Maybe.
Eventually.
Not this morning.
I keep walking.
My feet are silent against the runner, which is probably a mercy because if anyone catches me lingering outside Adrian’s room, I may simply throw myself down the stairs to avoid the conversation.
The thought is absurd enough that I almost laugh, but the sound gets caught somewhere under my ribs.
Downstairs, the house is obviously no longer asleep.
The closer I get to the kitchen, the more I hear. Voices, life. The opening and closing of cabinet doors, the soft clink of mugs. A baby making a small unhappy noise, then settling again. Someone murmuring in Italian. The smell of coffee grows stronger with every step.
Coffee.
That is all I need.
A cup of coffee. Maybe it'll be enough to restore my dignity.
I step into the kitchen.
And stop.
Because not only is the kitchen not empty.
It is completely full.
Nearly everyone seems to have gathered in Luca Conti’s kitchen as if the rest of the rooms have ceased to exist.
The large island is covered with mugs, plates, a half-cut loaf of bread, fruit, pastries, a folded newspaper no one is reading, bottles for the babies, and at least three phones lying face up.
Bianca stands at the stove in a robe and slippers, dark hair pulled back loosely, somehow looking elegant and exhausted at once. She is stirring something in a small pan while giving Giovanni a mildly amused look over her shoulder.
Vito is leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand, dark hair messy, jaw unshaven, dressed in black lounge pants and a T-shirt. In his other arm, he holds his six-month-old son, Cristiano. A mass of black hair, not yet tamed, and a face so much like Vito's that it still makes something in my chest ache every single time I see him.
He's talking to Nico about something in hushed tones.
Antonio is at the island, scrolling through something on his phone, a half-eaten croissant in front of him.
Roberto is beside him, having a conversation with Elena that no doubt has to do with legal, both of them being attorneys and all.
Luca is in his customary spot at the head of the table. He is holding one of Antonio and Elsa's twins, Elio, and feeding him a small piece of banana with a patience that belies the tension in his shoulders.
And Teresa.
She’s leaning against the far counter by the coffee maker, arms crossed, holding her own mug, watching everyone with an unnervingly calm, analytical gaze.
I am in a room full of sharks.
And I’m the one who smells like blood.
They all look up when I walk in.
The soft hum of conversation goes quiet.
Every single eye lands on me.
