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He nods, hesitates, and finally walks to the door and pulls it open. Pausing on the threshold, he says, “Goodnight, Sophie.”
The smile he directs at me before he leaves is different. It’s not a cruel smile given in a moment of extracting vengeance. It’s not a cold smile to emphasize his hatred. It’s not an arrogant smile that expresses his indifference. It’s a warm smile, soft and gentle, and it dislodges something in my chest. The gesture is so foreign for him that it takes me a moment to place it.
Gratitude.
It touches me a million times more profoundly than when he lays his hands on me.
Chapter
Sixteen
Angelo
* * *
At first light, I drive to Uncle Nico’s house. It’s a Mediterranean style villa on the outskirts of Bastia. When I park outside, it strikes me how seldom I visited him here. Business has always been conducted at our house. As the head of the organization, that was my father’s right. It was his brothers’ duty to show him the respect he deserved by going to him. However, I’m not thinking about the business meetings. It’s the lunches and dinners that are on my mind.
My mother often cooked for my uncles. My father invited them on a regular basis when no business was discussed. My uncles, on the other hand, never invited us for a family or social gathering, not even for a birthday. Why has it never occurred to me before?
A young woman in a housekeeper’s uniform opens the door before I reach it. Avoiding my eyes, she asks, “May I help you?”
I push her aside and enter, inviting a strangled gasp. “Tell my uncle his nephew is here.”
She scurries across the foyer and up the stairs, leaving me to close the door.
The last time I came here, the old housekeeper was still alive. She had a wrinkled face and thin white hair. I don’t recall her name. She offered me gingerbread and milk in the kitchen as if I was six instead of sixteen. The dementia was already eating her mind away then.
Pulling off my gloves, I look around. The place is just as I remember. The interior is still opulent with golden cornices and heavy tassels on the purple velvet curtains. The wooden floor of the entrance with its ebony and ivory mosaic inlay in the center is polished to a shine. The only thing absent is the smell of potpourri. The old housekeeper left bowls full of the dried and scented rose petals throughout the house. Now the space smells like vinegar.
My uncle appears on the landing dressed in a silk robe and a matching paisley cravat. Tying the belt of the robe around his waist, he says in a jovial tone that carries through the acoustic foyer, “Angelo.” The soles of his slippers slap the stairs as he makes his way down. “If I knew you were coming, I would’ve told Emilia to prepare a breakfast buffet.”
I shove off my coat. “I’ve eaten.”
He stretches out his arms when he reaches the bottom of the staircase and crosses the floor to greet me with an embrace. Patting my back, he holds me at arm’s length. “You look well.” He scrutinizes me through narrowed eyes and adds with a sly smile, “Married life seems to agree with you.”
“Where can we talk?”
He drops his arms. “This isn’t a social call?”
He knows damn well I won’t ring his bell at sunrise for pleasure, but for now, I play his game. “Business, I’m afraid.”
“You should’ve called me,” he exclaims. “I would’ve come out to you.”
The reason I’m here is to catch him with his pants down like my father used to say. My uncles are hiding something. I don’t like the nasty suspicion growing in my gut.
“As you’re here now, come through.” He takes my arm and leads me to the lounge. Indicating the sofa, he says, “Sit. What can I get you to drink? Coffee? Tea?” He takes a copper bell from the coffee table and rings it. “Maybe a freshly squeezed orange juice?”
The housekeeper appears in the doorframe. She waits quietly with her eyes averted. She looks vaguely familiar. I take in the too short hem of the skirt that will leave nothing to the imagination when she bends. The flush that grows on her cheeks as she peeks at my uncle through her eyelashes makes me wonder about the nature of their relationship.
“Well?” my uncle says as he takes a seat next to me.
“Coffee, thank you.”
“Something to eat? Emilia bakes the most delicious scones.” He grins and nudges my shoulder. “They’re decadent with a little cream.” Winking at her, he adds, “So is she.”
I lean back in my seat and cross my ankle over my knee. “No, thank you.”
The red color of her cheeks deepens. “Anything else?”
