Does he usually live somewhere else?
I wander back through to the living area, wondering. If he doesn’t live here, where is his home?
I try the study door, even though I promise myself I won’t touch the computer. It doesn’t matter. The door is locked. And besides, the idea that I won’t learn much about Alessandro from his rooms here has taken hold.
I start exploring the rest of the house.
Outside Alessandro’s wing is a spacious hallway. The walls are lined with a series of landscape paintings and the ceiling is adorned with multiple small chandeliers. My footsteps are muffled by the thick carpet as I make my way down to the security room and press my ear against the door. I can hear faint voices, laughter from within, and so I retreat carefully. The last thing I want to do is have to explain myself to anyone.
And I still feel like I’m doing something very, very wrong.
A few feet from the door of the security room is the grand marble staircase that leads down to the foyer, and after one more glance at the security door, I head downstairs.
At the bottom of the staircase I think I catch sight of someone, but they disappear just as I do a double take to check. Maybe it’s one of the guards watching me. It’s an uneasy feeling, knowing that I’m being observed.
I go into to the grand salon first. I know it’s the grand salon because the title of the room is written over the door in script on a raised and gilded banner. As I explore further, I discover that most of the rooms have similar titles over the doors. There’s the drawing room, the billiards room, and now I come across the library.
When I enter, I catch my breath. There must be more books stored in here than in the large, well-stocked library at my high school. I wander around looking at the titles, and I realize that in fact, it’sexactlylike a library—the books each have identifying numbers stamped in gold lettering at the bottom of the spine. It’s not Dewey Decimal, but the books themselves seem to be arranged in a sensible order as I walk around. Classical literature—in Greek and Latin, but I recognize some of the names. Italian literature. French. Then finally, English—and then history, from ancient to modern times. Philosophy. Geography. The list goes on.
I retrace my steps to the history section. Many of them are in Italian, but I find a section in English about the history of the Mafia in America. I pull three books out and take them to the large, green-leather-topped communal desk in the middle of the room. It’s large enough to seat at least ten, though the chairs are more scattered. I sit down and start reading.
I’m so caught up in the Chicago glory days that I jump a mile when I hear someone clearing their throat behind me. “I do beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I whirl around in my seat, my heart going a million miles an hour, to see Wilson. I haven’t seen him all day. Maybe today was his day off, since Alessandro wasn’t here either.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly.
“Mr. Castellani would like you to join him for dinner.”
Shit, is it really that late? I glance at the windows to see that night has fallen, and get up clumsily, my knee banging on the underside of the desk. “I’ll go right now. Um—which dining room is he in?” There were at least three that I found during my explorations.
“The formal dining room, sir.” But Wilson doesn’t move from the doorway. He says delicately, averting his eyes, “Mr. Castellani has asked you to dress for dinner.”
“Dress for—?” I shake my head. “I don’t have any formal clothes.”
“I believe you’ll find some in your room, sir. They arrived today.”
I stare at Wilson as I take in his meaning. Someone already went into my room to hang up the clothes that Alessandro brought in yesterday, and now someone’s gone in again, poking around in my stuff. Such as it is.
I don’t like the idea of that. It just reminds me that I’m not a guest here. Not really.
“Okay,” I say after a moment.
“Dinner will be served at eight o’clock,” Wilson tells me, then bows his head and retreats. I glance at the grandfather clock in the corner, which has been ticking and chiming away companionably while I’ve been in the library. Quarter after seven. I’ve been here forhours, I realize, and I stretch wide to relieve my muscles.
Dinner.
With Alessandro?
I feel a thrill run down my spine, but I can’t tell if it’s anxiety or anticipation.
* * *
I shower and shave, even though I never grow much more than fuzz on my face, and then I open the Ralph Lauren suit bag that I saw hanging up in the dressing room next to a soft, cream-colored shirt. The suit jacket is a little long in the sleeves, but not too bad. When I pull it on, it somehow makes me stand taller, lift my shoulders back, evenwalkdifferently as I make my way down to the formal dining room.
I had visions of me at one end of the mile-long table and Alessandro at the other, but when I get down there, it’s very different.
Almost…cozy.
