Dinner is served the way it should be. Loud, abundant, excessive by American standards and barely sufficient by ours. Pasta first. Then meat. Bread passed from hand to hand. Wine refilled before anyone has to ask. Matteo and Alessio argue over football. Tomasso makes Dante laugh once, a small, reluctant sound that draws a grin from Alessio as if he has witnessed something rare. Diego complains about a bottle I open, then drinks more of it than anyone else.
For a while, we are not men with enemies.
We are brothers.
Sons.
Fathers.
Then dinner ends.
The plates are cleared. The last of the wine remains on the table. The staff disappears as they know to do, and the room settles into a different kind of quiet.
No one has to be told.
They all feel it.
I set my glass down and look at each of them.
Ricardo on my left, expression already flat and assessing.
Lorenzo beside him, fingers resting loosely near the stem of his wineglass.
Diego leaned back in his chair, posture careless, eyes anything but.
My sons opposite me. Matteo still, Tomasso with his jaw tight.
Edoardo and Alessio at the far end with Dante, the three of them close in a way that pleases me more than I say. Whateverelse this life does, whatever it takes, the next generation remains together.
Good.
They will need each other.
“I received another request this week,” I say. “Emilio Bellandi wants to meet.”
The name kills what is left of the warmth in the room.
Ricardo’s mouth tightens.
Lorenzo’s gaze sharpens.
Diego says nothing, which tells me enough.
Tomasso exhales softly through his nose. Matteo’s expression turns cold.
Dante sits forward slightly.
“Again?” Alessio asks.
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?” Edoardo asks.
“Nothing yet.”
Diego’s brow lifts. “That is unlike you.”
“No,” Ricardo says. “It is exactly like him. He is deciding how much insult the silence should contain.”
