“I’m not feeling well, Sir.” His tone is polite, but the way he looks at me, jaw-set and eyes narrowed, feels like a challenge. He is daring me to assert myself.
“Ma spent a lot of time cooking for us this afternoon,” I say, thinking I might be able to guilt him into eating.
“Silvio,” she says, not wanting to be caught up in our battle of wills.
“It’s very good, Evelina.” Giovanni gives my mother the kind of smile he rarely gives to me anymore. “I’m sorry I’m unable to eat right now. Maybe later.”
Ma nods and asks if his stomach is giving him trouble, then gives him a list of home remedies that might help, herbal tea and ginger ale among them. Giovanni listens attentively but doesn’t eat anymore. Instead, he lays down his fork and pushes his plate away. That small act feels like a quiet rebellion, only he is so very civil.
“May I be excused, Sir?” he says when my mother is finished fussing over him.
My eyes rove over his slight frame. The knobs in his shoulder are apparent even through the fabric his shirt, and the tendons in his neck are raised in sharp relief. The hollowed-out look in his eyes scares me. He is dying. I’m watching it happen.
“We’ll discuss this later,” I say. He nods, eyes catching on my frown, before taking his plate with him to the kitchen where he surely scrapes his meal into the trash. Ma and Anthony make conversation to ease the awkward silence, but as Giovanni re-enters the room, I say to him, “Vieni qui.”Come here.
He pivots and approaches me. Obedient, or so it would seem. He’s close enough that I’m able to reach out and grab him. His wrist is too slender—just holding his hand makes me feel as though I might break his bones. Laying my palm flat against the small of his back I ask quietly, “Do you need to go into your box tonight?”
I’ve caught him cutting himself a few times since Valentin’s death, which always makes me feel so helpless. Valentin used to punish him for it, but we’re not in a place where I could administer any kind of punishment and, even if we were, I wouldn’t know what to do. I was never the disciplinarian in this relationship.
He shakes his head. “No, Sir.”
“Are you going to bed now?” He spends a lot of time in our bedroom prostrating himself before that portrait.
“After my nighttime rituals, if that pleases you.”
“Eating your dinner would please me.”
He sighs, aggrieved by my request, then glances away as if it’s out of his control. He won’t tell menooutright; he just won’t do what I say. I think this is worse.
“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” I say, something Valentin always suggested when Giovanni was in a mood. “Goodnight, princess.” He leans down so that I may brush my lips against his forehead. Other than cuddling in bed and touching for comfort, we haven’t been sexually intimate since long before Valentin passed. I know he needs it—I need it too—but he’s not in the right headspace. I can’t make love to him when he’s like this, sick with grief and only just surviving. Besides that, I want him to crave my touch, not simply tolerate it for my sake.
As soon as he leaves, Ma starts in on me. “He needs to eat more, Silvio. The poor boy is skin and bones. He practically rattles when he walks.”
“I know, Ma.” I grip my fork and stab at the pasta, chewing and swallowing without tasting it.
“Are there things he likes best? Ricotta pie, tiramisu? He used to love my panna cotta.” She lists a few more desserts, and I shake my head because it’s not a matter of taste.
“He’s been starving himself since Valentin got sick. Near the end.” To punish himself or because he’s sad, because he doesn’t want to go on without his Master. I look to Anthony, who saw a lot more of their daily interactions than I did. “Do you know how I can get him to eat?”
“He likes his routines,” Anthony says with a shrug, like he doesn’t want to offend me. “The Boss was real strict with him.” He crosses himself and motions heavenward.
I nod and rub my eyes. The goddamned schedule that ruled every minute of their lives. I am not a schedule-type person. I prefer to act according to how I feel on any given day. If the weather is good, I go sailing. If not, I tinker. I don’t crave routine, and I rarely plan ahead. I’m trying to adapt to Giovanni’s needs, but I’m obviously not doing enough.
“How did Valentin get him to eat?” I ask, because if I could solve just this one thing, maybe the rest would follow.
“Boss wouldn’t let him leave the table. Or he wouldn’t eat until Gio did. Or he’d take away his… privileges.” Anthony nods toward my mother because we both know theprivilegewas sucking my brother’s cock. That won’t work as a deterrent either because there are no privileges to take away.
But perhaps there should be.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit and run my hands through my hair. Maybe I should talk to his therapist, but she doesn’t speak Italian, so I’d need Giovanni to interpret, and I don’t necessarily trust him not to bend the truth, especially if she says something he doesn’t like.
“You gotta get tough with him,” Anthony says, raising one fist in a gesture of strength. “Show him who calls the shots around here. Boss always made sure Gio knew who was in charge. When he got bratty or mouthy, Boss put him in his place.”
Valentin’s treatment had always seemed callous for such a gentle soul, at times bordering on cruel. But it’s becoming more apparent that he knew far better than I what Giovanni needed.
Needs.
Dinner is subdued after that. I ask Anthony to escort my mother home, and I assume he will visit his lover and stay the night in town afterward. Giovanni and I will be alone in the morning. I’ll speak with him then.
