I set my phone down and go to change for dinner.
When I enterthe dining room, the table is set, as always, for one. I shove down the pang of regret that causes me and take my seat. Maria brings in a bowl with rigatoni and the ragù she obviously spent hours making. I pick up my fork as she pours me a glass of red wine, then set it down again.
"Does my husband eat dinner?" It's painful to admit I don't know.
"He does, Signora Katya, at his desk."
Nodding decisively, I get to my feet. I place my fork on my plate and pick it up along with my glass of wine and head for the study. Gabriele looks up from his desk when I push open the door. He isn't wearing his patch. I haven't seen him without it before and I have to work hard not to recoil. The skin around his ruined eye is red and irritated.
He says nothing as I cross the room, set my plate on the desk and take the chair opposite him.
"Eat," I tell him, nodding toward his untouched plate. "You don't want to let it go cold."
"Katya." He says my name as though it's the beginning of an argument he's too tired to have.
"Eat. I'm not leaving until you do."
He shuts his eye for a moment. Then he opens it. I look at him steadily across the desk. Up close, his eye is a mess. The eyelid is scarred and the eye itself is milky white. There's only a hint of blackness where his pupil lies.
I study him brazenly, making sure he knows I'm taking in every detail and it doesn't repulse me. Then I pick up my fork and start to eat.
He picks up his fork. He lifts it to his mouth and raises his other hand to shield the movement.
"Gabriele," I keep my voice even. "Lower your hand."
"Katya."
"There's only me here. Lower your hand."
An internal debate rages in his head, the arguments playing out on his face as he purses his lips, relaxes, then screws up his nose. Then, slowly, he lowers his hand to the desk and begins to eat. Chewing is obviously difficult for him. I want to ask about his injuries, the impact they have on him, but that's not a conversation either of us is ready for yet.
Instead, I tell him about the wine Lorenzo sent, that I looked up the vineyard and have fallen in love with the place.
"It's impressive." Gabriele's tone holds no small measure of pride, making me even more curious about why he doesn't talk about his brothers. "The place was a disaster when he bought it, you know. He built it back up."
"I'd love to visit someday." I sip my wine and watch Gabriele carefully as I ask. "Will he come for your birthday?"
He shakes his head. "He's busy. They both are."
"But it's your thirtieth," Lukas let that slip the other day.
"It's no big deal, Katya."
I hear the lie for what it is but I don't challenge him on it. I don't want to get into a fight when I have a different agenda this evening.
"From now on I want you to eat in the dining room with me." I set my fork down. "Not every night, of course, but when you're available."
He looks at me. "I didn't think you'd want…." He gestures to his face.
"Don't make assumptions about what I want, Gabriele. I'm not a child." As if to prove my point, I drink a mouthful of wine. "I want to have dinner with my husband."
Gabriele nods and I allow myself a small smile. If only all battles were so easily won. He picks up his fork and finishes his food.
"I'll come to you later," he tells me.
Back in my room, I sit on the bed with my phone and look at the website for Lorenzo's vineyard once more. A woman answers and I ask to speak to Lorenzo, adding a per favore for good measure. There's a pause before she transfers my call. I didn't expect it to be so easy to reach him.
"Lorenzo Volante," he purrs down the line.
