Page 222 of Mario
I take a bite so I do not have to answer.
He smiles into his espresso.
We talk, a little. Not about work. Not really. He asks whether I slept well, and I refuse to answer because the answer is embarrassingly obvious. I ask whether he always eats breakfast outside, and he tells me no, only when he is trying to impress difficult attorneys.
I tell him I am not difficult.
He looks at me for a long moment.
I throw a piece of crust at him.
It hits his shoulder.
He looks down at it, then back at me.
“Careful,” he says.
My stomach flips.
“Or what?”
His eyes darken.
Then he leans back in his chair, completely at ease, and lets the silence answer for him.
I suddenly become very interested in my coffee.
By the time breakfast is finished, I have almost convinced myself that I am handling all of this well.
Then he walks me back through the house and into his bedroom.
We don’t come back out for another two hours.
When we do, my dress is back on, my hair is as tamed as I can make it with my fingers. My makeup is a downright mess. I have my coat over one arm and my heels in my hand.
I am still trying to process the fact that all of this just happened.
I am not processing it very well.
At the front door, I see a bag.
It is waiting on the floor beside the entry table. Large and elegant. The kind of shopping bag that looks like it has its own tax bracket.
Mario picks it up and hands it to me.
I take it automatically.
“What is this?”
He does not answer.
That is never a good sign.
I look inside.
My eyes widen.
Boxes.
