Page 286 of Mario
Matteo’s mouth curves faintly, but I realize he’s not done when he continues watching me.
“What?” I ask.
“There is something else,” he says.
Tomasso glances at him, not surprised.
Which tells me this is not spontaneous. Not entirely.
I set my wine down again. “Go on.”
Tomasso shifts in his chair, and for once, the movement is not restless. It is discomfort.
“Mamma would hate this part too.”
“What part?”
He looks around the room once, as if the answer is in the walls.
“This house,” Matteo says. “You. Alone in it.”
I go still.
“I am not alone in it,” I say carefully. “You both live here.”
Matteo’s gaze drops briefly to the table, then returns to me.
“Papà, you know wh—” Tomasso starts.
“No,” I say.
Tomasso’s mouth tightens. “Papà—”
“No.”
The word comes out harsher than I intend.
But there are limits.
There are doors newly opened tonight, and then there are rooms I have no intention of entering with my sons while my wife’s name still sits between us.
Tomasso does not retreat.
“She would not have wanted it.”
“You do not know what your mother would have wanted.”
“Yes, we do,” Matteo says quietly.
My eyes move to him.
He does not flinch.
“Mamma hated waste,” he says.
I stare at him.
Tomasso lets out a humorless little breath. “That is one way to put it.”
