Page 29 of Ruthless Daddy
He looked at me, grunted, and muscled past Tonio into the kitchen. He sniffed my bare legs once, then pressed his head against my thigh, hard enough to nearly knock me over.
Tonio grinned. “He likes you. This is good. He doesn’t like most people.”
He set the casserole dish on the counter, unwrapped it, and then, with a kind of ceremonial pride, revealed a slab of lasagna the size of a laptop. “Eat,” he said. “Pietro is worried you won’t. But Pietro about everything—he worries too much.”
I wanted to protest, but the smell hit me and my stomach growled. I took a plate, cut a corner off, and sat at the island while Tonio poured me a glass of red wine from a bottle he’d brought up.
Olimpo parked himself by my feet and, with a long, human sigh, slumped to the floor and rested his head on my instep.
Tonio watched me eat. Not in a weird way—more like he was just glad to see someone appreciate the work. The wine was good. The lasagna was better.
“You like?” he said.
I nodded, mouth full.
He looked pleased. “Good. Pietro says you are a very serious woman. But I see you are, in fact, a normal person.”
I did not know what to say to that.
Tonio shrugged. “You don’t talk, that’s fine. I can talk enough for both of us. Pietro, he does not talk either, but he listens too much, so I must make more noise.”
He poured himself a glass and drank half of it in one go. “Anyway. You are safe here. You can stay as long as you need. Pietro is very serious about this.”
Olimpo shifted, snoring lightly. How had he fallen asleep so quickly?
I said, “Thank you.”
Tonio grinned again. “Eat more. You are too skinny.”
He leaned back, looked around, then said, “I will be back tomorrow. I bring bread. And cannoli. Pietro does not remember these things, but I do.”
He left then, with the kind of suddenness that told me he did not feel the need for a goodbye. Olimpo gave me one last nudge, then followed him out, tail wagging like a flag.
Tonio grinned at me from the kitchen entryway, teeth white and even, eyes creased at the corners. “He likes you. This is good. He doesn’t like most people,” he said, nodding at the mountain of dog still leaning against my leg like we’d known each other for years. Olimpo the beast. I tried to imagine what it would take for this animal to dislike someone—a loud noise, a thrown elbow, a certain flavor of bad intent? He looked up at me, then slumped all his weight into my side, like a sandbag with opinions.
Tonio had the casserole dish out, unwrapped with exaggerated care, hands moving quick and practiced. “Eat,” he said, and it wasn’t a suggestion. He produced a spatula from nowhere and carved a perfect rectangle from the pan, sliding it onto a plate. The top bubbled with cheese and a little scorched bechamel, but underneath it was layers of noodle and sauce, the sauce darker than I was used to, almost maroon. Tonio set the plate in front of me, then went for the wine like he was on a timer. He worked the corkscrew with one hand, pouring without looking at the glass as it filled, then set the bottle down, wiped his hands on his pants, and leaned on the opposite side of the counter.
I tried the lasagna. It was hot, and the cheese stretched in perfect strands from my fork to the plate. The first bite scalded the roof of my mouth, but it was worth it. Rich, savory, the ricotta silky but not heavy. I’d had restaurant lasagna a hundred times, but this was not restaurant food. I could taste the hours in it—maybe even days. My stomach did a little flip as it realized what was happening and started to remember how to be hungry again.
“Good?” said Tonio, watching for my reaction like it was a science experiment.
“Very,” I said. He looked pleased, almost relieved.
“I’m telling you, I could eat this every day,” he said, slicing off a piece with the spatula and popping it into his mouth barehanded, shaking it a little to cool before chewing. “Pietro is worried you won’t eat, but Pietro, he worries about everything. Always has.”
Olimpo, now fully committed to his position at my feet, made a sound like a sigh, then a low whine, his tail thumping the wood floor twice. I looked down at him and then back up at Tonio. “Is he allowed people food?” I asked.
“Allowed, no. Will he get some? Yes.” Tonio bent down and offered a piece of meat to the dog, who accepted it with almost royal patience, then resumed his post as footrest-slash-bodyguard.
I ate. The wine was good, dry, not sweet, and it cut through the cheese and salt perfectly. The second glass went down faster than the first, and I felt it in the tips of my ears and my cheeks, a slow relaxation that wasn’t just about the alcohol. The apartment was the same, but it felt less like a panic room and more like a place where a person might actually want to spend time. The winter outside had turned from flat grey to the shimmer of city lights, the river reflecting a hundred scattered colors through the glass.
Tonio talked. He talked like he breathed, in long, effortless stretches. He told me about the dog—rescue, from a guy who’d tried to train him for fights, but Olimpo had been “too soft, too cuddly, not a killer, just a big idiot.” He showed me a video on his phone of the dog as a puppy, already the size of a cinderblock, tripping over his own ears. He asked me if I wanted to see photos of Pietro as a teenager, and when I hesitated, he took my phone and sent two anyway: one of a younger, grimmer Pietro in a racing singlet, standing at a finish line in the rain, and another with all three of them—Pietro, Tonio, and a third brother whose name I didn’t catch—holding up a trophy and grinning like idiots.
He filled the silence, but somehow it wasn’t oppressive. He left space for me to talk, and when I said things, he listened with total attention, like I was saying something that really mattered.
I told him about my job, as little as I could, but enough that he seemed to get it. He asked if I played piano, and when I said I used to, he said, “You should play again. That room is wasted without music.” I shrugged, not sure what to say.
He nodded at the shelves. “Do you read?”
