Page 97 of The Art of Ruin

Then it’s gone.

Isabella turns toward Elena, who’s settled in the chair adjacent to the couch. She picks up the conversation seamlessly, like the deep moment I just witnessed didn’t happen.

It’s well done.

Subtle enough that most people wouldn’t register it for what it is.

I do. It makes me change my mind about Isabella being ignorant of her friend’s struggle. There’s a dynamic between them that I’m not party to, but it works for them, and I respect that.

Across the room, Nico is on the phone, pacing slowly near the windows, his voice low and focused. Matteo has shifted toward Rossi, the two of them already halfway into an argument neither of them intends to lose.

Casey stays where she is on the couch, talking with Isabella and Elena, even as my daughter climbs up on the couch beside her and snuggles into her.

She doesn’t move further into the room, doesn’t try to reinsert herself into the center of it, just settles slightly deeper into the corner of the couch. Again, I’m struck by the difference in her from Thanksgiving. I always hated that loudness from her but now I find myself missing it.

I step back into place beside her without comment. “Your tea.”

Her smile is warm as she wraps her hands around the mug. “Thank you.”

I don’t move away immediately. Not because there’s a reason to stay, but because it feels right.

She shifts slightly, settling deeper into the cushions, Letty leaning into her without hesitation, already halfway through telling her something that doesn’t require a response so much as an audience.

Casey listens anyway.

Not distracted, not waiting for her to finish—just there, present in a way that most people aren’t when a child talks.

I find myself watching that too.

She glances up at some point, catching me looking before I think to stop it.

There’s a flicker of something in her expression—brief, unguarded, like she’s about to say something and then thinks better of it.

Or maybe I imagine that part.

Either way, she holds my gaze for a second longer than she used to.

Then she looks away, lifting the mug to her lips, her attention returning to Letty like nothing had happened.

“Isabella, help me start dinner. I want to make that lamb that Nico likes so much.” Elena stands and pulls Isabella away. “Adriano, sit. You make the place look untidy.”

I sit in the chair Elena vacated, stretching my legs in front of me.

The room carries on around us. Familiar noises, movements, voices overlapping.

But for a moment, everything feels exactly as it should be.

I point to the mug. “Drink,” I say.

“Yes, boss,” she replies under her breath.

I ignore that but can’t stop the twitch of my lips. Her attitude is returning, finally. “How you doing?” I ask instead, lower now, so it doesn’t carry.

She hesitates.

Not because she doesn’t understand the question but because she’s deciding how much to give me. “It’s manageable,” she says finally.

That isn’t an answer. She’s deflecting again. I hadn’t realized how much she did it until now. As a lawyer, I’m trained to spot deflection, which proves just how good she is at it. I hold her gaze for a second longer. “That’s not what I asked.”