Chapter Fifty-Two
Nick
“Jesus, I couldkisswhoever invented AC,” Finch D’Amato says, stepping out of the elevator and fanning his face. “It’s still stinking hot out there. Summer’s fierce this year. Hi, Nick.” He reaches up to give me this hug that I take awkwardly as hell, because Finch has never hugged me before, and also because I’m staring over his head into eyes so cold they might work even better than the air-conditioning in my apartment.
“Hi,” I say back, pulling my attention away from Luca.
“Damn, nice architecture,” Finch says as he hands me a bottle of wine, then walks right by me into the living area, staring out the window. “And nice art.” He gestures at the series of four pop art prints I bought to replace the Reinhardt. I liked the bright colors, the unapologetic, over-the-top cartoonishness of them. Carlo also approved, although I think his personal taste runs more to the classics.
“Hey,” I say to Luca, who’s still standing in the elevator and glaring at me. For a second I think he only came to ensure Finch got here safely, that he’s planning to leave again, but then he sweeps out of the elevator without a word and joins Finch at the windows. “Nice to see you, too,” I say under my breath. “You guys want a drink?” I ask loudly. “Carlo’s still on his way. Got caught up at the office.”
“Sure, let’s crack that bottle we brought,” Finch says airily. “Doesn’t need breathing.” Finch, at least, seems determined to make the night work. But I’m not sure how long he’ll be able to keep up the pretense if Luca just refuses to speak at all.
I open the bottle of wine and pour them each a glass, and then, once Finch has finished his self-directed tour of my lower floor, he and Luca sit on the sofa, and I take the matching single to the left. From this angle, I can keep an eye on the elevator, see the light as soon as it comes on, which will mean Carlo is home. There’s a big burning ball of something in my gut right now, and I wish again that he was here already.
Finch keeps up a stream of chatter, for which I’m grateful, but when he takes a break to breathe and then take a sip of his drink, it seems extra quiet, despite the soft music I’m streaming through the apartment.
“Carlo seems to be keeping busy,” Luca says at last.
“Yeah,” I agree quickly. “He’s enjoying himself. The firm is looking to hire some new blood, soon.”
“Good.”
Finch looks between us happily, as though the tension in the air just doesn’t exist in his reality. “Carlo’s agreatlawyer,” he says, when Luca and I can’t think of anything else to add. “He did a really good job with the charity organization.”
“How’s that going?” I ask desperately, and that gives Finch another ten minutes of animated chatter.
Just when I stand up to get the wine for a refill, the elevator gives its soft ding, and I just about bolt over there to greet Carlo as he comes out. “I’m so sorry, Nicky, I—” But I sweep him up in a big kiss before he can say anything more.
“Okay,” he says breathlessly when I let him go. He looks past me to see Finch and Luca, both standing now, Finch smiling, Luca not. “Hi, guys. I’m so sorry I’m late. Really unforgivable. Just give me two minutes.”
“Of course,” Finch says. Carlo, still carrying his briefcase, shakes hands with both of them before heading up to the bedroom. But by the time I’ve topped up the glasses and poured a new one for Carlo, he’s back downstairs, looking fresh and calm, and ready to be a gracious host. I allow myself to migrate to the kitchen, where I focus on cooking the steak.
Then just as I’ve put it in foil to rest, when I’m cutting up some bread, Luca drifts over to the kitchen counter and sits himself down on the barstool Carlo usually takes. He watches me, the movements of my hands, while he twists his almost-empty wine glass by the stem on the countertop.
“You, uh. You want some more?” I asked at last, nodding at his glass. “I can open another bottle.”
“Sure,” he says, surprising me. I fumble around with the corkscrew on another bottle, nervous, before he takes it from me without a word, opens it expertly, and pours himself a new glass.
I turn the bottle of olive oil on the counter top so he can see the label. “They’re stocking it in a couple of places around town already,” I tell him. It’s the Sardinian oil, of course. For the first time since he got in here, Luca seems to thaw a little. I pour some of the green-gold oil out in a little dish and offer him the bread. We each take a piece, dunk it in the oil, and eat.
“It’s good,” I say, after swallowing.
“Oil is oil, you said.”
He’s quoting me, that day I glanced at the contracts in his study with the Winter woman standing right there planning on murdering my Carlo. “I had other things on my mind that day. I’d come around to tell you…”
“But you didn’t.”
“I didn’t.”
Finch and Carlo are still talking, laughing, over by the window, a few feet away from the scratches I still haven’t had buffed out of the glass from when I fucked him up against it in his clamps. Carlo is pointing out something across the river.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” I tell Luca.
“Are you?”
“Aren’tyou?” I’m losing patience with him. “Why did you come at all if you didn’t want to?”
