My area of expertise was medicine, and my experiences in life were shaped by a tragedy. We had nothing in common outside of the death of our mothers, which—as he pointed out—was a morbid discussion to have on a date. But then I didn't know what else to talk about.
I didn't do carefree.
As I watched him swirl a fry in the mayo-ketchup combination he’d created, I decided on a question that seemed first-date appropriate. “Why does Benito sometimes call you Nero?”
Before taking a bite, he responded, “He was hell-bent on giving us traditional Italian names, but our mother wasn't keen on it. Even knowing we would attend a private school, she thought the other kids would make fun of us.”
“So it’s your given name?” Even though I technically knew it from the briefing Agent Parkes gave me in the beginning, I wasn't supposed to know.
“Yes. Mom came up with Noah as a nickname, and Dad agreed to use it—most of the time. Unless he’s mad at me or trying to convince me to do something I don’t want to do,” he added with a frown.
“Does it bother you when he uses it?” I asked, genuinely curious that time.
His frown deepened. “It often feels manipulative. My sister’s name is easier to shorten; Vittoria to Vicki isn’t such a leap.”
“I guess girls have it easier sometimes.”
“Especially in our line of business, where the women aren't in line to inherit.”
There was an odd openness to his answers. We both knew what he did for a living, if for no other reason than his family was often in the news. But he and his father had constantly pretended they were legitimate businessmen.
“Are you renovating the house?” I asked after he ate his fry.
“Dad has contractors working on it, yes.”
“Do you like living there?”
“Not really.” As soon as he said that, he looked up at me with a guilty expression. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
“I think you did.”
While I took a bite of my messy bacon cheeseburger, I saw how badly he warred with himself. I licked grease off the side of my hand, and he tracked my movements.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love my father. But at my age, I should have moved out by now. I should have my own house.”
“Should? According to whom?”
“Societal norms, I guess.”
Nodding, I said, “And those are important to you?”
Noah wiped his hands on a paper napkin, then tossed it down. “Not especially, but if I think about it too hard, it feels embarrassing to be closing in on forty and still living at home.”
“It’s not like you’re the perpetually online son living in the basement. You run a business with Benito, and it’s convenient to live in the same house.”
“Maybe.”
“Vicki lives there, too,” I pointed out.
“Not anymore. She’s officially moved in with Gio.”
“Would she have done that if her hand wasn’t forced by the literal destruction of her home?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why are you pushing so hard?”
Flushing at his scrutiny, I replied, “I don't want you to feel bad about something that ultimately doesn't matter.”
His face relaxed, and he sat back against the booth. “I’m sorry. I treated that as an interrogation instead of a casual inquiry.”
