Page 71 of The Don’s Omega

Giulia heckles him playfully from the other side of the court, and I freeze, waiting to see how Elio handles it.

He points his racket at her and calls out, “Hey, be nice. I haven’t played since high school.”

She grins. “Excuses, excuses.”

He just laughs and shakes his head, and I relax. So long as he keeps that attitude, I think all will be well. Giulia is the perfect person to help bring him out of his shell. She’s warm and playful. So long as he doesn’t turn into an asshole on the court, she’ll match his positive energy.

By the fifth or sixth point, something starts to click with Elio. Not skill exactly, but instinct. He stops trying to murder the ball and begins watching it. His feet move faster. His shoulders loosen. He gets one return over the net, clumsy but legal, and then another that lands close enough to the line to make Giulia curse softly in Italian.

Elio’s face lights up.

The next point, Renato drops the ball just over the net, a neat little shot that should be impossible for him to reach. Elio lunges anyway. He nearly trips over his own feet, skids on the clay, and somehow gets the edge of his racket under the ball. It pops up, sailing over the net. It’s not pretty by any means, but it lands in bounds.

For one suspended second, he stares at it as if he’s performed a miracle. Then he laughs again, delighted and disbelieving.

“Did you see that?” He spins toward me, grinning, and his carefree grin does something to my gut. “I got it over.”

“I saw. Good job. Now do it again.”

“Yes, sir.” He mock salutes me.

We fall into a rhythm. I take the hard shots and let him handle the easy ones, feeding him chances to succeed, positioning myself to cover his mistakes. When he nets a ball, I tell him it’s fine, reset, try again. When he lands one, I praise him. He’s a fast learner, quicker than he gives himself credit for, and by the end of the first set he’s actually contributing, actually playing, actually part of a team with me. I can’t help feeling proud of him. He was intimidated, but he pushed through.

It occurs to me I haven’t played doubles since Adriano died. The thought surfaces unbidden and I push it down, but not before it stings. I miss my big brother. More than I let on to anyone. I looked up to him. Idolized him. When he died, I was devastated. I had to hide my intense grief because my family needed me. Needed me to step up. Needed me to take his place. I never wanted to be the don. I liked being an enforcer. But duty to my family and the syndicate called.

I drag my mind back to the game. Unfortunately, we lose the first set. We lose the second too, but closer. I thought maybe that would bother Elio, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s flushed and sweating and laughing, his hair stuck to his forehead, his earlier tension completely gone.

At one point Elio dives for a ball, misses it spectacularly, and ends up sprawled on the clay, and instead of being embarrassed he just lies there laughing up at the sky. I find myself grinning. Renato looks a little confused by Elio, but Giulia is smiling. She likes Elio, I can tell. That pleases me. Guilia knows a lot of people and she might be useful in helping Elio assimilate into our social circle.

“Are you having fun?” I ask him, offering my hand to pull him up.

“When I’m not falling on my ass, yeah.” He takes my hand and I haul him to his feet and he’s close, breathing hard, his green eyes bright. “I think I’m getting better though.”

“You’ll be giving me pointers by the end of this.”

He snorts a laugh. “Okay, that’s not happening, but I appreciate your confidence in me.”

Despite a valiant effort, we end up losing the match. But just seeing how happy Elio is, with his flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, I feel like I won. Guilia tells Elio she’d love to play with him again sometime, and he looks flattered. After the match Elio and I sit at a shaded table on the veranda and enjoy a cocktail.

Despite the fact that we lost the match, people congratulate us as if we’ve won Wimbledon. They drift over in twos and threes saying things like excellent effort and you had them worried there at the end, none of which is remotely true. Elio looks baffled the first time it happens. Then suspicious. Then, gradually, amused.

The fresh air and exercise have loosened something in him. Two hours ago, he would have gone stiff under all that attention, guarding every word as if one wrong answer might cost him his soul. Now he smiles and politely thanks them. He even plays along when one man compliments his “natural form,” despite the fact that Elio spent half the match trying not to trip over his own feet.

After a while, anytime one of the kiss-ups walks away, he catches my eye. It’s a private little look between us that makes my chest tight. The look seems to say it’s us against them. I like that. I fucking love it, in fact.

We’re having such a nice time, I order another round.

Elio leans back in his chair, cheeks pink from the booze. He lets out a long sigh. “This is so surreal.”

“What is?” I frown.

“This life. Taking time to just enjoy things.” He laughs, running his fingers through his damp hair. “Just a few weeks ago I was serving drinks in a dive bar, and now I’m being served lemon drop martinis at a fancy country club.”

“Do you like this life?”

He shrugs. “I mean, it’s nice to be pampered.”

There’s a but buried in there somewhere. “It’s not enough for you?”