“Yes,” I said. “A lot. When I can.”
He gestured to the books. “Take anything. Most are from our’s mother. She was a teacher. She liked stories with puzzles in them, because she said life is made of small mysteries you can solve if you pay attention. Some of them are in Italian, but you can ask me to translate if you want.”
I said, “Thank you.” It felt like the right thing to say, even though it didn’t cover everything.
Olimpo snored, the sound rolling out of him in waves. The apartment was so quiet, except for Tonio’s voice and the dog’s breathing and the muted hum of the city outside. I wondered if Pietro could hear us in the other room, if he was listening fortrouble, or just letting his brother do the heavy lifting of human contact.
When I finished the first plate, Tonio refilled it without asking, then pushed the wine closer to my side of the counter. “Eat more,” he said. “You are too skinny. Pietro says you are a very serious woman, but I see you are, in fact, a normal person.”
I laughed, and it surprised me. A real laugh, not just the sound of one. Tonio grinned, satisfied.
He poured himself a glass, then another, and told me stories about growing up in Sicily, about the warm weather, about illegal soccer games in ancient plazas, about the time Pietro saved him from falling into traffic by grabbing his jacket and dislocating his own shoulder in the process. “He doesn’t like to talk about himself,” said Tonio, “but he is always there for you, even if you don’t ask.”
I believed him. I didn’t know why, but I did.
Somewhere in the middle of the second helping, Tonio’s phone buzzed. He checked it, then grimaced in a way that said nothing good was coming. He finished his wine, then stood up and stretched his arms over his head, making his back pop.
“I have to go,” he said. “Family thing. Pietro will be back soon, I think, unless he is being a chicken, which is likely.” He gathered the dish and the wine and packed them up with the economy of someone who had done it a thousand times. Then he looked at me seriously, like he needed me to understand something.
“You are safe here,” he said. “No one gets in without Pietro knowing. And if you need anything, you call me, not just him.” He slid a card across the counter. “This is my number. You use it. Day or night.”
I nodded, tucking the card under my phone.
He whistled once, low and sharp, and Olimpo jerked awake, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The dog padded to the door,turned once to look at me, and wagged his tail, which banged into the wall with a satisfying thud.
Tonio smiled again, then walked out without backwards glance, his footsteps quiet but the energy of him lingering in the space.
He left then, with the kind of suddenness that told me he did not feel the need for a goodbye. Olimpo gave me one last nudge, then followed him out, tail wagging like a flag.
The door clicked shut. The apartment was quiet again.
I sat at the counter, my plate empty, the taste of wine and cheese and tomato still on my tongue.
It was the first time in months I had eaten without guilt or fear, and for a long minute, I just sat there, hands curled around the stem of the glass, letting the world be good.
I did not check the windows. I did not look for cameras. I just sat, and for once, it was enough.
*
I had been in the soft room for an hour, sitting on the sheepskin rug with an old paperback open in my lap, not reading. The light in the room was different than the rest of the apartment—gold instead of blue, the kind of light that made you think of late autumn and old stories. The radiator ticked. The air smelled of wool and varnish and, faintly, of the bread Tonio had left in the kitchen, which I could not stop thinking about.
The book in my hands was a Christie, but I hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. I was listening—first for footsteps, then for the sound of the elevator, then for nothing at all. When the knock came, it was soft, more of a knock on the air than the door.
Pietro was in the hall, half in shadow, hands deep in his pockets and his hair a little rumpled like he’d run a hand through it five times on the walk over. His eyes flicked past me to the book, the lamp, the sheepskin, then back to my face like he was collecting evidence. I didn’t move. For a second it was just us andthe hush of the apartment, the thin partition of air between the hallway and the soft room not quite enough to keep his presence from rolling right in.
“You met my brother?” he said, voice low and sanded smooth, like he was hoping to keep the moment contained.
I kept my back to the couch, only half-turned toward him. “I did. Good lasagna.”
He smiled at that, just at the corner of his mouth, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “I’m glad. He likes you. But then, Tonio likes everyone.” He shifted his weight in the doorway, staying put, as if even a single step inside would be too much, too soon. A courtesy, or a boundary. I couldn’t decide which.
“Your day was ok? Getting accustomed to the place?”
“To being a prisoner?”
“You can leave any time. You know this.”
“I can’t though, can I? I leave, I die—or worse.”
