I pause again, my breath catching. Then one more.
Both subjects: behavior consistent with awareness of each other.
Chapter 7
Dante
The black Escalade is idling in the driveway when I get back from morning skate, exhaust curling into the cold air. New York plates. Of course. Vince is behind the wheel, hands at ten and two, eyes ticking between the mirrors and the front door like he's counting seconds. He doesn't look at me as I walk past, and his hands don't move from the wheel.
Marco's in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of espresso in his hand like he fucking owns the place. Charcoal overcoat open, black turtleneck underneath, our grandfather's watch catching the gray light over the sink. He lifts the mug and takes a slow sip, his eyes on me over the rim.
"Little brother." His mouth spreads into that wide, warm grin—the one he wore at my confirmation, at my first game, at Sunday dinners. "You look thin."
"I'm in season."
"You look thin." His eyes run over my shoulders, my chest, weighing what he sees, and my shoulders square automatically under the assessment. "Mamma would worry."
"Mamma worries when I sneeze."
"She called me Tuesday. Asked if you were eating. I told her I'd check."
"So this is a wellness visit."
"This is a visit." He sets the mug down. The ceramic clicks against the counter. "The wellness is a bonus."
When our father sends Marco instead of calling, the conversation requires a body in the room.
"Walk with me," he says.
We walk. Campus at midday is empty, most classes in session. A maintenance crew spreads salt along the paths, white crystals scattering across the wet pavement like broken glass. His breath leaves a thin cloud in the cold. He walks half a step ahead of me, the way our father walks, and I match the pace without thinking about it, my body falling into the old rhythm like a fucking trained reflex.
"Nice school," he says.
"You've been here before."
"I've been to the arena." His eyes drift to a stone arch connecting two academic buildings. "The campus is different."
His stride shortens. I hear the pleasantries leave his voice before the next sentence arrives, the way ice thickens on a pond.
"Papà sends his regards," he says.
"He could call."
"He did call. You didn't answer."
Two missed calls. Monday night. Wednesday morning. I saw both, and I let them ring.
"I was at practice."
"At eleven on a Wednesday?"
"Film session."
Marco stops. We're in the center of the quad, bare trees framing the walkways, branches rattling lightly in a wind that smells like coming snow. He turns to face me.
"Papà needs something moved through Providence," he says. "The books need adjusting before the quarterly review. He wants your signature on the amended filings."
"When?"
