32. Chapter Thirty Two #2
I fold my arms loosely. “It's not a problem.”
But he’s not done.
“What happened to Alessio was intended to hurt Lorenzo,” he says. “That made it a family matter from the beginning. You could have finished what we hired you to do when you cleared him and walked away.”
“You hired me again.”
“We did.”
“So technically, walking away would have been poor customer service.”
That earns me another flicker of amusement, but it fades quickly.
“I think you know what I mean.”
I do.
I glance toward the family room, where I can hear Alessio laughing at something.
“I'm pretty good at reading people,” Mario says. “I have a feeling about you.”
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't.
“Considering the fact that I'm in your home, I'm guessing it's a good feeling?”
“I'm not sure ‘good’ is the right word, but I wouldn't use ‘bad’ either.”
I lift a brow. “That clears things up.”
“You bend rules when you think the rules are getting in the way of the right outcome,” he says. “Sometimes you ignore them entirely. But you don’t do it for convenience, and you don’t do it carelessly.”
I study him.
Mario’s expression remains steady. “You decide what matters, then you do what you think is necessary to reach the desired outcome.”
I lift a brow. “You make me sound like a very selective criminal.”
He smiles. “I think that's the perfect way to word it.”
“Well, I guess becoming a PI was the perfect choice then, huh?”
His amusement disappears at that. “You belittle your morality to a paycheck. I don't think that's accurate. My feeling about you is that you were already looking into who hired Rachel before we hired you for it.”
I stare at him for a beat. “You really are good at reading people.”
“Yes,” he says simply.
I look toward the family room again. “I don’t like loose ends. Rachel didn’t have the resources to do everything she did on her own, and once I knew that, I wasn’t going to pretend the case was finished.”
Mario nods slowly. “Exactly.”
“That still sounds a lot like doing my job,” I say.
“No,” he says. “It sounds like you needed the truth, whether anyone was paying you for it or not.”
“I guess,” I admit.
Mario’s gaze stays on mine. “That is why I’m thanking you.”
I frown slightly.
“For putting yourself at risk for my family,” he explains.
I wave that off. “Someone broke into my office and house. At this point, I have plenty of personal motivation.”
“You are doing it again.” His tone is that same infuriating calm.
“Doing what?”
“Reducing your motives to the most convenient explanation.” He studies me for a moment. “Your office could have been untouched. Your house could have been left alone. You would still be here.”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Because he is right.
I look down the hall toward the room where everyone is gathered.
A few weeks ago, they were clients.
Complicated clients with too much money, too many secrets, and a murder accusation hanging over one of them.
Now I know them intimately. Like family.
Somewhere along the way, the distance disappeared.
“I care about them too,” I say.
Mario nods as though that answer confirms something.
Then he says, “I’m trusting you with them.”
For once, I do not have an immediate response.
He tilts his head when I don't respond. “That surprises you?”
“I have to admit that, yes, it does. You don't strike me as a man who trusts easily.”
“I don't.”
“Well,” I say, emotion welling up in me. I ruthlessly bury it. Now is not the time.
“I'm not going to insult you by pretending you don't understand the risk,” he says. “But I will ask you to have a care. Your life is on the line, and your life matters very much to someone I love.”
I hold his gaze. “His life matters very much to me too.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods.
Then he inclines his head toward the family room. “Lorenzo will be wondering why I have kept you this long.”
“His imagination is probably running wild,” I say.
We head back together.
Lorenzo is exactly where I expected him to be, standing just inside the family room with his attention fixed on the hallway.
The moment he sees us, his gaze moves over my face as though checking for evidence of whatever conversation he has imagined.
I walk toward him. “Still in one piece,” I announce.
“That's a relief,” he says.
I look toward Mario, who has already returned to the rest of the family as though he did not just throw me completely off balance. Then I look at Lorenzo again.
“Your family is very intense.”
His mouth curves. “You are only discovering this now?”
“I was distracted by the food.”
“It was good food.”
Mocha gets up from the rug and comes over, apparently realizing the evening is finally nearing its end.
I bend to rub his head. “You ready to go home?”
The word leaves my mouth before I think about it.
Home.
Lorenzo’s house.
I realize what I said a second too late.
And I know Lorenzo did too.
His eyes are on me when I straighten, but he doesn't dare speak.
“Ready to go?” he asks, then he smiles. “Home?”
“Damn you,” I whisper.
His smile grows.
I know he is going to store this away and use it against me later.
For some reason, I cannot bring myself to mind very much.
But who would I be if I didn't grumble?
“Let's just get out of here,” I say.
Rinaldi appears near the entrance a few minutes later to let Lorenzo know the vehicles are ready. Outside, the rain is still falling, visible beyond the windows in the glow from the exterior lights.
Goodbyes take longer than they should because apparently leaving a Conti gathering is a process of its own, even this late. Alessio crouches to say goodbye to Mocha, Edoardo gives him another scratch behind his ears before he can stand, and Matteo insists he should come back soon.
“You all know I come with him, right?” I ask.
Tomasso considers that. “We find that acceptable.”
I put a hand over my heart. “I’m touched.”
Eventually we make it to the front hall, where Lorenzo helps me into my coat while Mocha waits at my side.
Mario comes over before we leave.
His gaze drops to Mocha.
“I suppose he can come back.”
I grin. “Look at you.”
Mario immediately regrets speaking.
“I can withdraw the invitation.”
“No, you can’t. Mocha heard you. You'll hurt his feelings.”
Mocha looks at him.
Mario sighs.
Lorenzo laughs and opens the door.
We're not the only ones leaving, so getting to the car takes even longer as Ricardo and Julia head in another direction, and the boys in yet a third.
By the time we get into the SUV and I can drop back against the seat with a sigh, I feel like I’ve said goodbye a million times.
The SUV pulls away from Mario’s house with the second vehicle following behind us, its headlights visible through the rain-streaked rear window.
For the first few minutes, I watch the house disappear behind the trees while Rinaldi guides us toward the road. The rain has settled into a light, steady patter against the roof, soft enough that I can hear the tires moving over wet pavement beneath it.
Once we are clear of the gates, I finally let myself sink deeper into the seat.
I am exhausted.
The combination of too much food, hours of conversation, and an intensely detailed strategy meeting has caught up with me all at once.
I cannot remember the last time I spent that many consecutive hours surrounded by so many people socially, and I certainly cannot remember the last time I enjoyed it enough to forget how tiring it would be afterward.
Mocha has already surrendered to it.
He is stretched across the floor at our feet with his head resting near my shoes, apparently satisfied that his responsibilities for the evening are complete.
I shift toward Lorenzo and rest my head against his shoulder.