Page 48 of Cage of Thorns and Blood

He gets out of bed and hands me a soft, fluffy robe from the back of the bedroom door. I stare at it for a moment, wondering if any other woman has worn it.

“It’s new,” he says. “My housekeeper bought it a while ago for me, but I prefer the cotton one.” He takes the stripy cotton one in question and wraps it around himself.

“You knew what I was thinking?”

“I guessed and quickly realized it looked like I was the sort of douche who had guest robes for booty calls on the back of his bedroom door.”

I crack out laughing at that.

“Anyway, you've already cast aspersions upon my toast making ability, so now I have to prove my manhood by preparing for you the finest toast in the land.”

I laugh at that. Wrapped in the warm fluffy robe, I follow him through the house and down into the kitchen. I step onto the tiled floors, bracing myself for that coldness against my feet, but all I get is a soothing warmth. I glanced at Matteo. “You fancy pants you. Under floor heating.”

“Of course,” he says. “Can't stand freezing floors against my feet in winter.”

“There are these things they invented,” I say. “I think they call them slippers. You can keep your feet warm without having to spend a fortune on heating your tiled flooring.”

He clicks on the kettle in the corner and takes down two mugs from a cupboard to his right. He adds two bags of tea and as the kettle boils, he takes out a loaf of bread and puts four slices into the steel toaster. After he's clicked the button, he turns to me waving the butter knife he's taken from the drawer vaguely in my direction. “Did you know that slippers are one of the leading causes of death in this country?”

I burst out laughing. “Seriously?”

“Yes, for real. Toast is too.”

“Toast.” I shake my head. “How is that even possible?”

“Think about it.” He waves the knife again and indicates pointing the knife down toward the grills of the toaster as if he's going to push it in. “I imagine it is from electric shocks from people using the knife to get toast out.”

“You'd have to be really stupid to do that,” I observe.

“Sadly, there are lots of very stupid people in this world.”

“I honestly don't think you're going to die at the hand of your slippers, Matteo.”

“Obviously. The kind of life I lead, it’s going to be at the end of a knife or a gun.”

I shiver at his words. “Not if you get out,” I say.

“No one gets out, Renata.”

“People do. All the time. It's just a choice.”

“Well, isn't this ironic?” The kettle boils and clicks off, and he lifts it and pours steaming water into each of the mugs. As he stirs the tea bags around, he speaks with his back to me. “Here you are suggesting that I get out of the life for safety reasons, and yet you're trying to get in despite everyone telling you it isn’t safe.”

“I'm not telling you to do anything. I merely pointed out that leaving this life is a valid choice, and it is one that you could take. My family isn’t as involved in that world anymore. I don't think things are as dangerous for them as they used to be.”

“Yes, I suppose that's why your brother walks around with a veritable army.”

“You have security too,” I point out. “And on paper, your family are now respectable. Surely you can make that leap?”

He shrugs and bends down to open a cupboard door which I realized is a front for a built-in fridge. He takes the milk out and pours a splash into each mug. “I do have security, yes. Your brother, though, seems to surround himself with a mini army at all times. I've heard they even live inside the house. You don't see that here. My security follow me when I go anywhere, and there's a couple of guys always in the outbuildings. They stay in their apartments, but no one lives here with me. I don't surround myself by a gang of soldiers everywhere I go.”

He hands me the tea, and I take a sip. It's perfect, and I realize something. “You didn't ask if I wanted sugar,” I say.

“You never did when you were younger,” he replies. “I can add some if you like?”

“No, I'm good, thanks. I still don't take it; I'm just surprised that you remembered.”

“I remember a lot of things about that time. I remember the posters on your wall that you talked about, and the dreams that you had.” He sits opposite me and in the bright, down lights of the kitchen, his gaze is even more intense than usual. “What are your dreams now?”

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