She shakes her head. I turn up the volume and let Pavarotti's voice wash over us.
"Turandot. The prince wins the princess at dawn." I watch her as she listens. "Vincerò. I will win. He doesn't ask. He doesn't beg. He takes."
"Of course he does," she murmurs.
We spend the afternoon like that. Music plays. She asks about the books. I answer honestly, watching her relax incrementally. We dance around what this is, what she is to me, what I'm willing to do to keep her.
Late afternoon, I start making dinner. Pasta from scratch, sauce that's been simmering since noon. She watches me work, silent.
"Something to say?" I ask without looking up.
"You do this when you're thinking. Planning." She gestures at the pasta. "It calms you down."
Smart girl. "My grandmother said a man who can't feed his family can't keep them. She made sure I learned."
"Did she know what you do?"
"She knew. Died disappointed." I cut the pasta into ribbons. "A heart attack. She dropped dead in her kitchen. Last thing she said to me was 'Find a good woman and feed her well.' So here we are."
She doesn't laugh. Just watches me work with something complicated in her eyes.
We eat at the table. The pasta is perfect. The sauce is rich and deep. She makes a small sound of pleasure when she tastes it.
I file that away for later.
We talk through dinner. I ask about her family. Her childhood. She asks about the life, the neighborhood, the choices that weren't really choices.
She's relaxing. Letting her guard down. Laughing at something I say about one of Sal's more ridiculous schemes.
Then she stops. Catches herself. The horror that crosses her face is almost funny.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing."
"Francesca."
"I'm laughing. With you. About your life, your work, your crimes. Like it's normal. Like this is normal." Her fork clatters against the plate. "What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing's wrong with you." I reach across the table and take her hand. "You're doing what you need to do to survive. Making the best of a bad situation. It's human nature."
She tries to pull her hand back. I hold on.
"Let me go."
"No."
"Luca—"
"You're allowed to laugh. You're allowed to enjoy dinner. You're allowed to be comfortable here." I tighten my grip. "Doesn't mean you've given up. Doesn't mean you'vesurrendered. Just means you're smart enough to know that fighting every moment of every day will destroy you faster than I ever could."
"I shouldn't be comfortable. I should be terrified."
"You are terrified. I can see it in your eyes. But you're also hungry and tired and human." I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. "So you eat the food I make and you listen to the music I play and you let yourself breathe for a few hours. And slowly, piece by piece, you forget why you were fighting in the first place."
She looks at our joined hands. "I hate that you make sense."
"I know."
