For a moment, the kitchen is not this kitchen. The light is not this light. My sons are younger. Too young. Matteo with a book and Tomasso with scraped knuckles and excuses. Anna standingnear a window with her hair falling out of the pins because she had no patience for doing it properly.
Then blood.
Then silence.
I set the cup down a little harder than I intended to.
Both of my sons notice.
Their voices fade.
That is how her name lives in this house.
In pauses and looks. In the careful absence of questions.
I do not let myself think of her for long. I have learned what happens when memory is given too much space to roam. It does not remain memory. It becomes a room with a locked door, and once inside, a man can lose himself and never come out.
The one who did what had to be done.
Or the one who still wonders if that is the lie that kept him alive.
I pick up my espresso.
“Do not be careless with her,” I say to Tomasso.
His expression changes.
The charm fades, not entirely, but enough for the man beneath it to show. “I won’t, Papà.”
Matteo watches his brother, quiet as always.
Tomasso runs a hand through his hair, ruining whatever work he put into it. “Claire is good. I like her.”
“Then act like it.”
“I do.”
“Good.”
He looks at me for a moment, then nods once.
It is not submission. My sons are too much mine for that.
He checks his watch. “I have to go.”
“Driver?” I ask.
“I’ll drive myself.”
“No.”
“Papà.”
“No.”
“I am twenty-seven.”
“And still not bulletproof.”
