Chapter Twenty-Six
GIO
Lucy asks me to visit the Rossi building the following morning.
She finds me in the kitchen trying to convince Angela that coffee and two pastries qualify as breakfast. Sunlight fills the western windows, turning the copper pans above the island bright enough to hurt my eyes.
Angela is already rolling dough across a floured board.
The kitchen smells like butter, coffee, and whatever she has simmering for lunch before the rest of us have finished breakfast.
“They don’t,” Angela says.
“There’s fruit in this one.”
“Jam is not fruit.”
“It began as fruit.”
Angela turns away from me.
“Lucia, please explain nutrition to him.”
“I’ve tried.”
Lucy takes the pastry from my hand and eats the corner.
I stare at her.
“Did you want something?”
She chews thoughtfully.
“This is good.”
“That was mine.”
“There’s another one.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
Angela slides a plate of eggs in front of me with enough force to make the fork jump.
“What is relevant is that you need breakfast.”
I look between them.
“You’re working together now.”
Lucy smiles.
“Clearly.”
She takes the chair across from me.
Morning light catches the loose strands of dark hair around her face. She looks more rested than she did yesterday. Not entirely rested. Shadows remain beneath her eyes, and the wedding ring turns beneath her thumb whenever her hands are still long enough for her to notice it.
She wears jeans, white sneakers, and a short-sleeved dark-green blouse. No carefully selected dress. No high heels. No clothing chosen to make her look like someone else’s possession.
That seems like progress.
“I’m going to Prince Street today,” she says.
“The Rossi building?”
She nods.
“I want to look at the upper floors again and make a list of what needs to be repaired.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“It would be more exciting if you came.”
I lower my fork.
Angela keeps her back to us, but the slight tilt of her head makes it clear she’s listening.
“You want me to come?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why?”
Lucy’s brow furrows.
“Do you need a reason?”
“No.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I wanted to hear what you’d say.”
She steals another piece of my pastry.
“I’m beginning to reconsider.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’ve eaten half my breakfast. You owe me.”
“That isn’t how invitations work.”
“It is now.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Can you be ready in an hour?”
“I’m ready now.”
Her gaze travels over my sweatpants and settles on the slippers Angela gave me last Christmas. They are dark blue, lined with fleece, and one of the few gifts I have ever received that Marco openly envies.
“No, you aren’t.”
I glance down.
“What’s wrong with this?”
“Nothing, if you’re spending the day on the sofa.”
“I look comfortable.”
“You can be comfortable in real pants.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re meeting with the contractors, and I would like them to believe at least one of us is responsible.”
“Dario will be there.”
“I said one of us.”
“Dario isn’t responsible?”
“He is. He also isn’t wearing slippers.”
“That seems unnecessarily judgmental.”
“Put on real pants, Gio.”
Angela laughs into the sink.
I point my fork at her.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I’m upstairs and dressed in twelve minutes.
Not because Lucy told me to hurry.
Because she asked me to go with her.
There’s a difference.
A black SUV waits in front of the house when I return downstairs. The morning has already turned humid. Heat shimmers faintly above the gravel, and the scent of Angela’s roses follows us from the east side of the house.
Dario stands beside the vehicle, drinking coffee from a paper cup.
“Where’s Armando?” I ask.
“Lucy chose me.”
I look at her.
Her hair is twisted into a loose knot, although the humidity has already begun pulling strands free around her face. A canvas bag hangs from one shoulder. The shape of the glass horse is visible through the fabric.
“Did she?”
“I’m less bossy,” Dario explains.
“You check the windows three times.”
“Armando checks them four.”
Lucy opens the rear door herself.
“I also chose Bruno, but he said he had somewhere else to be.”
Dario looks toward the second vehicle parked near the gates.
Bruno sits behind the wheel, pretending not to watch us.
“He’s following us,” I say.
“He claims he happened to be going into Boston.”
“Of course he does.”
Lucy smiles and slides into the SUV.
I take the seat beside her.
The drive into the city is easy. The air-conditioning hums beneath the low sound of the radio while neighborhoods pass beyond the tinted glass.
Lucy watches through the window, but she doesn’t track every car behind us. Her hands rest loosely in her lap rather than clutching the strap of her bag. When the same gray sedan remains behind us for several turns, she checks the side mirror once.
Then she recognizes Bruno behind the wheel and looks away.
She points out Saint Cecilia’s as we pass.
Then the street where she found the diner.
Landmarks from the first days of her freedom.
She speaks of them differently now.
Not as places where she hid.
As places she survived.
When we reach Prince Street, the sidewalks are already crowded. Delivery trucks idle near the curb, pedestrians weave around one another without apology, and an open restaurant door releases the smell of garlic into the warm air.
Lucy takes the building key from her pocket.
The faded lettering above the ground floor catches the morning light.
ROSSI IMPORTS.
She stands on the sidewalk and looks up.
“What do you think?”
“I think the sign needs paint.”
She gives me a look.
“You asked.”
“I meant the building.”
“It’s beautiful.”
The answer surprises her.
The brick needs cleaning. Several windows need replacing, and one drainpipe hangs at an angle that suggests it surrendered years ago. A rusted fire escape cuts across the upper floors, and the carved stone above the side entrance has gone nearly black with grime.
But the building has history.
It also belongs to her.
That makes it beautiful enough.
Dario remains downstairs with Enzo Bellini while Lucy leads me up the narrow staircase.
The building sounds different from our house.
Pipes knock behind the walls. Floorboards complain beneath our feet.
Somewhere on the second floor, a child practices the same four notes on a piano without ever reaching a fifth.
The grocery’s bells jingle below us each time someone opens the door, and the scent of coffee and cured meat follows us partway up the stairs.
Lucy shows me the occupied apartments first.
Then the empty offices.
Finally, she unlocks the room that belonged to her mother.
Nothing has changed since yesterday. Dust softens the edges of the desk. A faded scarf hangs over the chair. Filing cabinets stand against one wall, and old watermarks stain the ceiling near the windows.
The room has been abandoned for years.
It doesn’t feel empty.
Lucy opens her bag and takes out the small glass horse she found here.
She unwraps it and sets it on the desk near the window.
“My mother collected these.”
“You remember?”
“Only after I saw it.”
She picks up the horse and holds it toward the sunlight.
The glass catches what little light reaches through the dirty windows and throws a pale, distorted shape across her palm. One broken ear turns the horse’s shadow uneven.
“Memory is strange,” she says. “I spent years trying to remember her face, and what comes back is the way she dusted glass animals.”
“Small things stick.”
“Is that what you remember about your mother?”
I look around the office.
“Her singing badly in the car.”
“Angela says she was clever.”
“She was.”
“Warm.”
“Yes.”
“Stubborn.”
“Extremely.”
Lucy smiles.
“She said you came into the world screaming.”
“That sounds exaggerated.”
“And Marco looked for whoever was in charge.”
“Now that part is probably true.”
She sets the horse on the desk.
“Do you think she would have liked me?”
The question is quiet.
I don’t answer immediately.
Lucy stands behind her mother’s desk with one hand resting near the glass horse. Her posture appears casual until I look more closely. Then I see how tightly she’s holding the strap of her bag and the way her thumb presses into the worn canvas.
“She would have loved you.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I know.”
She gives me a warning look.
“Sorry.”
I move closer to the desk.
“She would’ve liked that you argue with Marco.”
“I don’t argue with him.”
“You do it constantly.”
“We disagree.”
“Loudly.”
“I do not—”
“She also would have appreciated how effectively you’ve taken control of Angela’s kitchen.”
“I haven’t taken control.”
“Angela let you season the sauce.”
“That isn’t control.”
“It’s how coups begin.”
Lucy laughs.
The sound fills the dusty office, reaching corners that probably haven’t heard laughter since her mother was here.
“She would have loved you,” I repeat.
This time, Lucy doesn’t challenge me.
We spend the next two hours walking through the building.
She carries a notebook and writes down everything she notices.
Windows.
Plumbing.
Flooring.
A crack running from the corner of one ceiling.
Electrical outlets that look old enough to have been installed by Benjamin Franklin.
I add several useful observations of my own.
A dumbwaiter that should be converted into a bar.
A wall ideally positioned for a television.
A storage room large enough for a pool table.
Lucy crosses out all three.
“What do you want to do with it?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
We stand on the top floor beneath high ceilings crossed by exposed beams. Sunlight pours through the dirty windows, illuminating dust suspended in the air. It drifts around Lucy whenever she moves, turning briefly gold before disappearing into shadow.
The room runs almost the full length of the building.
Old wooden crates have been stacked against one wall, their ROSSI IMPORTS markings faded but still visible.
Beyond the windows, rooftops crowd together in every direction.
Laundry moves from a line across the alley, bright against the weathered brick.
Farther away, the city rises above the North End in glass and steel.