Page 31 of The Art of Ruin

What happened to Letty’s mother? Does the whole house always feel like it is holding its breath? Are you always this controlled because you like it, or because something made you this way?

I choose the safe one. “What does Letty call me tomorrow?”

He looks at me like he is recalibrating again. “Whatever you prefer.”

“It matters what she’s comfortable with.”

“She’ll call you Casey.”

The certainty in his voice should annoy me. Instead, I find myself believing him.

“Then Casey is fine.”

He nods.

Professional. Clean. Finished.

And yet neither of us moves.

I should stand first. I know that. I should thank him, take the folder, leave the room, close myself back into the quiet annex where nothing about him needs to matter.

Instead, I sit there for one breath too long, aware of the low light over the table, the faint scent of his aftershave beneath the lingering basil, the way his rolled sleeves reveal strong forearms and capable hands resting still against the folder.

He notices me noticing.

I know he does because something in his expression goes even quieter. So I stand. “Thank you for going through this with me,” I say. “I’ll review everything tonight.”

He rises too. “Good.”

“I’ll be ready at seven in the morning.”

“I expect so.”

There’s no warmth in it, but there’s no doubt either.

For some reason, that feels better than praise.

I take the folder and turn toward the corridor.

I expect him to dismiss me.

He doesn’t.

When I glance back, he’s still standing at the table, one hand resting on the back of his chair, attention fixed on me with the same controlled precision as before. Only now it feels less like assessment and more like something has failed to settle where he put it.

Not enough to name.

Not enough to trust.

Enough to make me look away first.

“Good night, Mr. Mancini.”

A beat.

“Adriano,” he says.

I stop. The correction is quiet, but it moves through the room anyway.