Serena looked back, her arms now around Elio, Marco and Nico flanking her.
“Don’t come back without a lawyer,” she said.
He left.
The door closed.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was thick.
Matteo sank back into his chair and put his head down on the table with a soft thump.
Nico started to cry, delayed and overwhelmed.
Marco just stared at the contract as if it might vanish.
Elio hadn’t let go of Serena.
Serena’s knees gave.
She slid down until she was sitting on the floor, Elio in her lap, her forehead pressed to his curls, breathing hard.
Vittorio crouched beside her without hesitation, his expensive trousers in the orange juice residue.
He didn’t touch her at first.
Then, carefully, he placed his hand on the floor beside hers, not over it. An anchor, not a claim.
“You did well,” he said, his voice rough.
She laughed, a wet, broken sound.
“I almost lost everything.”
“You didn’t,” he said. “He did.”
Mrs. Chen knelt on Elio’s other side and stroked his hair.
“It’s over, tesoro,” she whispered to him, but she was looking at Serena.
Later, after Mrs. Chen had taken the boys upstairs to wash faces and brush teeth, after the plates had been cleared and the kitchen mopped properly, Serena found Vittorio alone on the terrace off the kitchen.
The rain had stopped.
The stone was wet and the city lights reflected in puddles.
He held a small, worn recipe card between two fingers.
He didn’t turn when she stepped out.
“Her name was Elena,” he said. “She died eleven months ago. Brain aneurysm. In this kitchen. While the boys were eating carbonara. They were all at the table. Elio was on her lap.”
Serena’s hand went to her mouth.
“She set the pan down, said she felt dizzy, and—” His throat worked. “By the time the ambulance came, she was gone. On the floor. Right where you were standing today.”
He finally looked at her.
