Page 37
The plan is that I work and keep my head down and my mouth shut. I do not, under any circumstances, mention the tiny human moving in with me is the direct genetic result of the most reckless night of my life with the owner of the place.
Simple. Clean. Foolproof, assuming the fool in question can keep one enormous secret while under the same roof as the man it belongs to.
“Matthew, up the stairs, buddy.”
“Okay.” He pulls his gaze back to me and together we approach the front doors.
The door opens before I knock, and there’s Marta. The look on her face when she sees Matthew could power a small city.
“He came back.” She says it like he’s a sailor returned from sea. “And taller, I think. Have you grown five inches overnight?”
“No,” Matthew says with the crushing literalism of the very young. “That’s not possible.”
She laughs at his seriousness. “You know what? You’re right. But maybe you grew a millimeter. That’s certainly possible.”
“Come in, come in,” she says to us.
I step into the marble hush of the place and feel the exact thing I came here determined not to feel, which is that I could get used to this. One minute into the job and already I’m in danger of liking it.
The temperature of the hallway drops about ten degrees, which is how I know Enzo has arrived before I even turn around.
Enzo Accardi at seven in the morning looks exactly like Enzo Accardi at any other hour, which is to say unfairly, rudely good. He’s wearing a three-piece suit, and his hair is perfect.
“Miss Callahan.”
“Mr. Accardi. Here I am, reporting for duty.”
“You’re on time.”
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I suppose I shouldn’t be.”
“That’s right. And besides, this guy’s a little taskmaster, believe it or not.”
Matthew speaks up. “It’s good to be punctual.”
Something almost moves at the corner of Enzo’s mouth, and then he thinks better of it, as if he doesn’t want to make it so obvious so soon that Matthew’s having an effect on him that he didn’t expect.
“Excellent vocabulary, young man,” he says. Enzo offers his huge hand for a shake.
Matthew, however, has his own ideas. He lets go of my hand, and without hurry, he walks to Enzo and lifts both arms straight up in the universal kid language for “pick me up.”
Every drop of blood in my body freezes. I can’t do anything but stand there with a smile plastered on my face, all of my effort and energy allocated to the simple but extremely important task of not letting Enzo see how I feel about what’s happening.
“Oh, he doesn’t usually…” I start, too bright, but Marta is already there, soft and certain.
“He likes you,” she tells Enzo, like it’s the simplest fact in the world. “Go on. He isn’t made of glass.”
Enzo’s surprised at first, and surprise is an expression I’m certain he rarely wears. Then he clears his throat and composes himself, and I watch as Enzo Accardi, quite possibly the most dangerous man in this city, a man whom I’ve personally watched silence a room full of killers with just a few words, reaches down and gathers my son, our son, into his arms.
He holds Matthew carefully, like he’s handling something holy, something that might come apart if he breathes wrong. His big hand is spread across the whole width of Matthew’s back. For only an instant, Enzo looks like he has no idea what to do and is terrified of getting it wrong.
“Well, ah, it’s good to see you, young man,” Enzo says.
Matthew says nothing, throwing his arms around Enzo’s neck and giving the man a squeeze. Enzo’s eyes widen for a second, and then he responds by gingerly patting Matthew’s back.
Enzo’s gaze stays on Matthew just a few beats too long. He’s thinking, putting something together in his mind. His eyes move over my son’s face, taking in the dark hair and darker eyes, and his resting “serious face.” Is he realizing just how much Matthew looks like him? Is he thinking about the timeline?
