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As the door closed behind the maid, Rachel sat down with Michael in the blue velvet upholstered chair, and sighed, flattened. It had been quite the morning. Her head was spinning. She closed her eyes, and didn’t open them until the knock at her door woke her.
Glancing down at Michael, she saw that he, too, was sleeping. She smiled a little and carefully rose, opening the door for Anna, who had brought her a lunch tray.
Anna positioned the tray on the small table next to the blue chair, shifting the small plates of crostini topped with truffle-laced cheese, prosciutto and whipped salted cod forward, leaving the bowl of salad behind, before opening the bottle of fizzy water and filling a glass for Rachel. “Thank you,” Rachel said gratefully.
Gio entered the room as Anna slipped out. He was carrying Michael’s diaper bag and he placed it on the foot of the bed.
Rachel was between bites. She slowly set the toast down and just looked at Gio, who seemed impossibly tall and imposing.
“Do you need anything?” he asked gruffly.
“I’m fine,” she answered, giving a strained smile. “I’ve gotten quite adept at eating one-handed.” But just then Michael shifted, stretching, and slid across her chest. She readjusted him and grimaced. “Perhaps adept isn’t the right word, but we get by.”
Giovanni’s forehead creased. “Have you really had no help?”
“Friends will sometimes pop by, and when they do, I practically shove Michael into their arms before dashing off to shower and shampoo my hair.”
“If I was one of your friends, I don’t think I’d stop by very often.”
She grinned ruefully. “They don’t, not anymore. I think they’ve all realized I’ll just put them to work...and then I’ll disappear.”
He stood in front of her, looking down at her, a crease between his strong black brows. “He looks very much like Antonio,” he said after a long moment.
“I wondered,” she answered.
Another uncomfortable beat of silence passed. “Hand him to me. My arms work, and you can eat.”
* * *
Giovanni didn’t have a lot of experience with babies. He hadn’t thought about being a father since he ended his engagement to Adelisa. But seeing Michael nestle against Rachel’s breast stirred something within him.
Love. Longing. Pain.
Not for his own children, but for this baby. Antonio’s son.
He missed Antonio. He missed his best friend. Antonio had been warmth and humor, wit and charm. He’d balanced Gio and provided perspective. Just seeing the baby—Antonio’s baby—made the grief more acute. Maybe it was because the baby also made Antonio real again.
In Michael, Antonio still lived.
Gio took the baby from Rachel and awkwardly settled him on his shoulder. Michael fussed a little, and then relaxed, back asleep.
The small body was warm. The infant’s hand flexed and relaxed against Gio’s neck. The feel of Michael’s tiny fingers made the air trap in his lungs. His chest tightened—more sensation, more uncomfortable sensation.
Even without a DNA test, Giovanni was increasingly certain that Michael was Antonio’s. There was definitely something in the baby boy’s face that reminded him of the Marcellos, and not just because the infant had a thatch of jet-black hair and the dark bright eyes. The six-month-old had a habit of pulling his brows, frowning in concentration, making himself look like a world-weary old man. It was something Antonio had always done, even as a very young child. He’d focus intently, thinking whatever he was thinking, and then when satisfied he’d smile.
The smile was Antonio.
The frown was Antonio.
Which meant, Michael belonged here in Venice. The Marcellos were Venetian. They didn’t grow up in America, much less on the West Coast in a city like Seattle.
“Won’t you miss him if you return to work?” Gio asked quietly.
“Yes,” she answered, looking unhappy.
“Then stay home with him.”
“But I have bills—”
