The deep bass of Dominic’s voice draws my attention to him. “It’s time I left.”
His eyes shift to mine. The message in them is clear. “I’ll walk you out.”
I’m up, following him out of the family room. Dominic Sabatini is one of those mysteries that promise all kinds of dark and interesting things. I, however, am smart enough not to try and discover what those things are. He’s the same age as Enzo and they both have the same world-weary eyes, although Dominic’s are a soft amber to Enzo’s bittersweet chocolate.
I can’t think of a word to say, and he doesn’t say anything until he’s at the door. A large hand slips into his inner pocket. It’s a slim envelope he hands to me with an almost smile. He doesn’t smile much. “Congratulations on graduating, you did good. Alicia and Cesare are proud of you. I’m not good at shopping.”
Holy fuck, there are ten one hundred-dollar bills inside a store-bought card. It’s signed by Tony and Dominic, and below Dominic’s signature is what I’m assuming is his phone number. “If you ever need anything you can’t go to Cesare for, you call me. No questions, no judgements—you’re family. You need something, me and Pop are here for you.”
His sincerity touches me deeply. “Thank you. I—really, thank you.”
“No problem, kid.” I’m a hugger—it’s Alicia’s fault. He doesn’t flinch. His arms go around me, hugging me tight. “Anytime, anything you need, you give me a call. Okay?”
I nod, all the while hoping I never have to. When I turn after closing the door after him, I find Lydia cradling a sleeping Ella with Decker behind her.
“We need to get Ella into bed. Give me a call when you’re settled. We can grab lunch.”
“I will, thank you for coming. Thanks again for the gorgeous handbag, I love it. I’m going to look like a boss-ass bitch.” Her gift was a gorgeous large black leather Prada bag.
Once I close the door behind them, I find Cesare watching me. “What did Dominic want?”
I’m awful at lying. I hold up the card. “He gave me a card with a huge wad of cash in it.” Since I hope to never use the phone number, I figure it’s as unnecessary to mention as the signatures.
His eyes darken as he studies me. “You look like you’re going to fall asleep standing. Alicia went to check on Matteo. Why don’t you head up to bed and get some sleep.”
“Sounds good. Thanks again, for everything. Are you going to be able to talk Alicia into letting me go to Madrid by myself? I’m not a kid. I’ve lived on my own for over six years and I’m still in one piece.”
He does his half-smile thing. “I’ll work on her. Give me another week or two.”
“Thank you. I don’t think I’ll see you tomorrow. I will definitely sleep in and you’re right, I love Matteo, but after lunch I’m going to the condo.”
His laughter isn’t mean. “I love him too, but he’s exhausting. I’m hoping the rest of them are all girls.”
“Me too.” I unrepentantly push the button for the elevator. Yes, this insanely big house has an elevator, and hell yeah I’m using it.
***
Dante
It takes a minute for me to get my door open while I juggle my takeout and the large box for the all-in-one espresso and coffeemaker. As I nudge the door closed with my hip, I’m feeling a sense of accomplishment. I set everything down on the counter, then I step back and sonofabitch, everything is on the floor and I can hear glass breaking. A quick check of the bag of food shows the burger wrapped in foil is fine, the fries are everywhere but are contained in the bag.
When I pick up the box, the clinking of glass moving around in it is loud. I tried. My stomach growls; nothing I can do now. I take the bag over to the couch. Before I sit down, I strip to my boxer briefs. I hate the suits Cesare feels are necessary to hide not just the tattoos, but how uncivilized we really are. Grabbing the remote, I turn on the television then open up the stuff I’ve recorded to find something to watch.
Done with dinner and the movie over, I search for something else to watch, but nothing interests me. I’m up, down the hallway into my favorite room. It holds my three walls of books, a wall of family pictures, and my grand piano. My hand glides over the wood, a 1923 Steinway made of ebony. This is a long way from the banged-up oak
upright I learned on growing up.
As they do every time I sit down, memories come tumbling back from the past. My father, endlessly patient, his voice a low deep rumble beside me. All the life lessons I learned at the piano, how to caress the keys like a woman when you want to coax a response from her. How to play passionately to stoke her fire. How to glide over the keys and in life, knowing when to glide, when to trip lightly over the keys.
I close my eyes to the memories. There’s no need for sheet music—I was learning pieces by ear at seven. Every day after school I would play for hours, getting lost in the music. At the age of ten, my dad wanted me in a private school for music. I didn’t want to leave my school and friends. At first he fought me on it. Gradually, he understood music was something I loved for me, not to perform for others.
The ten-year stretch of not playing, starting when my father killed himself after killing my mother and her lover, was tough without music. Movies and books became a substitute, but I missed playing. Making peace with what my father did wasn’t easy; sometimes I’m not sure I really have, or if I pretend in order to play again. Now, my fingers start moving: Liszt, Piano Sonata in B Minor. Before long I’m lost in the piece, when I’m done I begin the same piece again. This time when I’m done I flow right into Chopin.
Hours pass without me noticing them until my back begins aching. With a sigh I stop playing. The music hangs in the air all around me. I slide off the bench. A glance at my watch—it’s a little after eleven. I’m not tired though. Rolling my neck, I walk into my home gym. Before I quit drinking, I would come in here two or three times a week, get my sweat on until my muscles burned, then I called time. Now, I’m in here every day for an hour or two before bed, until I’m exhausted enough to crash hard into sleep.
I grab a protein shake from the mini-fridge, it also holds bottles of water and cold packs for when I over do things. Chugging the shake, I set the music to my workout mix then turn it up loud. The bass is throbbing as I toss the empty bottle. I slide onto the bench press, which still has the same weights from last night on it. I’m up to two fifty. Taking a deep breath, I grip the bar. I’m looking forward to the burn.
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