He’s the only one who stayed. Vito and Caterina moved out after their mother died. Said the house felt too big, too empty. And now that I’m back, they have their own lives, their own homes. I told them I understood. I did. I do. It doesn’t make it any less lonely sitting in the kitchen alone in the mornings.
“Papà. Zio,” he says as he walks in.
“Come here,” I tell him. “You’re just in time.”
He comes to the island, eyes moving once over the folder, then to me. He doesn’t ask what he missed. He waits.
“The prosecutor is on lockdown,” I explain. “Marshals boxed her up.”
Nico nods. “Because of the coffee.”
“It was a latte,” I say. “But yes.”
“Was that the plan?” Nico looks at me.
I shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t, but it worked out.”
“And the plan now?” he asks.
It’s what I love about Nico. He never crowds the air with questions. He asks what he needs to ask and then leaves space for the answer.
“Nothing at the moment,” Antonio says. “She’s off limits. Anyone tries anything, they answer to your father. Not even a whisper in her direction.”
Nico winces. “Anyone tell Vito yet?”
“Not yet,” I say.
Antonio shakes his head. “Giovanni’s got him running contracts. I’ll handle it when he’s back.”
“Make sure he hears it twice,” I warn.
Antonio drains the rest of his cup and sets it down. “I’ll go do that right now, I think.”
He gets up and takes the cup to the sink, ruffling Nico’s damp hair on the way.
Nico ducks his head with a small smile. Even that is rare, so I appreciate it when I see it.
“I’ll let you know if there are any more updates, yeah?” Antonio says on his way out of the kitchen.
Once he’s gone, Nico turns to me. “Where do you want me?”
“Nowhere near a camera. You make sure my rules are being followed. Eyes only,” I say. “No spooks, no tails. Not even a shadow.”
He nods.
“If anything changes, you tell me same day.”
“Same day,” he repeats. “Got it.”
“And keep Vito away from her,” I add. “He shows his face anywhere near her, I put him on a plane to Naples to visit Zia, and he picks tomatoes for her all summer.”
Nico almost smiles. “He hates Naples, and he thinks Zia’s house smells like a wheel of old cheese.”
“Zia’s house does smell like a wheel of old cheese,” I say, thinking about the last time I visited Carlotta’s sister nearly thirteen years ago.
We go silent for a moment.
“You, uh, want breakfast? I could bring Maria in here to cook something for you,” I ask. He hesitates, and I hear myself fill the space with words I don’t need. “Maria can do eggs. Or a sandwich. Whatever.”
