The corner of his mouth lifts. Almost a smile.
He almost smiled at me.
I made Dario Marchetti almost smile.
“This is... very inappropriate,” I blurt. “You making me dessert while I’m dressed like your emotionally unstable housewife.”
He doesn’t even blink. “Should I stop?”
“No. Absolutely not. If you stop, I’ll die. I’m just saying it out loud so God hears me.”
We eat in silence for a moment. The only sound is spoons against glass and my internal monologue having a complete meltdown.
“Why do you keep coming back?” he asks.
The question is quiet. Curious. Not accusatory.
I set down my spoon. Look at my hands because looking at him is too much.
“Because you need to know,” I say slowly, trying to find words for something I’ve only ever felt. “That someone thinks about you. Outside of... all the other stuff. The family stuff. The crime stuff.” I risk a glance at him.
He goes very still.
“You stayed with me,” I continue. “At the restaurant. When you should have run. You made sure I could breathe before you thought about saving yourself.” My voice cracks slightly. “No one sees me. Not really. But you did. You looked right at me and you stayed.”
“Stevie.”
“So I see you too.” I finally meet his eyes. Hold them. “Not the defendant. Not the crime family. Just Dario. Who eats pasta methodically and makes tiramisu and leaves his door unlocked.” I swallow hard. “I can’t stay away. I’ve tried. But being Beth is killing me and at least when I’m here I feel like I exist.”
The silence stretches.
He’s looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight. Like he’s seeing past the shirt and the blonde hair and the witness protection straight into something underneath.
“Why?” I ask, because I need to know. “At the restaurant. Why were you kind to me? You could have left. Should have left.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is lower than before.
“You looked at me,” he says. “Like I could be soft. Like I was still a person under the blood and reputation.” He swallows. “No one’s looked at me like that in years.”
My lungs forget how to lung.
“I’ve spent my entire life being looked at with fear,” he continues. “Suspicion. Calculation. People trying to figure out what I want from them, what I’ll do to them. But you.” He shakes his head slightly. “You looked at me like kindness was something I was capable of.”
“You were kind.”
“Because you expected me to be.” His eyes hold mine. “I couldn’t leave after that. Not when you looked at me like that.”
The band around my lungs finally gives.
“And the chocolates?” I manage.
“You sent me cookies. With an apology. Who does that? Who sees the man they saw commit a crime and thinks he needs to know I’m sorry?” The almost-smile again.
Who does that? “Someone who pays too much attention.”
“Someone who sees people,” he corrects quietly. “You see people. The real ones underneath. Most people can’t do that. Most people don’t want to.”
We sit with that for a moment. The affogato melting slowly. The kitchen warm with afternoon light.
