Page 261 of Mario
He lifts one shoulder. “It happens.”
“She should have told someone,” I say.
“Perhaps she did.”
I glance toward him.
Lorenzo’s face gives me nothing.
He does not know. He is reminding me that other people exist in her life, that she has employees, colleagues, people who answer her when she reaches for them.
The reminder does not improve my mood.
She is not family. She is not mine in any way that gives me the right to follow her out of this building and demand an explanation.
But she is under my protection.
There is a difference.
Lorenzo watches me.
“Mario.”
I look at him.
His expression remains even. “At least call her before you go after her.”
My jaw tightens.
“She will not answer.”
“Then you will have your answer about whether she wants to speak to you right now.”
That is exactly why I do not want to call.
“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” Lorenzo says.
“Then go.”
He does not move.
I look at him. “What?”
“Whatever is happening, do not treat silence as defiance.”
I feel my expression harden.
He sees it and continues anyway.
“She is not one of us. She does not know how to read you yet.”
“She reads me well enough.”
“That is not what I mean.”
No, it is not, and I know it.
And because it is Lorenzo, because he is usually measured enough not to step where he does not need to, I force myself to hear it.
