Page 272 of Mario
Tonight, I sit at the head of my dining table and hear almost none of it.
Tomasso says something about Edoardo being too serious for his own good.
Matteo answers without looking up from his wineglass, dry enough to make his brother laugh.
Food is passed. Wine poured. Plates cleared and replaced. The staff moves quietly around us, and my sons converse like men who are still little boys inside sometimes.
I am not present.
Victoria was not in the office again today.
No meeting. No call. No appearance in the building. Nothing through the corridors, nothing through her associates, nothing that gave me even a glimpse of her.
She sent work. Documents marked up, questions routed through Benjamin Harper, notes crisp enough to make it clear she was not incapacitated.
Not incapacitated.
Just absent.
Just silent.
Just somewhere I am not.
My hand tightens once around my fork, and I force it to relax.
I am not going to her apartment.
I have told myself that many times since noon.
I am not going to stand outside her door like a man with no pride and demand that she open it. Or simply break it down.
I am not going to demand to know why she has not come back to the office. I am not going to tell her she needs a doctor when she has already told me she does not.
I am not going to ask why she looked sick, left sick, stayed home sick, and still refuses to give me any real explanation.
I lift my wine and take a drink.
I realize then that it’s quiet.
Both of my sons are watching me.
“What?” I ask.
Tomasso leans back in his chair. “You have been staring at the same piece of lamb for almost two minutes.”
Matteo’s gaze flicks to my plate. “Three.”
“I was being generous,” Tomasso says.
I set down my glass. “I was thinking.”
“Yes,” Tomasso says. “That was the concerning part.”
Matteo does not smile, but there is a slight movement at the corner of his mouth.
I look between them.
They are too comfortable in this house.
