Page 18 of Ricardo

“Matteo lacks vision.”

Dante comes down the stairs with one hand skimming the banister and a smile already on his face, as if the entire disaster belongs to someone else and he has only arrived to be entertained by it.

He is too much like me for my peace of mind.

Twenty-six, tall, dark-haired, and polished even in shirtsleeves, with the kind of easy confidence that makes strangers underestimate how closely he is paying attention. His jacket is gone, his cuffs are rolled to his forearms, and there is a streak of dust across one shoulder that tells me he has done at least some work before deciding supervision suited him better. He has my coloring, his mother’s eyes, and the Conti ability to look innocent while standing beside the evidence.

It worked better when he was six.

Now, it only makes me suspicious.

He reaches the bottom step, glances from me to Tomasso, then to the headless soldier visible through the open front door.

“Before anyone blames me,” Dante says, “I voted against the statue.”

Tomasso scoffs. “You abstained.”

“I abstained because I was promised it would go in the garden.”

“It is in the garden.”

“It is on the front lawn, facing the driveway like a warning to guests.”

I look at him. “And you saw no reason to call me?”

Dante gives me the same smile he has used since childhood whenever he wants me to remember I love him before I remember I am angry.

“I thought you’d appreciate the historical element.”

“I appreciate security, discretion, and furniture that does not appear stolen from a ruined empire.”

Tomasso looks offended. “It was purchased legally.”

“Yes, Zio. You should be proud that we paid money for that thing,” Matteo says sarcastically.

Dante laughs, and despite myself, I feel some of my irritation ease. He looks well here. Comfortable. More comfortable than he has lately. Here, even surrounded by boxes and bad decisions, he looks like a man trying to build a life with his cousins instead of simply waiting for instructions from his father.

I want that for him.

I also want to know why there is a mattress in the foyer.

Edoardo enters from the back hall carrying a toolbox and wearing an expression so like Lorenzo's. It always gives me a little moment. Lorenzo’s older son has his father’s beauty and his disregard for any nonsense, which makes him useful with this group.

“Zio Ricardo,” he says.

“Edoardo. What broke?”

“Define broke.”

At my look, he continues, “The banister is scratched, Alessio almost dropped a speaker through the glass door, and Tomasso’s bed frame is missing screws because he decided he knew better than the instructions.”

“They are insultingly stupid,” Tomasso says.

“They are written for people like you.”

Dante laughs.

I look around the foyer at all of them.