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‘I really shouldn’t...’
Already her willpower was starting to crumble. Antonio fished another tumbler from the desk drawer and poured a generous measure.
‘Shouldn’t is such a dull word, don’t you think? We shouldn’t let our lives be ruled by shouldn’ts.’
‘Isn’t that an oxymoron?’
He laughed, impressed by her quick wit. ‘Exactly,’ he said, and handed her a glass. She took it, her pale, slender fingers wrapping around it as she studied him.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I suppose it depends what you mean by here.’ He took a sip of whisky, willing her to taste her own. The burn of alcohol at the back of his throat and the ensuing fire in his belly were a welcome comfort.
‘In this empty office building, late at night, drinking by yourself.’
‘I was working.’ At least he had been, until the dark memories had started crowding in, taking him over, as they did on this day every year. And so many other days, as well, if he let them.
‘Do you work here?’ She sounded disbelieving.
‘Not as such. I’ve been hired for a certain job.’
‘What’s that?’
He hesitated, because, while the takeover was common knowledge, he didn’t want to encourage gossip. But then he decided she was harmless, and she probably didn’t know anyone who worked here anyway.
‘I assess the risks involved in a corporate takeover,’ he said. ‘And try to minimise loss and damage during the hand-over of power.’
Her eyes widened. ‘This company’s being taken over?’
‘Yes.’ He cocked his head, noting her look of alarm. ‘Do you know anyone who works here?’
‘Only the other cleaners. Will...will our jobs be at risk?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Offices will always need to be cleaned.’
‘Oh.’ Her tense shoulders slumped a little in relief. ‘Good.’
‘Shall we toast to that?’ Antonio suggested lightly. ‘Yours are some of the only jobs that won’t be affected.’
‘Oh.’ Her mouth, lush and pink, turned down at the corners. ‘That’s sad.’
‘But not for you.’
‘No...’
He raised his glass. ‘Cincin.’
Slowly, so slowly, she took a sip of whisky, wrinkling her nose at the taste of the alcohol, but swallowing it without a splutter.
‘What does cincin mean?’
‘It’s a common toast in Italy.’
‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘Is that where you’re from?’
‘Guilty.’ The word sprang to his lips and soured his gut. Guilty. He was so guilty, and not simply for his heritage. For so much more. Things he could never undo. Things he could never forget, even if he tried to let himself.
‘I’ve never been to Italy.’ She sounded wistful. ‘Is it beautiful?’
