Page 242 of Mario
It is still early. I know this. She may not be in the office yet. She may be preparing for her day.
That thought does not improve my mood.
I lean back in my chair and tap one finger against the armrest.
I expected more from her.
Not much. Not constant communication. I am not a boy waiting by a telephone, no matter how much my brothers would enjoy suggesting otherwise.
But something.
After Friday. After Saturday morning. After the way she looked at me in my bed, soft and sleepy and warm under my sheets.
Anything.
A knock comes at the door.
It is sharp and controlled.
So not Victoria.
My mood cools into the familiar professional.
“Avanti.”
The door opens, and Dante steps inside.
Julia O’Brien is with him.
My memories of her from years ago as a carefree college student, running into trouble with my nephew, plus the more recent photos of her, polished and composed, running charity events, attending political dinners, merge, yet… the picture I get isn’t quite what I was expecting.
At twenty-five, she hasn’t changed much physically. Red hair worn smooth and neat, green eyes, pale skin, freckles dusted lightly over the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks. Irish-American, unmistakably.
Polished and sophisticated, yes. She wears navy. Simple yet expensive. Conservative enough for an interview, tailored enough to tell me she knows exactly how she looks when she walks into a room.
But her eyes tell a different story. There is a carefulness there beneath the polish that didn’t used to be there. Something guarded. She smiles when she is supposed to smile, stands where she is supposed to stand, offers the right amount ofconfidence without arrogance, but I can see the strain at the edges. Around her mouth. In the stillness of her hands.
In the way Dante stands half a step behind her, too close for a casual introduction and too tense for a man only bringing in an old friend for an interview.
Interesting.
“Zio Mario,” Dante says. “Julia O’Brien.”
Julia steps forward and offers her hand.
“Mr. Conti. Thank you for seeing me.”
Her voice is composed, clear, but careful. This is a woman used to speaking in rooms where every word might be repeated later by a journalist, an acquaintance, or a lawyer.
I stand and take her hand.
Firm grip. No trembling or wavering.
“Ms. O’Brien.”
“Julia is fine.”
I release her hand and gesture to the chair across from my desk.
