Julia #2
I’m not sure what I expected. Something enormous and ostentatious, maybe. A mansion that announces power and prestige. Columns. Fountains. Too many windows. Some grand, cold place designed to impress people before they even reach the front door.
Ricardo’s house is large, yes, but it is none of those other things.
Of course, no. I don't know why I expected that. The man who raised Dante would not have a home like that.
Stone and dark wood. Low rooflines. Wide windows reflecting the storm. A long front walk bordered by hedges now beaten down by rain. Warm light glows from inside, soft against the gray afternoon.
It looks like the kind of place people actually live.
The SUV stops beneath a covered entrance, and the driver gets out first. Ricardo turns to me before opening his door.
“Wait here a moment.”
This time, I do.
This time, I do not bristle.
Maybe because I am beginning to understand the difference between being ordered and being cared for.
He steps out into the storm, opens the umbrella, then comes around to my side. The driver opens my door, and Ricardo is already there, holding the umbrella low enough to shield me from the sideways rain.
I climb out carefully.
The air is colder here. Wet leaves, stone, rain, the faint clean smell of grass. My heel slips a little on the damp pavement, and Ricardo’s hand closes around my elbow.
I feel the warmth even through my blazer.
“Thank you,” I say, looking into his eyes a moment too long.
His eyes hold mine. “Careful.”
I pull in a breath and step under the shelter with him. The front door opens before we reach it, spilling warm light across the stone.
A woman in her late fifties stands inside, silver-streaked dark hair pulled back, cardigan buttoned neatly over a black dress. She looks at Ricardo first, then me, then the storm behind us.
“Signor Ricardo,” she says, concerned.
“Sei fradicio,” she says, immediately displeased. “Te l’avevo detto stamattina che il cielo non mi piaceva.”
Ricardo answers in Italian too. “Marisa, sto bene.”
“Stai sempre bene,” she says. “Poi mi lasci il pavimento pieno d’acqua.”
I catch enough to understand she is scolding him about the floor.
But his response is what shocks me. It's not cold. It’s said with affection, softness. One that I haven't seen him use with anyone else.
Then her gaze returns to me, and she switches to English at once. “Forgive me. Come inside, miss. You must be cold.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Marisa gives me the same exasperated look she just gave Ricardo.
Ricardo’s mouth moves faintly. “This is Julia O’Brien. Julia, this is Marisa.”
Marisa’s face warms instantly. “Welcome, Miss O’Brien. Come in before you catch your death.”
“Thank you.”
I step inside, and the first thing I notice is warmth.
Not temperature, though the house is warm.
It is something else. The entry is broad but not showy, with stone floors, a long wooden table, a large mirror, and a bowl for keys that looks used rather than staged.
A runner softens the hall. There are framed photographs on the far wall, some old, some newer, mostly family from what I can see at a glance.
Men in suits. Children in summer clothes.
Someone holding a baby. A younger Dante grinning with an arm around a boy on either side of him.
This is not just a showroom.
It is a home.
It's the home that Ricardo lives in. And the home that Dante lived in until recently.
Back in Naples, I never spent time with Dante in his home. I met his father and his family, but this? Spending time in such an intimate setting?
This is different.
I stand just inside the doorway, soaked despite the umbrella, and suddenly I feel as if I have stepped past some boundary I did not know was there until I crossed it.
His office belongs to the business.
The club is an extension of that business.
But this belongs to him. Him and Dante.
The photographs on the wall. The keys in the bowl. The faint scent of food and the smoky snap of a fire that’s obviously lit in the next room.
I tighten my grip on my bag. “I don’t want to be in the way.”
Marisa makes a dismissive sound. “In this weather? Nonsense.”
Ricardo looks at me. “You are not in the way.”
The way he says it is simple. Final.
Marisa takes Ricardo’s wet umbrella and holds it out so it doesn't drip on her shoes. “I will bring towels.”
“I need a sealed courier envelope,” Ricardo says. “And Dario.”
“He is in the garage.”
“Have him come to the study.”
“Of course.”
Marisa disappears down the hall with efficient footsteps.
Ricardo turns to me. “We’ll send the documents first.”
Right. The documents. Doing something practical will help.
“Yes.” I open my bag, grateful for the task. “I have them here.”
He leads me down a hall past a sitting room with shelves, a dark green sofa, and lamps already lit against the storm.
Nothing about the house feels cold and unwelcoming.
It is masculine without being severe, expensive without being arrogant.
There are books everywhere. Real books, not decorative rows arranged by color.
A folded newspaper rests on a side table.
I think about the reading glasses perched on his nose this morning. I don't know if I can handle that image right now.
The study is at the back of the house.
Dark wood shelves. A broad desk. Two leather chairs. A window overlooking a rain-blurred garden. The room smells faintly of paper, cedar, and coffee. A fire is laid in the fireplace but unlit.
I think of how lovely it must be to work in this room with a fire snapping away on a cold, dreary afternoon.
Ricardo takes off his wet jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair.
I immediately become too aware of his shirt.
White and damp in a few places at the shoulders from the short walk between the SUV and the door.
I focus on the file.
Document. Courier. Mario.
Professional woman with task.
That is me.
A man appears at the study door within a minute. Early thirties, broad, dark-haired, wearing a rain jacket already zipped.
This must be Dario.
“You called?” he asks.
Ricardo switches into that crisp, efficient mode again. “Original consent paperwork to Mario. Direct handoff to his office. No stops. Call me when it is in his hands. Then you are dismissed from there.”