“What does Lorenzo think?” Matteo asks.
“Lorenzo thinks her firm is capable and hungry.”
“And you?”
I take another sip of espresso.
It has gone bitter.
“I think she will do the work.”
Matteo’s gaze stays steady. “That is not what I asked.”
“No.”
“Papà.”
There is warning in his voice now. Soft, but present.
I hear the son. I hear the man. I hear the boy who once stood too quietly in a hallway and understood far more than a child should have.
“I know what I am doing,” I say.
He looks at me for another moment, then nods.
Not because he believes me entirely, but because he knows well enough that he cannot force the rest.
“I’m going to read in the library,” he says, gathering his book and laptop.
“Postwar economic policy?”
“Yes.”
“Tomasso may be right about you.”
“I’ll survive the shame.”
He comes around the island and rests one hand briefly on my shoulder as he passes.
A small gesture gone almost as soon as it comes.
But I feel it after he leaves.
The kitchen is quiet again.
A different quiet now.
I finish the espresso, then walk through the house slowly, past the dining room, past the darkened sitting room, into my study.
The dark shelves hold books in Italian and English. The fireplace is burning low, warming the room. Deep leather chairs sit in front of it, welcoming. I walk past them to the heavy desk positioned so I can see the door and the windows.
I pull the business card out of my pocket and drop it on the desk before taking a seat.
White card with neat black lettering.
Murray Legal Group.Victoria Murray
I look at it for a moment longer, then pick it up.
