I move toward the kitchen, needing distance from him and his unsettling perceptiveness. The kitchen is small but charming, with faded yellow tiles and an old-fashioned stove. A wooden table sits in the center, scratched from years of family meals and homework sessions.
"They used to make pasta here every Sunday," Damiano says from the doorway. "My mother would roll out the dough by hand. Said the machines couldn't feel when it was right."
"It's strange," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "Having someone except my family in this space."
She turns to me, curiosity softening her features. "Strange good or strange bad?"
"Just strange." I don't elaborate. How could I explain that bringing her here feels like crossing some invisible line I'd drawn for myself?
The tour continues as we move upstairs, Zoe pausing at each family photo, asking questions I sometimes don't have answers to. My childhood bedroom brings a smile to her face—the faded soccer posters, the twin bed that seems impossibly small now.
"I can't pictureyou as a normal kid," she admits, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I wasn't." The truth slips out before I can stop it. "Not really."
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours as we move through the preserved memories of my past. It's exhausting, this unveiling. By the time we've circled back to the living room, I feel stripped bare in a way that has nothing to do with clothing.
Zoe runs her hand along the sheet-covered sofa, turning to face me with an unexpected suggestion.
"Let's watch a movie," she says. "Here. Tonight. We could make popcorn."
A laugh escapes me—genuine, surprised. "Movie and popcorn? I haven't done that since—" I shake my head, memories flooding back. "Christ, probably since I was sixteen. Before everything went to shit."
"So that's what—fifty years?" Her eyes sparkle with mischief.
"Watch it," I growl, but there's no real menace in it. "I'm thirty-six, not ancient."
"Then prove it," she challenges. "One normal night. Movie and popcorn. No business calls, no security details hovering, no power plays."
I study her face, trying to decipher her angle. Is this another test? Another attempt to find my weakness? But the simplicity of it appeals to me in a way I hadn't expected.
"Fine," I find myself saying.
I shake my head as Zoe bounces up from the couch, her sudden enthusiasm catching me off guard.
"Wait, do you have any snacks here?" she asks, already moving toward the kitchen. "We need snacks for a movie night."
"I have no fucking idea," I call after her. "Enzo and Lucrezia come here once a year for sure, but I doubt they stock the pantry."
The sound of cabinet doors opening and closing echoes through the house. I follow the noise to find her standing on tiptoes, rifling through an upper shelf.
"Aha!" Her triumphant voice rings out as she pulls down a bag of chips. "These haven't expired yet. Only two months left before they do."
She turns, holding the bag up like it's a trophy. "See? The universe wants us to have a movie night."
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "The universe doesn't give a shit about our snack situation, lupacchiotta."
A smile plays at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe not, but these chips do. Come on."
Back in the living room, I find myself pulling off the dust covers while Zoe sets up the ancient DVD player. The couch underneath is surprisingly well-preserved, a reminder of my mother's insistence on quality furniture.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," I mutter, settling onto the cushions. My six-foot-two frame looks ridiculous in this domestic setting, knees too high, elbows too wide for the space. "Don Damiano Feretti watching a fucking rom-com while eating stale chips."
Zoe plops down beside me, closer than necessary. "Is that what the newspapers would say if they caught you now?"
"They'd need a minute to recognize me without someone bleeding at my feet."
She opens the chip bag with a loud crinkle. "Is this how the fearsome crime lord spends his downtime? Eating chips and complaining about movie choices?" She's angry but she tries to hold back.
