My eyes flick up. “Did he say that?”
“No, but he doesn’t need to.” Clara studies me for a beat like she’s choosing her next words with care. “I haven’t seen him like this about a woman in a long time,” she says at last. “Not since Maria.”
I look down at my tea and swallow against the sudden dryness. “I don’t want to hurt him,” I say, barely audible. “Or make things harder.”
“You won’t,” she says, sure in a way that makes me want to be. “Life has already done enough of that. He is different with you.” She lifts a shoulder. “Lighter, even when he is carrying weight.”
She reaches over and covers my hand with hers. “You carry a weight too.”
My eyes threaten to fill, but I force it back. “It’s not important right now. Antonio is.”
“If it’s important to you, it’s important.” Clara pats my wrist, eyes kind. “You’re good for him, and he’s good for you,” she says, and the statement makes me blink.
Is it really that simple?
“Please stay,” she says, echoing herself.
I breathe in the steam of the tea and the faintest thread of his cologne still in the air.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll stay.”
Chapter Forty Two
Roberto
The gate rolls shut behind me, and I sit for a beat with both hands on the wheel, letting the day roll off me.
I had some office bullshit to handle today, which was inconvenient at best.
Then a stop at the hospital where Antonio opened his eyes twice while I was there, heavy and irritated, like waking up was an inconvenience in itself. They’re keeping him sedated because he keeps trying to fight the tube. If he keeps improving at this rate, they’ll extubate tomorrow.
Nico and Vito stayed tonight, practically shoving Luca and me out the door. I didn’t argue. I haven’t slept.
I still haven’t spoken to Olivia, and with Vito and Nico now closer to finding this Ferro guy, I’m not sure when I’ll get the chance to. Antonio is all right, but everything is still a mess, and I’m exhausted.
I pocket my keys, step out, and the cold sneaks in under the collar of my jacket. I unlock the door and open it, ready for thedark and quiet.
Instead: a low golden wash from the sitting room, the soft crackle of the fireplace, and something delicious in the air.
Pepper and cheese hit me first, then the familiar scent of boiling pasta.
Cacio e pepe?
“Clara?” I call, loosening my tie with one hand, hanging my coat with the other. “You didn’t have to stay.”
No answer. The fire pops. A spoon taps a pan. I step through the sitting room. The flames from the hearth throw flickering light over the room. I round the corner into the kitchen.
Olivia stands at the stove, hair pulled back, sleeves pushed to her elbows, steam fogging the air around her.
She’s tilting a pan, pepper blooming in butter, a bowl of grated Pecorino on the counter, and a scoop of pasta water at the ready. A pot gurgles with spaghetti at a rolling boil.
For a second, my body forgets it’s tired.
She looks up when she feels me, and the punch to my chest is the same as it always is. Her eyes find mine, wary.
“Hi,” she says, softly.
“Hi,” I answer. “You’re… here.”
