13. Adriano #2
She scrolls through options slowly, her thumb pausing occasionally as she considers something before moving on.
“Have you seen this?” she asks, pointing at the screen.
I glance over. “No.”
“It’s actually good,” she says. “Not just ‘I’m bored so I’ll watch anything’ good. Properly good. It’s about this detective and his police dog, who solve crimes together on this beautiful island in the Caribbean.”
“That sounds very boring.”
“You’re very hard to convince.”
“Crime dramas are never accurate.”
She studies me for a second, then nods like she’s made a decision. “Fine. We’ll try one episode. If you hate it, we switch.”
“Fine, but if it’s trash, I’m not holding my punches just to spare your feelings.”
Casey smiles, the first one I’ve seen in a while, and I realize I missed it. That’s a problem for me. I don’t get attached, and certainly not to women who work for me and are taking care of my child.
She presses play, then settles back again, shifting slightly until she finds a position that works. I watch the adjustment without comment, noting the way she still moves carefully, just with less tension than before.
The opening scene starts, filling the quiet space with sound, and for a while, neither of us speaks.
Then, just as the camera is panning across the beautiful blue ocean of the Caribbean, she speaks.
“Do you always do that?” she asks.
“Do what?”
“Decide things like they’re negotiations,” she says, glancing at me briefly. “Everything sounds like a contract with you.”
“Almost every conversation we have in life is a negotiation of some sort.”
“That sounds exhausting, and kinda sad.”
“For you.”
“For everyone,” she corrects.
I don’t respond to that. Is she right? Is it exhausting?
A few minutes pass before she speaks again, her voice softer this time, less pointed. “What’s it like?” she asks.
I shift my attention from the screen to her. “What’s what like?”
“Being the middle one,” she says. “Between Nico and Matteo.”
The question lands differently.
Not difficult.
Just… unexpected. Nobody has ever asked me that before. We just are what we are.
I don’t answer straight away, giving her question some real thought, because I’m not entirely sure how to. It’s not something I’ve given any thought to.
“It’s… structured,” I say after a moment, the word sounding insufficient even as I use it.
She frowns slightly. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” I reply.
“No, that’s you avoiding the question in a way that sounds like an answer.”
I watch her for a second longer, weighing the effort of expanding on it against the fact that I don’t usually have to.
Casey is smart; she wasn’t lying about that, but she’s also one of the few people to call me out on things.
Mostly, people either work for me and are afraid, or have pissed me off and have a real reason to be afraid.
Neither one of those is conducive to honesty.
Except she works for me and still asked.
That earns my respect and gets her as honest an answer as I can give her.
“They’re different,” I say finally. “Nico sees the larger picture. He’s the eldest, so he was taught from a young age he’d lead us. Matteo focuses on what’s directly in front of him. There’s an easiness about him, like the weight of our name rolls off him.”
“And you?”
“I make sure neither of them encounters problems that require unnecessary correction.”
She considers that, her gaze steady on me. “That sounds like a lot of responsibility. You protect Nico and carry the weight for Matteo.”
My gaze moves to her to find her watching me. Her long dark hair is piled on her head, revealing the delicate arch of her neck. But it’s those brown eyes that keep me frozen.
There’s no pity, just understanding, as if she knows exactly what I do for my family without me ever saying.
She sees me, and that isn’t something I planned for.
In fact, I’m beginning to think Casey is something I didn’t plan for, and I always plan.
The last time I failed to plan, my daughter lost her mother.
“It’s practical.”
“It sounds like you don’t get to just exist,” she says.
The phrasing catches slightly. I don’t react to it outwardly, but I don’t dismiss it either. “Existing without purpose is an inefficient use of my time,” I say.
She exhales a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “You’re impossible,” she murmurs.
“I’ve been told.”
Her attention shifts back to the screen, but there’s something different in her expression now. Not lighter, exactly.
Just… more aware.
We fall back into silence after that, the show continuing in the background, the space between us settling into something that no longer feels like it needs to be filled.
The call comes through mid-afternoon. We’ve just finished a light lunch of cold cuts, crackers, and fruit.
Casey is resting easier this afternoon, and the relief is intense.
I’ve gone back to working on my laptop. Being so close to her on the bed was making me forget who I was and what we were.
Boundaries are already in tatters; crossing them even more would be a disaster.
So when she fell asleep on me, and I had to fight the urge to wrap my arms around her, I moved.
Gently easing her to her pillow and shifting back to the chair.
Letty.
Her name flashes across the screen, and I answer it without hesitation, shifting the laptop aside as I do.
“Daddy,” she says immediately, her face filling the screen, bright and animated in a way that suggests she’s already entirely settled in.
“Are you behaving?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, which is the answer I expected.
Behind her, I can see movement—Nico, Isabella, Matteo, all waving. Voices talking over each other in that familiar way we have when we all get together. I miss them, but I know I never could have left Casey like this and lived with myself.
“There’s snow,” she continues, turning the phone abruptly to show me, the camera angle uneven and unnecessary.
“I assumed there would be.”
“It’s a lot of snow.”
“That was also expected.”
She grins at that, then shifts the phone back, settling it closer to her face. “Are you coming tomorrow?” she asks.
“Yes.”
That seems to satisfy her.
She continues talking, filling the space easily, moving from one topic to the next without pause, and I listen, responding where necessary, letting the conversation settle into something familiar.
From the corner of my eye, I’m aware of movement on the bed.
Casey has turned slightly, not toward the call but not away from it either, her attention clearly following the conversation even if she isn’t part of it.
At one point, Letty says something that doesn’t entirely make sense, and I correct her automatically.
Casey smiles. It’s small, brief, but real.
She doesn’t realize I’ve noticed it.
That’s the part that holds my attention longer than it should.
The ease of it.
The way it isn’t forced.
I find myself wanting to see it over and over again. To share these quiet moments of joy about something silly my daughter says, with someone in an intimate way.
I finish the call, letting Letty go when she inevitably gets distracted by something else, and set the phone down without drawing attention to the fact that the room feels different now.
Quieter again.
But not in the same way as before.
“You’re very deliberate with her,” Casey says after a moment, her voice quieter now, less observational and more… considered.
I look up from the screen. “Deliberate?”
“With Letty,” she clarifies, shifting slightly against the cushions. “The way you talk to her. The way you correct her without making her feel like she’s done something wrong.”
“She responds better that way,” I say finally.
“That’s not the point,” she replies, her gaze steady on me. “Most people don’t take the time to figure that out.”
“Most people create unnecessary problems by not being consistent or paying attention.”
She huffs a quiet breath at that, something almost like a laugh. “See, that,” she says, gesturing faintly toward me, “is exactly what I mean. You make it sound like a system.”
“It is a system.”
“She’s not a system.”
“No,” I agree. “She’s a variable within it.”
That earns me a look.
A proper one this time.
“You hear yourself, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t think that’s… a little terrifying?”
“It’s effective.”
She studies me for a second longer, like she’s trying to decide whether I’m serious or just impossible on principle.
“She trusts you,” she says after a moment, softer now.
“As she should. I’d never lie to her or abuse her trust.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t think you ever would. You love her.”
“Yes.” That doesn’t cover what I feel for my daughter. I’d die for her, kill for her, burn the world down for her, but I don’t say those things.
“She feels safe with you,” Casey adds, almost like she’s saying it more to herself than to me.
“That’s non-negotiable. A child needs to feel safe more than they need to feel loved,” I reply.
Something shifts in her expression at that.
Not surprise.
Not quite disapproval.
Just… recognition.
She leans back again, adjusting the blanket slightly, her movements still careful but less guarded than before. “I think that’s why she listens to you,” she says. “Not because you expect it. Because she wants to.”
I don’t answer.
Because that isn’t something I’ve ever framed in those terms.
Later, when I bring her more tea without being asked, she doesn’t argue. When I adjust the blanket where it’s slipped too far down, she doesn’t comment, just shifts slightly to make it easier.
And when the room settles into that same quiet again, the kind that sits comfortably—she doesn’t tell me to leave.
I don’t ask if she wants me to because I don’t want the answer, and the thought of leaving her doesn’t sit well with me.
The understanding sits there without needing to be acknowledged.
Something has changed, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.