Chapter Eleven
MARCO
I don’t mean to spy.
I happen to look out my office window and find my brother sitting with Lucia on the kitchen terrace.
Then I continue watching.
Gio gestures with half a sandwich, wearing that ridiculous grin of his. I can’t hear what he’s saying through the glass, but judging by the way his free hand moves, the story has already grown well beyond the truth.
Lucia sits with her back to me. Her dark hair has been twisted into a loose knot, revealing the long line of her neck above a pale sweater.
I can’t see her face.
I don’t need to.
She isn’t scanning the hedges. She isn’t checking the terrace doors or looking over her shoulder every few seconds. Her arms rest loosely on the table instead of folding across her body.
She’s simply eating lunch.
I lean one shoulder against the window frame.
My brother has accomplished in twenty minutes what I failed to do in a week.
It should bother me.
Instead, I’m absurdly grateful.
Our mother used to call us two peas in a pod, but I think she had it wrong. Gio and I have never been the same. We balance each other.
My brother can walk into a room and make it lighter.
I’m the one people call when the room goes dark.
Lucia’s head tilts as Gio continues his story.
Then her shoulders begin to shake.
She’s laughing.
The sound doesn’t reach me through the glass, but I can imagine it. I heard her laugh once at the hotel, briefly and with immediate surprise, as though the sound had escaped without permission.
This laughter lasts longer.
A knock draws my attention from the window.
“It’s open.”
Armando steps into the office.
“Angela wants to know if you’d like lunch.”
I return to my desk and open the file I abandoned several minutes ago.
“No, that’s all right.”
His lips press into a thin line.
“You know she’ll bring you something anyway.”
I sigh.
“Most likely.”
He turns toward the door.
“Armando?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Did Gio retrieve Lucia’s things from the hotel?”
“They were sent over earlier.”
“All of them?”
“Grace packed the room herself.”
“Good.”
He leaves, closing the door behind him.
I turn my attention to the file.
The financial report has been open to the same page for twenty minutes. I force myself through the numbers and make several notes in the margin.
The figures should require my complete attention. Instead, I find myself looking toward the empty terrace whenever the leaves move beyond the window.
Half an hour later, my office door opens without a knock.
Angela enters carrying a tray.
I look up.
“Don’t you ever knock?”
“When you start remembering to eat, I’ll start remembering to knock.”
She sets the tray on the edge of my desk.
A turkey sandwich. Potato chips. Coffee.
The same lunch she made for everyone else.
I’m more grateful for that than I should be.
“Thank you.”
“That’s more like it.”
She turns toward the door but stops before reaching it.
I wait.
Angela has never needed much encouragement to say what she came to say.
“Something else?”
“I found our guest reading in the conservatory.”
“So?”
“So she looked comfortable.”
I glance toward the window.
The terrace is empty now. Two abandoned glasses remain on the table, along with a napkin lifting in the breeze.
“Good.”
Angela watches me for another moment, apparently expecting more.
When none comes, she reaches for the door.
“Angela.”
She looks back.
“Did she eat?”
A smile touches her mouth.
“Yes. She’s got a good appetite.”
“Good.”
Her smile deepens.
I lower my attention to the file, dismissing both her and the conversation.
The door closes.
Only then do I reach for the sandwich.
By the time dinner approaches, I know Lucia spent an hour in the conservatory, beat Gio at pool twice, returned to the library, and convinced Angela to let her help dry the dishes.
I didn’t ask for any of this information.
It reached my office anyway.
The house has been too quiet for years. Any change travels quickly, especially one involving laughter, unfamiliar footsteps, and a woman Angela has already decided needs feeding.
It sounds as though Lucia is settling in.
Gio has had a hand in that.
He’s better with people. He understands how to fill silence without making it feel crowded. I understand how to arrange security, erase records, and anticipate threats.
Both have their uses.
I’m halfway through another financial report when Gio opens my office door.
“Dinner in ten.”
I barely look up from the figures.
“Thanks. I’ll be there when I finish.”
He leans against the doorframe.
“You’re working too hard again.”
“In our business, there’s no such thing.”
“Maybe.”
He folds his arms.
“But Lucy asked whether you were joining us.”
I look up.
“Lucy?”
He shrugs.
“She seems more like a Lucy than a Lucia.”
“She introduced herself as Lucia.”
“People are allowed nicknames, Marco.”
“People usually choose their own.”
“She didn’t object.”
My sigh comes easily.
I close the file and push my computer away.
Gio straightens, apparently pleased with himself.
“Don’t let her mistake this for permanence.”
His smile fades by a fraction.
“I’m not.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Something can be temporary without being miserable.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“She deserves one day when she doesn’t have to wonder what tomorrow will look like.”
“My job is making sure she survives tomorrow.”
Gio studies me.
“Sometimes surviving tomorrow means letting someone enjoy today.”
He pushes away from the doorframe before I can answer.
“Ten minutes,” he calls.
When I enter the dining room twelve minutes later, everyone is already seated.
I stop in the doorway.
Angela has made braciole.
Not the simpler version she sometimes makes when she has other things to do. The beef has been rolled around breadcrumbs, pine nuts, and cheese, then simmered in tomato sauce long enough that the entire house smells like garlic and red wine.
A bowl of handmade gnocchi sits in the center of the table.
The good serving bowl.
Our mother’s serving bowl.
Its painted blue rim has faded with age, and one side bears a small chip from the time Gio was careless with it when we were fourteen. Angela has refused stubbornly to stop using it.
Fresh bread rests beneath a linen napkin, and the roses she cut from the conservatory sit in a low vase between the candles.
Candles.
Sunday dinners sometimes fill this room. Dario, Bruno, and Armando join us when they can, occasionally bringing members of their families with them. Angela puts serving bowls on every available surface, and no one leaves until she has tried to feed them twice.
This is Thursday.
On Thursdays, the men go home to their own families, and Angela usually leaves something Gio and I can reheat whenever we remember to stop working.
This is not an ordinary Thursday dinner.
I glance at Angela.
She lifts her chin, daring me to comment.
“Are we expecting the Pope?”
Gio chokes on his wine.
Lucia looks from me to Angela.
“Marco,” Angela warns.
“I’m only asking.”
“Sit down before the food gets cold.”
I take the empty chair across from Lucia.
She’s changed since lunch. Nothing formal—a pale-blue sweater and dark pants—but her hair is loose around her shoulders now, falling in long waves almost to the middle of her back.
The blue softens the contrast between her dark hair and light skin. In the candlelight, I can see traces of Maria Rossi in the shape of her cheekbones and the line of her brows.
The eyes are different.
Maria’s were lighter in every photograph I found. Lucia’s are dark enough to conceal whatever she doesn’t want anyone to see.
She looks comfortable.
I unfold my napkin.
“You made gnocchi.”
Angela takes her seat at the end of the table.
“I’m aware.”
“In the middle of the week.”
“Is that illegal now?”
“Not yet,” Gio says, already reaching for the bread. “But give him time.”
Angela slaps the back of his hand before he can take a piece.
“Let our guest go first.”
Lucia’s eyes widen.
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
“I do,” Angela says.
Gio pulls his hand back obediently.
Lucia glances at me as if I might explain.
I don’t.
There are some forces in this house even I know better than to challenge.
She takes a piece of bread from the basket and passes it to Gio.
“Thank you,” he says solemnly. “I was moments from starvation.”
“You had lunch four hours ago,” I tell him.
“I have a fast metabolism.”
“You had two sandwiches,” Lucia reminds him.
“And soup,” Angela adds.
Gio looks betrayed.
“I thought at least the two of you liked me.”
Lucia laughs.
The sound settles over the table.
It’s different from the cautious smiles she offered me over breakfast. This is unguarded and warm, the same laughter I watched through my office window.
I reach for the wine before anyone notices I’ve gone still.
Angela serves the braciole while Gio tells Lucia about the time he tried to make gnocchi when he was sixteen.
“I followed the recipe exactly,” he insists.
“You used a cup of salt,” I say.
“It said one cup.”
“It said one teaspoon.”
“The print was too small.”
Angela sets a plate in front of me.
“He nearly poisoned us.”
“You ate two servings.”
“I was hungry.”
Lucia looks at me.
“You ate it?”
“Our mother made us sit at the table until we finished.”
“Waste not,” Angela says.
Gio points at me with his fork.
“He cried.”
“I did not.”
“He did,” Angela confirms.
I look at her.
She smiles and takes a sip of wine.
Lucia presses her lips together, but the smile escapes anyway.
“You find this amusing?” I ask.
“A little.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Her smile falters.
Not much.
Just enough that I realize how the words sounded.
I set down my glass.
“That wasn’t meant to be a threat.”
“Okay.”
She says it quickly.
Too quickly.
Gio’s attention shifts between us, but for once, he keeps his mouth shut.
Angela passes Lucia the bowl of gnocchi.
“Eat,” she says. “You’re too thin.”
Lucia accepts another spoonful without protest.
I hide my smile behind my wineglass.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You were.”
Gio leans closer to her.
“Don’t point it out. You’ll frighten him.”
I give him a look.
He grins and tears off another piece of bread.
Lucia cuts into the braciole. It falls apart beneath her fork.
She takes a bite and closes her eyes for half a second.
Angela notices.
“Good?”
Lucia nods.
“It’s wonderful.”
The praise pleases Angela more than she lets show. She busies herself with straightening the serving spoon.
“My mother made something like this,” Lucia says. “I don’t remember much about it. Just the smell.”
The table quiets.
She looks down at her plate.
“I think she used raisins.”
“Sicilian,” Angela says. “My mother did too.”
Lucia glances up.
“She was from Palermo.”
Angela’s expression softens.
“So was mine.”
Gio smiles.
“Well, there you have it. You’re practically related.”
I look at him.
His smile fades.
Lucia’s fork stills against her plate.
Angela breaks the silence by reaching for the wine.
“Anyone who appreciates my cooking is welcome at my table,” she says.
Lucia looks at her.
Gratitude and grief move across her face so closely together that I can’t separate them.
“Thank you.”
Angela pours more wine into her glass.
“There’s tiramisu.”
Gio perks up.
“You made tiramisu?”
“Unless you keep talking.”
He closes his mouth.
Lucia laughs again.
Dinner resumes around me.
Gio reaches for the bread. Angela tells him to leave some for everyone else. Lucia asks how she made the gnocchi so light, and Angela immediately launches into an explanation about using less flour.
It’s ordinary.
That’s what makes it dangerous.
The flowers. The candles. My mother’s bowl. Lucia laughing at my brother’s stories as though she’s been sitting at this table for years instead of hours.
I look at the empty chair beside her.
It is too easy to imagine that chair occupied tomorrow. And the night after that. Too easy to imagine her book left in the library and her voice traveling through rooms that have been silent for years.
Then I look at Angela, who has prepared enough food to feed us for three days.
She catches me watching.
Her expression is calm, but I know her well enough to understand the message.
I told Gio not to let Lucia mistake this for permanence.
I get the feeling Angela disagrees.