Chapter Nine #2
Mauro, who had looked like a potential internal suspect across a conference table, was currently kneeling beside a little girl in a red dress attempting to repair a broken plastic bracelet with fingers better suited to holding a cigar.
Orsino's urbane menace disappeared temporarily when an elderly woman kissed his cheek and complained that he'd lost weight.
A soldier who had once broken a man's jaw for refusing a debt payment was helping one of Cesare's nephews open a stubborn bottle of soda.
Nothing here made them less dangerous.
That was the part civilians often struggled to understand.
Violence did not replace ordinary humanity. It existed beside it.
Men could love their children and kill strangers. They could argue about football, worry about blood pressure, bring flowers to a grandmother, and authorize a beating before dessert.
Contradiction required no effort when you had grown up inside it.
Isolde had not.
Taddeo stayed near her without consciously deciding to.
He realized it only after Orsino passed behind them and murmured, “If you stand any closer, she'll have to start charging rent.”
Taddeo turned his head.
Orsino continued toward the wine table with an expression of complete innocence.
Isolde had heard.
Her mouth moved faintly.
Taddeo ignored both of them.
Lelio arrived several minutes later with his wife and a bottle of red wine old enough that Cesare inspected the label before approvingly handing it to someone in the kitchen.
Lelio's attention found Isolde almost immediately, although he had the sense not to approach her until Cesare finished introducing one of his daughters.
When he finally crossed the room, his manner was warm enough to be almost paternal.
“Ms. Dacre.” He offered his hand. “Lelio Ardizzi.”
“I know.”
His brows lifted.
“Taddeo explained the hierarchy.”
Lelio glanced toward Taddeo. “Did he.”
“Apparently I needed a chart.”
“That sounds like him.” Lelio smiled as Isolde released his hand. “He does love organization.”
Taddeo stayed where he was.
Lelio's eyes flicked toward him briefly before returning to Isolde. “I am sorry about your brother.”
Her face became more guarded. “Do you know something I don't?”
“No. I meant the situation.”
“That's what everyone keeps calling it.”
Lelio accepted the correction smoothly. “Fair enough.”
Dinner was announced before the conversation could go farther.
They moved into a dining room expanded years ago by removing a wall between two smaller rooms, creating a long space with mismatched tables joined beneath white linens.
Seating looked informal if you didn't know what to look for.
Cesare sat at the center of the longest side rather than ceremonially at the head.
Orsino took the chair nearest his right.
Taddeo sat at his left. Senior capos settled within conversational distance.
Soldiers and younger relatives spread outward.
No name cards.
No obvious protocol.
Everyone still knew exactly where they belonged.
Taddeo pulled out Isolde's chair before thinking about it.
She looked at him.
He looked back.
Neither commented.
She sat beside him.
Across the table, Mauro noticed.
The older man took a slow drink of wine and said nothing, which was worse than a joke.
Food arrived in stages because Cesare's household had never believed in elegant restraint when it came to feeding people.
Platters of roasted lamb, bowls of pasta, potatoes, vegetables, bread, salad, and enough antipasti to constitute an entirely separate meal moved from hand to hand.
Conversations overlapped freely. Somebody restarted the football argument.
A woman at the far end complained about her son's university tuition.
Orsino told a story about Cesare attempting to cook when they were young and nearly setting fire to his mother's kitchen.
“That happened once,” Cesare protested while cutting lamb.
“Once was enough.”
“You've been telling the story for forty years.”
“Because it improves every time.”
Isolde laughed.
The sound caught Taddeo's attention immediately.
She looked different when she laughed without using humor as defense. Younger perhaps, or simply less guarded. He found himself watching too long and turned toward his plate before anyone else could notice.
Mauro noticed anyway.
So did Cesare.
Neither man said anything.
Cesare waited until the first wave of food had passed before addressing Isolde directly. He rested one forearm against the table, wine untouched near his hand. “I regret that Corwin placed you in this situation.”
Taddeo felt Isolde's posture change beside him.
He knew the response was coming before she opened her mouth and had enough time to consider interrupting.
He chose not to.
She tore a small piece from her bread and set the rest beside her plate. “Corwin didn't personally put me in Taddeo's car.”
The table near them quieted.
Not completely.
Enough.
Taddeo looked toward Cesare.
Cesare looked at Isolde.
For one brief second, Taddeo expected irritation. Not because Cesare required mindless deference but because very few civilians corrected him in his own dining room while half his organization sat nearby.
Then Cesare laughed.
It wasn't polite laughter. It came low and genuine enough that Orsino smiled into his glass.
“You're right,” Cesare admitted. “That part was Taddeo.”
Isolde looked toward Taddeo. “I'm glad we've established jurisdiction.”
Mauro coughed into his napkin to hide a laugh.
Taddeo continued eating.
Cesare's amusement lingered. “I understand why you're angry.”
“I'd be worried if you didn't.”
“I didn't say I expect you to forgive it.”
“That makes one of us.”
Taddeo turned toward her. “I haven't asked you to.”
“I know.”
Something passed between them that had very little to do with Cesare.
Isolde looked away first.
Conversation resumed around the table, but Taddeo remained aware of her beside him with an intensity that made ordinary things unnecessarily noticeable: the way she tucked her hair behind one ear before leaning over her plate, the soft movement of her sleeve against his when someone passed a serving bowl between them, the fact that she asked Cesare's niece about a university program and listened seriously to the answer rather than treating everyone in the room as scenery.
She was observing.
So was everyone else.
Lelio entered the conversation halfway through dinner while passing a bowl of potatoes toward Mauro. “Corwin ever talk much about waterfront development with you?”
Isolde's hand paused near her wineglass.
Taddeo looked toward Lelio.
The question wasn't inherently strange.
Not after the archive discussion.
Yet Lelio had not been present at Northglass when Isolde described Corwin's questions in detail.
“He talked about work,” she answered carefully. “Sometimes.”
“What kind of development?”
Isolde glanced at Taddeo before returning her attention to Lelio. “Why?”
Lelio spooned potatoes onto his plate. “We're trying to understand what he was looking at before he disappeared. Anything helps.”
Reasonable.
Too reasonable.
Taddeo set his fork down.
Lelio continued, “Old harbor plans? Redevelopment districts? Municipal preservation records?”
Isolde's gaze sharpened.
Taddeo's did too.
Those were unusually specific categories.
“How do you know he was looking at preservation records?” she asked.
Lelio didn't react visibly. “We've gone through his access history.”
Taddeo knew Lelio had access to portions of that history.
The answer could be true.
That did not explain why he'd chosen those details at dinner.
Isolde rested one elbow lightly against the table. “He asked me about archival materials. I don't know exactly what he wanted.”
“Did he keep copies?”