“For lunch.” I glance toward the kitchen. “Simpler. Safer.”
He smirks. “And no wine? A miracle.”
“Watch your mouth,” I say, but it’s softened. “I went without for years. I can handle a few months. A courtesy.”
He taps the sleeve. “People are going to find out soon.”
“Soon isn’t today,” I say firmly. “We keep it quiet as long as we can.”
“The moment this leaks, Papá,” he starts, “the world will know. Cameras, headlines. The federal prosecutor and the mafia don. It’ll be a story. It’ll bethestory.”
“I’m more worried about our enemies knowing,” I say quietly. “We have to deal with that when the time comes.”
Vito nods, jaw working. “We’ll keep it tight.”
“We also keep it calm.” I hold his eyes. “For her sake.”
He nods again, sharper. “Understood.”
He glances at the prints again. “It’s crazy,” he says, almost to himself. “That little thing is—” He stops, tries again. “I didn’t think I’d see you with one of these.”
“Neither did I.” It isn’t grief when I say it. Not exactly.
He blows out a breath, stands like he can’t sit any longer. “You want me to check on security for her? The gate? Make sure nobody’s loitering by the turnout?”
“Giovanni already did. Twice.” I stand with him. “But check again.”
He grins, relieved to be pointed at something to do. “On it.” He starts for the door, then looks back, boy again for a moment. “Congrats, Papà.”
“Thank you, Vito,” I say.
He goes.
I gather the prints, slide them back into their sleeve, and tuck them into my inside pocket. They sit warm against me.
I head for the kitchen to ask about the lemon broth I already know is perfect. I will taste it anyway, because I can. Because I need to do something with these hands until she pulls up.
The chime echoes through the house just as I’m turning the corner toward the kitchen.
I double back, but Vivian, one of the housekeepers, has beaten me to it. She opens the door and steps aside.
Elena stands framed by light and the entry. She has changed since the appointment. Simple blouse, slate trousers, that dark hair loose and flowing around her shoulders. Her eyes find mine immediately, and I can’t tell if she’s relaxed or tense.
“Welcome,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I intend.
“Hi,” she answers, voice soft. She licks her lips, and my eyes drop to the action, remembering the feel of them under mine when she was all but naked in the exam room. Her gaze flicks away, bounces off the walls of the entrance hall, then comes back to me.
Vivian offers to take her bag without comment, then vanishes.
“I thought we’d sit outside,” I say, tilting my head toward the garden. “It’s nice outside.”
“That sounds good,” she says, and her voice is breathy.
We move through the living room and walk through the French doors open to the sunny afternoon. The pool throws light across the ceiling, the surface breaking with the gentle breeze.
I’d had the staff set a small round table on the terrace near the water, two chairs, a low bowl of herbs instead of flowers: basil, mint, lemon thyme. Shade from the pergola, fans turning slowly overhead. Cold water already sweating in a carafe; slices of blood orange float like coins.
“It’s pretty,” she says, and it’s not politeness. She inhales. “Smells like a garden.”
