Chapter Fourteen
Mario
By the time I get home, I have sat through a three-hour meeting, signed seven documents, taken a call from Milan, and approved a budget large enough to buy a small country.
None of it has been as difficult as leaving Victoria asleep in her bed.
I am irritated by this fact. Deeply irritated.
I have left women’s beds before.
Many times. Easily. Without regret or hesitation. Without needing to pause in the doorway and look back.
This morning, I stood and looked down at Victoria in bed and decided to wake her before leaving.
That was my mistake.
She had been warm and soft beneath the blankets, her eyes barely open. Then she reached for me, wrapped her arms around my neck, pressed those soft lips to mine, and gave me a sleepy kiss.
Then she had released me, turned back to her pillow, and promptly fallen back to sleep.
I should have left then.
Instead, I went downstairs, met Armando at the door, where he had retrieved more food and drinks.
Ridiculous.
Now I am going through the gates of home, and the memory of that kiss has followed me through every meeting, every signature, every conversation.
I walk through the front door and immediately know I have made a mistake.
The house is quiet, which isn’t unusual when Tomasso isn’t here.
But this isn’t that kind of quiet.
This is a predatory silence.
A feeling in the air.
A conspiracy.
For a moment, I consider simply turning toward the stairs and escaping.
But I’ve never been a coward and won’t start today.
I continue through the foyer, past the formal sitting room, past the dining room, toward the back of the house.
The kitchen is bright with afternoon light, the windows looking out toward the garden.
A pot of coffee sits half-full on the counter.
There are crumbs on a plate near the island and a book lying open beside it.
Matteo sits at the island in a dark sweater, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup.
Tomasso leans against the counter with his arms folded, wearing the expression of a man who has been waiting all morning for entertainment and is delighted it has finally arrived.
They look up at the same time.
Identical faces.
Identical eyes.
Very different levels of restraint.
Matteo says nothing.
Tomasso smiles.
I stop in the doorway.
“Well,” Tomasso says.
I resist the urge to sigh.
“Good afternoon,” I say.
“It is afternoon,” Tomasso agrees.
Matteo lifts his coffee. “Good afternoon, Papà.”
I look at him.
My eldest, my heir. My quiet one.
Oh, how deceiving that word can be.
Matteo is quiet the way a knife is quiet.
He simply waits until he’s close enough to slide the blade in.
Tomasso points toward him. “See? Respectful. Warm. Welcoming.”
I take a sip of coffee, set the cup down, and turn.
They look at me with identical faces, identical eyes, and one of the few times since they were children, identical meaning behind those eyes.
“All right,” I start. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Get what over with?” Tomasso says, all innocence, devilish look in his eyes. “We were simply worried about our Papà.”
“We noticed you did not come home,” Matteo says, picking up where Tomasso left off.
“We stayed up all night sick with worry,” Tomasso says.
“I’m sure,” I say, dryly.
“No call. No text. What were we to think?" Matteo says.
I regret fatherhood.
Deeply.
I look between them. “Have you both finished?”
“No,” they say in unison.
“Enough,” I say, though I am amused. “I had business.”
Tomasso’s head turns slowly toward me. His grin becomes unbearable. “All night?”
“I have had enough of this conversation.”
“It’s barely started.”
“And yet.” I pick up my coffee and turn to walk out of the kitchen.
They follow.
Like sharks scenting blood.
“So…” Matteo starts.
“No,” I say.
"You don't even know the question."
"That is the answer to every question." I walk toward my office.
“Who is she?” Matteo asks.
“No.”
"When did it happen?" Tomasso asks.
"No."
"How long has this been going on?"
"No. See?” I turn into my office, intending on shutting the door in their faces.
"Was it the lawyer?" Matteo asks quietly.
I go still.
They erupt behind me.
Tomasso slaps the wall.
Matteo starts laughing.
And I realize my mistake immediately.
Far too late.
"The lawyer," Tomasso says, delighted. "It was the lawyer."
I close my eyes.
One second.
Two.
When I open them again, I turn toward both of my sons, who look unbearably pleased with themselves.
"You are both adults."
"Correct."
"Act like it."
"No." This from Tomasso.
I can’t help but notice that his grin is identical to mine. Anna was right in that regard.
"I am considering disinheriting both of you."
“You never stay out all night,” Matteo says quietly.
“That is not true.” I stay out all night on business all the time, legitimate or otherwise.
“Fine, you never stay out all night with a woman,” Tomasso clarifies.
My amusement fades.
They’re both looking at me now with serious expressions. Even Tomasso has sobered.
Matteo studies me with that quiet, unnerving focus of his. He has always seen too much. Even as a child, he watched rooms like a grown man.
This isn’t a subject we’ve discussed before.
I haven’t been celibate since Anna passed. I’ve been with women over the years, but I’ve always been more discreet.
Any companionship I’ve sought out over the years has purely been for physical release. Maybe a little companionship from time to time.
But he’s right. I never stay overnight.
So what compelled me to stay at Victoria’s last night?
They are still assessing me.
The way sons do. The way I’ve taught them to over the years.
And because they are my sons, they know me better than anyone.
I stayed.
Not because I had to. Because I wanted to.
The realization settles over all of us.
For once, neither of them jokes.
Tomasso is the one who finally breaks the silence.
"Well."
I look at him.
A slow grin spreads across his face.
"I'm happy for you."
The words hit me hard.
Because they are sincere.
Matteo nods once.
"Me too."
I look between them.
My sons. Two grown men.
Grown men who have lived their own lives, who do not need to wait up for me or notice whether I come home, yet they do. They notice. They care.
And last night, for the first time in years, I did not come home.
Not because of business. Not because of blood. Not because of duty.
Because of a woman.
They do not ask if I am thinking of their mother.
But for one second, Anna is in the room anyway.
Not as she was at the end, lying in a pool of blood.
Before.
Laughing at our sons because they had stolen my whole face and left nothing of hers behind.
I hear her laughter so clearly for just a moment.
Then it is gone.
It always is.
No, my sons are not thinking of their mother or passing judgment on me for a moment of weakness.
They are waiting to see if I am happy.
Waiting to see if I finally found something beyond meetings and takeovers and endless work.
Something beyond the ghosts we do not discuss.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
I clear my throat.
"You are both becoming much too sentimental."
Tomasso laughs.
Matteo shakes his head.
And despite fighting it all morning, I think about Victoria sitting in her kitchen, probably ignoring my instructions and opening her laptop.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.
Tomasso immediately points.
"There."
"Papà is gone."
"He is."
I shake my head and walk into my office, firmly shutting the door behind me.
Their laughter follows me all the way to my desk.