Roberto drifts in from the hall with two highballs and passes one to Antonio like he had the timing down right.
I stay where I can see the doors, the hallway, the terrace.
Vivian appears in the archway from the service hall; tablet tucked to her side. She doesn’t enter the room, just sets her feet at the threshold the way she does when the information is for the whole house.
“Gate is opening,” she says. “Lucia and family.”
The room tightens a notch. No one moves. But everything still shifts.
Luca’s jaw goes to granite. He looks at the foyer like he’s bracing himself. His hands are sitting on his knees, but I see the tendons stand up. Elena reaches over and covers his hand with hers. He leans into her slightly.
Caterina blows out a breath she thinks no one hears. Her hands are light on her wineglass, but the tendons in her neck flex. She sits, stands, sits again. Picks an invisible thread off her hem. Her eyes jump to the entry and back to the floor, then to me. I tip my head once: breathe.
Vito can’t stay in one place. He goes to the window, looks out at nothing, comes back, stands behind the couch like a bodyguard, and then shifts to the mantle to adjust a frame that doesn’t need adjusting.
Nico is the picture of calm. One ankle across a knee, hands loose. He speaks the least in family gatherings. I can’t tell if he’s settled or has just tucked it away for later. He meets my eye once. I see the same question there and the answer. Both of us are fine, neither of us is fine.
Roberto watches the door over the rim of his glass. He bounces his foot lightly.
Elena sits close to Luca, shoulder to shoulder. She rubs the back of his knuckles with her thumb like she’s trying to sand down hisedges. She’s nervous too, but it’s not the same for her without the history. She’s more nervous for us than herself.
I haven’t stopped to explore how I feel about any of this. I’m feeling it anyway. Tight under the sternum. I haven’t seen Lucia since the courthouse when she testified all those years ago.
I can picture the door she walked through, the one behind the judge that isn’t for the rest of us. She turned once, not at us, just to follow some instruction none of us heard, and then she disappeared. That was it. A hinge, a click, a long hallway we weren’t allowed to enter.
Since then: photos. Grainy ones, taken at a distance for years. Then ones she sent to Elena after the ice thawed a bit. Her face older and softer around the eyes, a hand on a rounded belly, then a newborn in her arms. Milestones exported through a screen. It’s not the same as a person standing five feet from you breathing the same air.
My niece is coming home. She’s bringing new family with her.
Antonio drains half his glass and sets it on the low table with too much care. He’s the most talkative one in any room, but even he’s short on words now. “Food smells good,” he says to Elena, just for something to say.
Elena smiles with one corner of her mouth. “Bianca’s got it under control,” she says. Her voice is steady. Her ankle bounces once, then stops.
I look toward the hallway to the kitchen, out of habit more than hope. I won’t see her. The rooms here were designed so that you don’t see the work. I know she’s there because the house smells like it—roasting garlic, a hint of spice.
Caterina pulls in a breath and holds it too long. I touch the back of the couch behind her with two fingers. It’s enough to get her to look up. “If you need air, take it now,” I say, quiet.
“I’m fine,” she says, which is code for I might throw up. She stands anyway, goes to the window, and leans out into the night.
Nico checks his watch and the door at the same time. He’s good at reading a room. “We should decide where we’re sitting,” he says mildly. “So we don’t herd around the foyer like confused cows.”
“No foyer,” Elena says. “Vivian is letting them in. We’ll wait here, let them settle a minute. Seating in the dining room has already been arranged.” She says it decisively, leaving no room for argument. It helps.
Luca nods once. I could tell him to breathe like I told Caterina. It won’t help, so I say nothing.
Antonio rubs his hands together once like he’s cold. “What do we say?” he says to no one.
Elena leans closer, voice low. “Start with hello, how are you,” she murmurs. “No bringing up the past unless she does. And even then, keep it casual.”
Caterina comes back from the window and drops into the corner of the couch. “Someone say something stupid so I can feel better about myself,” she says.
“Antonio’s shirt is trying too hard,” I offer.
“It always is,” Nico says, deadpan.
“It’s linen,” Antonio protests, looking down at his button-up with swirls of blue in different shades. “It breathes.”
“Loudly,” Caterina mutters.
