"Nadia approved it," Matteo says.
"To Sean and Nadia," Clara says.
The room drinks.
The baby blows a small bubble at the wine.
Sofia gets downfrom her chair. Walks across the room toward Sean.
He pushes back from the table. He has the chair ready before she gets there.
She climbs in. She arranges herself with the rabbit under her chin and one knee in his ribs.
She does not ask anything.
She has already asked.
She got her answer six weeks ago at the penthouse and has been treating the answer as a fact of physics ever since.
She settles against his chest.
Across the table, the man I love is holding a five-year-old who decided he was hers six weeks ago and has been right about it every Sunday since.
After dinner,Sofia wants to be on someone’s shoulders. Specifically, very loudly, and only from Sean.
He stands up. Lifts her.
He carries her out onto the terrace.
I follow.
The Sound is dark. The boats have come in. House lights. Dock lights. The slow red blink of something a mile out that is going somewhere.
Sofia points.
"Uncle Sean. Boat."
"Yeah, kid. Boat."
"It's going home."
"Yeah," he says. "It's going home."
She rests her chin on the top of his head.
I take his free hand.
The ring is on my finger. His hand is in mine. A five-year-old is on his shoulders. The boat is going home.
"Stay," he says.
I have heard him say it twice before.
This is the third.
"Always."
I am Nadia Ferraro. I am the consigliera. I built the architecture, and I am choosing not to use it.
