Page 130 of Mario
That was my mistake.
She had been warm and soft beneath the blankets, her eyes barely open. Then she reached for me, wrapped her arms around my neck, pressed those soft lips to mine, and gave me a sleepy kiss.
Then she had released me, turned back to her pillow, and promptly fallen back to sleep.
I should have left then.
Instead, I went downstairs, met Armando at the door, where he had retrieved more food and drinks.
Ridiculous.
Now I am going through the gates of home, and the memory of that kiss has followed me through every meeting, every signature, every conversation.
I walk through the front door and immediately know I have made a mistake.
The house is quiet, which isn’t unusual when Tomasso isn’t here.
But this isn’t that kind of quiet.
This is a predatory silence.
A feeling in the air.
A conspiracy.
For a moment, I consider simply turning toward the stairs and escaping.
But I’ve never been a coward and won’t start today.
I continue through the foyer, past the formal sitting room, past the dining room, toward the back of the house. The kitchen is bright with afternoon light, the windows looking out toward the garden. A pot of coffee sits half-full on the counter. There are crumbs on a plate near the island and a book lying open beside it.
Matteo sits at the island in a dark sweater, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup.
Tomasso leans against the counter with his arms folded, wearing the expression of a man who has been waiting all morning for entertainment and is delighted it has finally arrived.
They look up at the same time.
Identical faces.
Identical eyes.
Very different levels of restraint.
Matteo says nothing.
Tomasso smiles.
I stop in the doorway.
“Well,” Tomasso says.
I resist the urge to sigh.
“Good afternoon,” I say.
“Itisafternoon,” Tomasso agrees.
Matteo lifts his coffee. “Good afternoon, Papà.”
