Nico, the middle child his parents never had to worry about, so he pretty much got to choose his path in life without intervention.
And Caterina, the youngest, is at once carefree, yet carrying the weight of all her older siblings.
I try not to spend too much time analyzing them. I’ll never be the type of person to just sit back and enjoy the dinner, but I can try, for Caterina’s sake.
The food is good.
Caterina may not have let Bianca take over, but she chose well. The table is filled with platters passed family-style because she wanted the evening to feel relaxed. Warm bread. Olive oil with herbs. Roasted vegetables. A rich pasta in tomato and basil that Sofia declares “fancy macaroni” and Charlotte immediately claims as her favorite food ever. Braised meat so tender it falls apart under a fork. A salad with citrus and fennel.
Wine moves around the table.
I stick to water.
Partly because I am working.
Partly because I am still recovering.
Mostly because I need my head clear.
I am aware of security at all times.
I track the front entrance through the camera feed on the slim device near my plate. I keep one ear on the faint movement outside the dining room. I know where Caterina’s staff are. I know which of my people are positioned at the gates, the rear access, the garage, and the kitchen corridor. I know where Nick’s security is supposed to be and where the overlap points are. I know the children are seated where they can be moved quickly through the service hall if needed.
As I am keenly aware, children can change a situation entirely, and I don’t plan on that being the case here.
I also maintain conversation because Caterina expects it and because refusing would draw more attention than participating.
Nick asks a reasonable question about casino security infrastructure. I answer without giving him more than he needs, then that sets him and Caterina off on a conversation about casinos, to my relief.
Then Vito asks whether my side is healed. I tell him yes. Teresa snorts softly into her glass. I ignore that. At some point, Lucia asks if my parents are still in San Antonio. I answer that my mother is. My father died when I was seventeen.
That pulls a brief silence across the table.
Teresa’s gaze softens.
Caterina’s hand brushes my thigh under the table.
A light touch. There and gone.
No one sees it.
I feel it everywhere.
Conversation resumes.
The children help. Children always do, even when they complicate every evacuation plan in existence. Sofia wants to know whether Caterina’s house has secret passages because “all big houses should.”
Charlotte asks if Adrian is a soldier. Caterina chokes on her water. Vito looks amused. Nick says, very calmly, “Charlotte.”
“What?” Charlotte asks. “He looks like one.”
“She’s not wrong,” Lucia says.
Caterina hides her smile behind her napkin.
I say, “Not anymore.”
Now Sofia studies me. “But you were?”
