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“But you skirt the truth an awful lot, for a man who doesn’t lie.”
That much, Salvatore admits to.
“Asking too many questions with a man like me only leads to trouble. You’ve learned that already.”
It takes a moment for me to remember when I’ve asked him anything at all. How many people have you killed? I look away from him, even the slightest allusion to that night making me uncomfortable. I push down my curiosity. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s better that I don’t know, that I decide the truth for myself. Cherry-pick whatever is easier to live with.
I take a few minutes of silence to decide my approach, the right words and the right angle. Maybe I should wait until he’s deeper into the wine. Salvatore studies me studying him over our food.
“What?” he finally asks.
Well, it’s now or never.
“You said I could have whatever I wanted, and at first, I didn’t believe you. But I’ve thought of a few more things.” His silence implies his permission. I pull the folded paper from my cleavage. His eyebrow twitches up.
“You practice that?” he asks dryly, swiping the paper from my hand.
“I don’t have pockets,” I mumble defensively. I study my food as Salvatore reads over the short list. I’m almost afraid to look him in the face.
“The kitchen,” he comments, tone unchanged. “I thought your kind was tripping over themselves to get out of there.”
“Well, it was either that or a nine to five in a corporate office. I’ll take whichever you prefer,” I counter, pitching his own tone back at him. He reads through it again, jaw tightening. I can tell he doesn’t like it, that something in it is giving him pause.
“These are the things that you want?”
“Yes.”
His eyes meet mine over the top of the paper.
“You weren’t even speaking to your father before. Why start now?”
He gives voice to my own nagging doubts.
“Because…” I grimace, knowing how pathetic it sounds, “because he might be worried about me.”
Salvatore can’t hate my reasoning more than I do. I swore to cut my father out of my life.
To push him away and never let him near enough to hurt me again. But the thought of him trying desperately to get me back, to save me, not knowing how Salvatore might be keeping me…no father should have to go through that. Even a shitty one like him.
“You made me talk to him once. What’s the difference now?”
“It doesn’t serve a purpose.”
“It does for me.” I hold my ground even with Salvatore staring me down, scrutinizing me with a look that rubs like sandpaper, trying to peel away the skin to see the design underneath.
“You’d kill him if you had the chance. I’m not delusional, I know that’s how you want all this to end. And that phone call, I don’t want that to be the last thing I ever…” I bite my words off, grimacing at the thought of it. “I just need it.”
To my surprise, Salvatore nods.
“Alright,” he relents. My heart skips a couple beats. Before I can thank him, Salvatore moves on to the next line of business. “The kitchen is more difficult. We’ve already talked about this.”
“I know,” I agree, more than willing to bend on a couple things. “It was just a thought, but I didn’t really expect—”
“There’s a dining room connected to the kitchen,” he continues pointedly, “If there are meetings I can take in there, I will. You can be in the kitchen while that happens, provided you stay in my line of sight.”
I’m stunned.
I almost don’t trust it, as if Salvatore is building up my expectations just so he can topple them over. But like he said—he’s never lied to me before.
