He put a hand over his lips, wanting to keep it quiet before shooting a look at his wife. They wanted to hide it. 

“Then, I can assure you, no harm would come to you. I want to know, because I want to help Salenzo,” the woman.

Frankie realized that if she was his wife, it was their Queen they were looking at. Queen of Salenzo, Mafalda was her name. 

She was tall, with blonde hair, unlike her husband who had dark hair, the color of brown but almost black. 

“I swear on my word.”

Frankie was more assured. Perhaps he could bring some change to this. “Sometimes, it happens.” 

He admitted it was a problem. It wasn’t excessive, never enough to eat into their profits tremendously. But neither was it a minute. It was an accepted cost of doing business.

It was to protect against theft; all had a choice, a protector who demanded upfront and protected anyone who paid, or against unknown enemies who might be worse.

Neither Frankie nor his father knew how to get out. Frankie chafed under the mafia rule, and it fueled his desire to get out.

But then, his father had told him a story once, of a regular family becoming brutally slaughtered and under the mercy of a group of attackers.

The mafia was a dog, but one that protected them once they paid the price, better than the stray dogs eager to bite anyone who looked like an excellent target. 

“It’s a problem, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

Frankie retreated, having a pizza to them. 

“Then, the only thing I can offer you is that I hope to put an end to it.” Ildibado seemed to understand their pain well enough. 

He was offering hope. Consolation perhaps.

But Frankie felt the only way was to move out of the island that he called his home.

He turned, the food should be ready by now. Their conversation had been illuminating.

“Are you talking to them?” His father, Feliciano, asked. 

“They’re travelers, mostly curious.”

His father was holding a wad of cash. The collector was coming soon. 

Frankie had served them their dishes. “Here are some of the finest cuisine in Salenzo.” 

They both took up the knife and fork, impeccable table manners. They were polite, Mafalda holding a warm smile.

Ildibado tasted a bite. “This is splendid. Who made it?” 

“My mother, she cooks most of it. If you wanted to thank her, you could go later.” 

His father cooked plenty too, but his mother was always better. Frankie aspired to be them. 

The door opened. The collector has come at last.

He moved to the counter, taking the amount, and going to collector as he was more imposing than his father, who was getting on in years. 

The collector kept his silence as he counted the money.

The man nodded before departing. 

Mafalda was looking in silence, looking to him. “Do you ever hope that this would end?” 

“Yes, I actually wanted to move out of here. Because that was the only way that it would end.”

“We hope to end that at the minimum, and second, to bring some prosperity.” Ildibado gave a smile. 

Frankie knew few cared for the rural part of Salenzo, it was a poor island, and cut off from the rest of the world with few exports or anything of value other than agriculture. Though lemons were a rather large export of the island, growing well here.

“That seems like a dream.” 

Mafalda’s eyes remained steeled. “If it is the work of a lifetime, then so be it.” 

She was the Queen of Salenzo, and this was her country. Perhaps she would, some day.

“Perhaps my parents can offer you better conversation. There’s only so much I know about Salenzo.”

They were the ones who lived throughout the revolution, and the rebuilding of Itoro. But Frankie had only known the latter.

“Later, but first, would you like to hear about the north, since you wanted to know.”

He gave a smile and took a chair to hear them.