Page 11 of Ricardo

I think of my father saying, “You know how these things look, Julia,” as if how things look has ever been anything but a cage.

Then I think of Mario’s office. The directness. The work. The merciful absence of pity.

“I feel observed,” I say carefully. “Not managed.”

Ricardo’s eyes darken.

Not with anger. Something closer to recognition.

“Good,” he says.

I shift in my chair and reach for another document. “You make a habit of interviewing Mario’s employees while you wait?”

“No.”

“Just me, then?”

The question is too quick. Too light.

Ricardo’s smile returns, slower this time. “Just you.”

My pulse jumps.

“I’m sure that’s because I’m new,” I say.

“Is that what you are sure of?”

I look at him fully.

There is a line. I can feel it now. Thin and dangerous. He has not stepped over it. Neither have I. But we are both standing close enough to see it between us.

He is Dante’s father.

Mario’s brother.

A Conti.

A man with enough years and experience to make me feel young in a way I resent and do not entirely dislike.

I am his son’s friend.

I work for his brother.

I am still rebuilding the parts of myself Harrison chipped away at.

The parts of me he broke.

There are a dozen reasons to look away first. I do not.

“I’m sure,” I say, “that you’re very good at making people answer questions they didn’t intend on answering.”

His smile sharpens.

“And you are very good at not answering them.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“Hmm, diplomacy.”