I look at him.
My eldest, my heir. My quiet one.
Oh, how deceiving that word can be.
Matteo is quiet the way a knife is quiet.
He simply waits until he’s close enough to slide the blade in.
Tomasso points toward him. “See? Respectful. Warm. Welcoming.”
I take a sip of coffee, set the cup down, and turn.
They look at me with identical faces, identical eyes, and one of the few times since they were children, identical meaning behind those eyes.
“All right,” I start. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Get what over with?” Tomasso says, all innocence, devilish look in his eyes. “We were simply worried about our Papà.”
“We noticed you did not come home,” Matteo says, picking up where Tomasso left off.
“We stayed up all night sick with worry,” Tomasso says.
“I’m sure,” I say, dryly.
“No call. No text. What were we to think?" Matteo says.
I regret fatherhood.
Deeply.
I look between them. “Have you both finished?”
“No,” they say in unison.
“Enough,” I say, though I am amused. “I had business.”
Tomasso’s head turns slowly toward me. His grin becomes unbearable. “All night?”
“I have had enough of this conversation.”
“It’s barely started.”
“And yet.” I pick up my coffee and turn to walk out of the kitchen.
They follow.
Like sharks scenting blood.
“So…” Matteo starts.
“No,” I say.
"You don't even know the question."
"That is the answer to every question." I walk toward my office.
“Who is she?” Matteo asks.
