Ricardo #2
“Why are you not hiring someone to do this?” I ask patiently.
“Where's the integrity in that?” Tomasso says indignantly.
Dante, from the top of the stairs, says, “I think integrity went out the window the moment you brought a headless statue onto the property.”
“Art is supposed to provoke,” Tomasso insists.
Dante points at him. “It provoked Matteo into threatening to move out before he moved in.”
“Matteo lacks vision.”
Dante comes down the stairs with one hand skimming the banister and a smile already on his face, as if the entire disaster belongs to someone else and he has only arrived to be entertained by it.
He is too much like me for my peace of mind.
Twenty-six, tall, dark-haired, and polished even in shirtsleeves, with the kind of easy confidence that makes strangers underestimate how closely he is paying attention.
His jacket is gone, his cuffs are rolled to his forearms, and there is a streak of dust across one shoulder that tells me he has done at least some work before deciding supervision suited him better.
He has my coloring, his mother’s eyes, and the Conti ability to look innocent while standing beside the evidence.
It worked better when he was six.
Now, it only makes me suspicious.
He reaches the bottom step, glances from me to Tomasso, then to the headless soldier visible through the open front door.
“Before anyone blames me,” Dante says, “I voted against the statue.”
Tomasso scoffs. “You abstained.”
“I abstained because I was promised it would go in the garden.”
“It is in the garden.”
“It is on the front lawn, facing the driveway like a warning to guests.”
I look at him. “And you saw no reason to call me?”
Dante gives me the same smile he has used since childhood whenever he wants me to remember I love him before I remember I am angry.
“I thought you’d appreciate the historical element.”
“I appreciate security, discretion, and furniture that does not appear stolen from a ruined empire.”
Tomasso looks offended. “It was purchased legally.”
“Yes, Zio. You should be proud that we paid money for that thing,” Matteo says sarcastically.
Dante laughs, and despite myself, I feel some of my irritation ease.
He looks well here. Comfortable. More comfortable than he has lately.
Here, even surrounded by boxes and bad decisions, he looks like a man trying to build a life with his cousins instead of simply waiting for instructions from his father.
I want that for him.
I also want to know why there is a mattress in the foyer.
Edoardo enters from the back hall carrying a toolbox and wearing an expression so like Lorenzo's. It always gives me a little moment. Lorenzo’s older son has his father’s beauty and his disregard for any nonsense, which makes him useful with this group.
“Zio Ricardo,” he says.
“Edoardo. What broke?”
“Define broke.”
At my look, he continues, “The banister is scratched, Alessio almost dropped a speaker through the glass door, and Tomasso’s bed frame is missing screws because he decided he knew better than the instructions.”
“They are insultingly stupid,” Tomasso says.
“They are written for people like you.”
Dante laughs.
I look around the foyer at all of them.
Matteo, too serious, with his clipboard.
Tomasso, his twin, bright-eyed and impossible, leaning against the banister, thriving in chaos.
Edoardo, steady and dry, with a toolbox in one hand and patience wearing thin.
Alessio absent, but audible somewhere nearby, which is usually the safest distance for Lorenzo’s youngest. Dante, comfortable and relaxed, which is not often for him, but I like seeing him this way.
They are grown men.
Mostly.
They are also boys I watched run through the family homes with scraped knees, loud voices, and Conti blood in their veins.
I remember Matteo and Tomasso asleep in chairs when they were small, both refusing to admit they were tired.
I remember Edoardo at five, silent and watchful beside Lorenzo after his mother died, too young to fully understand such grief.
I remember Alessio climbing furniture before he could pronounce half the things he was destroying.
I remember Dante in Naples, a baby placed in my arms after a mistake I refused to call a mistake once I saw his face.
Now they are here.
In their own home.
Together.
Together, they will irritate each other enough to survive.
Possibly.
A thud comes from above us.
Dust shakes loose from somewhere in the ceiling.
Alessio shouts, “Still fine!”
Amused, and a little more nostalgic than I want to admit, I ask, “Have you guys eaten?”
“No,” Tomasso says immediately.
Matteo looks at him. “You had half a cannoli and two espressos.”
“That’s not food.”
“That is evidence of poor judgment.”
I pull my phone from my pocket. “My treat. There’s a good Italian place near here. I’ll order enough for everyone.”
Edoardo sets the toolbox down near the wall. “My father said he was coming by later, so order more than enough.”
“Of course he is,” I say.
Matteo sighs and looks around the foyer as if already calculating chairs, plates, and damage control. “If everyone else is here, Papà will want to come too, and he’ll definitely bring Victoria. We might as well order more and make it a family dinner.”
Tomasso brightens. “First family dinner in the new house.”
“First inspection disguised as dinner,” Dante says.
“Same thing,” Tomasso says. “There will be bread to break.”
“Do not make it sound ceremonial,” Matteo says. “We are eating around boxes.”
Tomasso gestures around the foyer. “Ambience.”
“Cardboard is not ambience.”
“It is transitional ambience.”
“We’ll set something up. I'm sure Victoria will want somewhere real to sit down.”
Edoardo looks toward the ceiling. “Alessio, get your butt down here and help before you lose dessert privileges.”
“You cannot take away my dessert privileges in my own home.”
“Test me,” Edoardo says.
Behind me, Tomasso is listing foods that sound good to him. “You should order some of the veal, the eggplant. Oh, tiramisu is good. Maybe some extra pasta. Victoria is eating for, like, six these days.”
A pause, then: “Please don’t tell her I said that.”
Matteo looks at him with the tired patience of a man who has spent his entire life keeping his brother alive.
“No promises,” Dante says.
I walk away to place the order.
Once I do and walk back, the only one left in the foyer is Dante.
“Everyone left to set up some sort of table situation,” he says. “We're having a big table custom-made for nights like this, but it's not coming for a couple of weeks.”
I glance around the foyer. “A custom table?”
Dante smiles. “Matteo insisted.”
“He is his father's son.”
“He said if we’re going to have everyone here, we need a table large enough for the family. Tomasso said we could just put three tables together and call it rustic.”
“I assume Matteo did not appreciate that.”
“Matteo looked like he was going to age ten years in front of us.”
I slip my phone into my pocket and study the half-unpacked room. “This house may age all of you ten years.”
“It might,” Dante says, but he does not sound worried. “But it’s good, Papà.”
I look at him.
He leans against the bottom of the staircase, hands in his pockets, still wearing that streak of dust on his shoulder. “I know you’re not thrilled.”
“I am thrilled you chose somewhere secure.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” I agree. “It is not.”
His smile fades a little, though he still looks more amused than defensive. “We’re not trying to run wild.”
“You are five unmarried Conti men in a house with a pool, a wine cellar, and Tomasso.”
“Well, when you say it like that...”
He laughs under his breath and looks toward the sitting room, where the others are moving furniture and arguing about something I cannot quite make out. “We wanted somewhere that was ours. That’s all.”
I understand that more than I want to.
Dante has lived his whole life in my houses. In Naples and here. For a short while, we lived with my father when he fell ill. These were all places with rules already built into the walls. Places where protection and expectation are often the same thing.
“This is still family property now,” I say.
“Yes, but it’s ours.”
I look toward the open door, where the headless soldier remains on the lawn. “You have made an excellent start.”
Dante grins again. “The statue is growing on you. Admit it.”
“The statue is leaving before dinner.”
“Tomasso will mourn.”
“Tomasso will survive.”
“He’ll write a convincing speech. It’s how he got it here in the first place.”
“I’ll leave before he gives it.”
Dante laughs, and for a moment, I see the boy he used to be. Then I see the man he is becoming, and the feeling in my chest is not unpleasant, exactly. It is only sharper than I expect it to be.
He watches me for a second, his expression quieter now. “It’s good to have everyone together.”
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
“Even if we drive each other insane.”
“That part is guaranteed.”
He pushes away from the staircase and glances toward the hall. “Come on. Why don’t I give you a tour before the food gets here?”
I look once more around the foyer, at the boxes, the mattress, the statue through the open door, and my son standing in the middle of all of it as if this disaster is already home.
“All right,” I say. “Show me what else I should be concerned about.”