I tense just slightly. But it’s enough. Enough for the smile to falter on my lips. Damn Tomasso. He's using his charm on my wife, and damn if I'm not affected.
I look at Liliana. She smiles politely, tilting her head. Nothing more. I study her. Does she enjoy his attention? Is it welcome? I can’t tell, and I hate that I can’t tell.
Tomasso’s phone buzzes. He glances down, frowning slightly. “Excuse me,” he says, standing. “I need to take this.”
He disappears down the hallway. I sip my wine, my gaze moving to Liliana. She's watching the door he left through, her face unreadable. She senses me watching, and turns to look at me. I hold her stare.
The heat in her eyes is maddening. She wants me too, that much I can tell. I want to drag her close and finish what we started three days ago. I want to thoroughly sate this hunger she dredges in me. Instead, I grip the table hard.
Tomasso returns a few minutes later. I study his face.
“Nothing urgent,” he says when he sees me staring. “I’ll handle it. You enjoy your evening. But I should get going. I’m expected elsewhere.”
“Your harem?” I throw the dig at him. He rolls his eyes while my mother laughs. Liliana smothers a smile.
“Enjoy the family time, Gio,” he says, his voice reeking of sarcasm.
He leans in to kiss my mother’s cheek, then gives Liliana a smile and a gentle squeeze on the shoulder before he strides out.
After he leaves, the silence breathes around us. I refill Mother’s glass. The air is still sweet with wine and garlic. I want to take Liliana upstairs. I want to touch her until every wall between us is stripped bare. I almost rise, call it a night, but my mother's voice stops me.
Her voice is calm. “I saw Emilio at Ricco Salvatore's wedding last week.”
The name snaps something inside me. I stiffen. Liliana, as though sensing it, sends a furtive glance at me, but I don't look at her.
“Who?” I ask, though I already know.
“Emilio,” she says, watching me. “Alessio’s old friend.”
Alessio’s name douses me in ice. My pulse spikes, and from my periphery, I see the room start to shrink. Not many things affect me in this life, but the memory of my brother makes me go cold.
I set my wineglass down, slower than necessary. “Mamma,” I say, the warning in my voice clear.
She ignores it. “He’s doing well. He looks older, a little tired, but he's doing well.”
I feel Liliana shift beside me. She's gone completely still. She's watching, listening.
“Mamma,” I say again, my voice deceptively calm.
She presses on firmly. “He's the same age Alessio would've been if he hadn't died,” she laughs bitterly. “He recognized me. I didn't think he would. I think he wanted to speak, but thought better of it.”
I grip the table tighter. “He shouldn’t have even looked at you. Perhaps, he's forfeiting the grace to live.” My voice is a growl.
Mother's voice softens. “Giovanni. It’s been six years. You have to let it go. They were just children. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“If I forgave every wrong done to me, I wouldn’t be Don,” I snap.
Her mouth presses into a line. “It wasn’t Emilio’s fault. Not entirely.”
“We're not talking about this, mother.”
She looks at me sadly. “Giovanni—”
“He didn’t put the rope around Alessio’s neck, no," I cut in. “But he built the silence that pushed him there. He was just sixteen. Sixteen,” I pause, the sadness almost choking the words in my throat. “I won't entertain this.”
Even now, the weight of his name tastes like rust.
Mother's gaze softens. She sighs, then she turns to Liliana, signing. “Did Giovanni tell you about Alessio?”
