Chapter Forty
MARCO
Three weeks after the escape from Barrington, I wake with Lucia’s foot against my stomach.
Gio’s arm lies across her waist.
Mine is trapped beneath her head.
The three of us have larger bedrooms available.
We continue sleeping in Lucia’s.
She says she prefers it.
I think she likes making us uncomfortable.
Gio is on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow. One tattooed shoulder rises above the sheet.
Lucia sleeps between us, wearing one of my shirts and nothing else.
At some point during the night, she abandoned the lower half of the bed and turned sideways.
I remove her foot from my stomach.
She puts it back.
Her eyes remain closed.
“You’re awake.”
“No.”
“That answer belongs to Gio.”
“Then stop asking questions before coffee.”
Beside her, my brother makes a sound of agreement.
I move her foot again.
This time, she curls her toes around the edge of the sheet and takes it with her.
Gio rolls onto his back.
“Lucy.”
“What?”
“You stole the blanket.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re wearing Marco’s shirt.”
“His shirts are warmer.”
“They’re made of the same material as mine.”
“Perhaps it’s emotional warmth.”
Gio opens one eye and looks at me.
“I want a divorce.”
“We aren’t married.”
“Then I want one on principle.”
Lucia laughs.
The sound is still new enough in this room that I stop to listen.
She opens her eyes and finds me watching her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
Gio closes his eye again.
“He does that.”
Lucia moves closer and kisses me.
Morning breath.
Tangled hair.
One cold foot pressed against my leg.
It is the least polished kiss I’ve ever received.
It may be my favorite.
She turns and kisses Gio too.
He catches her around the waist and pulls her across his chest.
She squeals.
“Put me down.”
“You’re already lying down.”
“You know what I mean.”
I get out of bed before they begin wrestling.
This has become our routine.
Not every night.
Not always in the same room.
But often enough that I no longer wake surprised to find both of them beside me.
Gio and Lucia move together easily.
They always have.
I used to watch them from a distance and tell myself I was grateful to my brother for giving her something I couldn’t.
Now I understand that I don’t have to remain at a distance.
There is space for me too.
Lucia has made certain of it.
#
I’m in my office an hour later when the door opens without a knock.
Angela enters carrying coffee and a plate of toast.
She sets them beside my computer.
I look at the cup.
She hasn’t brought me coffee herself since the day I took Lucia back to Mikhailov.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then stop staring at it.”
“I was under the impression you were still angry with me.”
“I am.”
She moves a file away from the plate before the edge can touch the butter.
“That doesn’t mean you should starve.”
“It did for several weeks.”
“You did not starve. I sent other people.”
“I noticed.”
“I’m sure you did.”
She turns toward the door.
“Angela.”
She stops but doesn’t look back.
“I’m sorry.”
Her shoulders rise and fall with a quiet breath.
“I know you loved her when you put her in that car,” she says.
The words land harder than anger would have.
“I did.”
“That was the problem.”
“Yes.”
She turns then.
“You believed loving her made the decision yours.”
I look down at the coffee.
“I won’t make that mistake again.”
“You might.”
The answer surprises me.
Angela folds her arms.
“People promise never when they should promise to pay attention. You will make mistakes. You will frighten her. You will decide you know better because that is what you do.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I am not here to reassure you.”
“No. You rarely are.”
Her mouth almost moves.
“What matters is what you do after,” she continues. “At Barrington, you gave her the papers. You let her choose even though you were afraid she wouldn’t choose you.”
“She escaped the house herself.”
“Yes. And you brought the boat.”
For several seconds, neither of us speaks.
“I haven’t forgiven everything,” she says.
“I understand.”
“But you brought her home the right way.”
I look toward the open office door. Somewhere upstairs, Lucia laughs at something Gio says.
“She brought herself home.”
Angela nods.
“Good. You’re learning.”
She reaches for the door.
“And eat the toast before it gets cold.”
“Yes, Angela.”
She leaves without closing the door.
I pick up the coffee.
It tastes exactly the way it always has.
#
Two hours later, we’re at the Rossi building.
It smells of dust, old paper, and aging wood.
Enzo’s grocery remains open at the front of the ground floor. Customers move beneath the old painted sign while contractors measure rooms and mark sections of wall behind it. The bells above the shop door compete with footsteps, voices, and the metallic snap of measuring tapes.
Lucia stands in the rear entrance hall wearing a yellow hard hat and examining three sets of plans.
A contractor waits beside her.
I remain several feet away.
“The staircase can be restored,” he says. “But replacing it would cost less.”
“How much less?”
He gives her the figures.
Lucia looks at the stairs.
Several damaged spindles are missing, and portions of the railing have loosened from their posts. Dust covers the remaining steps, and the wood is scarred from decades of feet and years of neglect.
“What can be saved?”
“The posts. Some of the railing. Probably half the steps.”
“Then restore it.”
“It will slow the schedule.”
“By how much?”
“Two weeks. Possibly three.”
She considers that.
I know what I would do.
The staircase has no practical value beyond the function a new one would provide. Restoring it costs more and delays every phase that follows.
Lucia looks at me.
“What do you think?”
The answer is already waiting.
I make myself ask a different question.
“Why do you want to keep it?”
Her expression changes.
“My mother brought me here when I was little. Enzo said she came back a few times after Alexei died and sometimes brought me with her.”
I wait.
“I don’t remember much. Only holding her hand while we climbed the stairs.”
She looks toward them again.
“I thought the building seemed enormous.”
“Then restore it.”
The contractor makes a note.
Lucia continues studying me.
“What?”
“You asked why.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me what to do.”
“No.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“Extremely.”
Her mouth curves.
“I’m proud of you.”
“I find that patronizing.”
“It was meant to be.”
The contractor hides a smile.
Lucia returns to the plans.
The two occupied apartments on the second floor will remain untouched except for necessary plumbing and electrical work. Their rent will continue supporting the building.
The vacant third and fourth floors will become the center.
There will be private offices, a reading room, classrooms, child care, and rooms where women can meet confidentially with attorneys, counselors, and housing advocates.
The only decision Lucia made immediately was the location of her office.
She chose a room on the third floor overlooking Prince Street.
She wants to see people arriving.
I suggested the larger office on the opposite side.
She thanked me for my opinion and chose this one anyway.
The contractors have learned to ask her questions instead of looking at me.
Most of them only needed to be corrected once.
We climb the stairs.
Gio waits on the third floor with coffee and a box of pastries.
He has also been given a hard hat.
He is not wearing it.
Lucia takes the coffee from him.
“Where is your hat?”
“It interferes with my hair.”
“This is a construction site.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She puts down her coffee, takes the hat from the windowsill, and places it on his head.
He smiles at her.
“You’re very commanding.”
“Wear it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He catches her around the waist and kisses her.
The contractor reaches the third-floor landing, sees them, and stops.
Gio continues kissing her.
The man looks at me.
I gesture toward the hall.
He retreats to inspect something elsewhere.
Lucia looks after him.
“Do you think that made him uncomfortable?”
“Almost certainly.”
Gio removes the hard hat.
She takes it from him and puts it back.
I watch them argue.
There is no jealousy.
There never was.
What Lucia gives Gio is different from what she gives me.
He makes her laugh when she has forgotten how. He draws her toward the lighter parts of herself.
With me, she is quieter.
She watches.
She asks questions I don’t want to answer and waits until I answer them anyway.
I don’t want less between them.
I only want what belongs between her and me.
I’m beginning to understand there is room for both.
Lucia catches me watching.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You say that often.”
“Because you ask often.”
She comes to me.
Her hands settle against my chest.
“Are you going to kiss me, or do I need to ask Gio to make the contractor more uncomfortable?”
I bend and kiss her.
Behind us, Gio says, “I’m available if needed.”
Lucia reaches back and pushes him away without breaking the kiss.
He laughs.
This too is becoming ordinary.
Armando finds us in what will become Lucia’s office.
“The weekly reports are ready.”
Lucia looks at him.
“Matteo or Viktor?”
“Both.”
He holds the folder out to her.
Not to me.
That was her instruction.
Armando adapted faster than I did.
Lucia opens the report.
There has been no movement against the Rossi trust.
No Moretti security assigned to her.
No interference with the marriage.
No retaliation from Mikhailov.
Both agreements are holding.
For now.
“Has Viktor contacted anyone in the house?” she asks.
“No.”
“My sister?”
“Nothing we can confirm.”
Her mouth tightens.
Aniya remains the only subject no agreement has settled.
Lucia also refuses to repeat the mistakes made with her by deciding what Aniya needs before speaking to her.
It is an uncomfortable balance.
She handles it better than I would.
“Keep watching,” she says. “Nothing else unless we hear from her.”
Armando nods.
“And Matteo?”
“He made one request through Evelyn.”
“What kind of request?”
“A telephone call.”
Lucia looks down at the report.
“When?”
“He asked whether Sunday afternoon would be acceptable.”
Today is Tuesday.