Vecchio’s eyes gleam. “Good. Tie your rope to mine and I pull,capito?” He flicks his gaze to my bracelet again. “And you,ragazza, are you doing this because you are clever, or because you are in love?”
The chicken liver goes rich and heavy on my tongue. “Both,” I say, holding his gaze. “Cleverness without heart is a brand. Heart without cleverness is a hobby. We’re building an institution.”
Nonna Rosaria taps her fork twice in approval. “She can stay.”
Lulu leans toward Vasso in the motion’s shadow, a too-obvious tilt that turns “lean” into “lunge,” fingers finding his forearm like a homing pigeon finds the right roof. “Vecchio says the truffle dogs love me best,” she trills. “I think it’s because I have good energy.”
“Or because you carry salami in your purse,” Nonna says dryly without glancing up.
“I like to be prepared,” Lulu sings back, squeezing Vasso’s arm again.
“Good idea,” I say sweetly, and smile directly at her. “You should make sure you have both hands for the dogs…and your own husband later.”
The comment zips over her head like a low-flying swallows. “Oh, the dogs are napping now.”
“Two can nap,” Vecchio stage-whispers, winking at me. “Later, two cannotnap with the right hands.Eh?”
Lulu frowns in confusion, then pouts.
Vasso chokes down what might be a laugh and I sip my Vernaccia and conjure an expression that reads I am a gracious woman with a sharp knife in my garter that can deprive clueless women of their hands.
Pasta arrives in its turn, because in Tuscany everything comes when it should.
Pici cacio e pepe, thick and hand-rolled, glossy with Pecorino and cracked pepper, the kind of simple that requires skill to be divine. Nonna Rosaria stands behind me and watches as I twirl a perfect bite; when I feed the next to Vasso with a flick of my wrist, she nods, satisfied, as if I’ve passed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
“Good hands,” she pronounces.
“She has the best,” Vasso says, not bothering to hide his eyes in his voice. The heat that skitters up my neck is purely chemical. Or purely him.
Vecchio flips the deck without warning, as is his habit, business and personal braided so tightly you only notice you’re snared when the rope pulls. “So.” He sets his glass down, considers me the way a jeweler considers a stone. “I tellragazzohere that he should steal you into his company. Before someone else does.”
“He doesn’t have to steal,” I say lightly, aware of every eye. “He just has to ask nicely.”
“I plan to,” Vasso says, so matter-of-factly I almost miss the shock that ripples under my skin.
I turn, the bracelet winking treachery at my pulse. He looks utterly unsurprised by the sentence he’s set loose between us; he’s not saying it to impress anyone at this table. He means it.
“Do you?” I say, arranging my features into composure before I forget how.
“Of course,” he says, lifting his glass, meeting my eyes over the rim like he’s toasting something he’s already bought. “You’re wasted as a bystander.”
Vecchio chuckles, pleased. Nonna Rosaria smirks at her plate as if it’s all going according to her secret recipe. Lulu sighs and pets Vasso’s sleeve like his acceptance speech just turned her on. I breathe, slow and even, and decide not to ask the half-dozen questions crowding my teeth. Not here. Not with an octogenarian kingmaker watching for cracks.
Sea bass arrives on a bed of grilled peaches and rosemary, the flesh splintering into fat, pearly petals at a touch.
A sublime Brunello replaces the white and slides around our tongues in cherries, leather, and a hint of tobacco that tastes like stories. The night deepens; the lights gather our faces into an intimate circle the cameras on the far terrace will never quite capture as they should.
“Tell me,” Vecchio says suddenly, as if he’s remembered a poker card he meant to play first. He tips his head, benign, but I’m not fooled. “You speak to your father,cara? Harrison? We crossed paths when he was young and I had better eyesight. I don’t recall that I liked what I saw but…” he shrugs offhandedly. “I was a harsher critic then, I’m told.”
My fork stops a millimeter from my plate as if it hit glass.
Beside me, Vasso goes still in the way of an animal that hears the bowstring pull and doesn’t waste energy flinching. Because he’s plotting his counterstrike.
He doesn’t look at me but I know he’s fully tuned. Vibrating with ferocious emotion I’m too alarmed to decipher.
“We’re not close,” I say, aiming for bland and hoping not to miss. “He calls sometimes.”
“And you answer?” Vecchio persists, blunt in the way of men who know their power and exploit it ruthlessly.
