Page 26 of Casanova LLC

“Get it over with? This expression, non capisco.” He tapped his head in mock confusion. “I no understand. But then, there are molte things I no understand?—”

“Don’t do the Super Mario Brothers shtick with me. Dì cosa hai bisogno di dire.”

“What do I need to say? A foolish old man, so past his prime.”

“Whatever you think is happening here, you’re wrong. It’s business. She’s just another guest.”

“Of course. Why should I think anything else?”

“Because I know you.”

“Of course,” he laughed. He lifted his glass to his mouth. “And I know you.”

I rolled my eyes, snatched up the champagne bottle, and walked out of the dining room, through the sala, and into the bedroom. He followed. Leisurely.

I went to the kitchenette and filled the standing ice bucket. Put two flutes in the freezer. He leaned against the counter, right in my path. Finally, fi-nuh-lee, he said, “Is this another one of her husband’s plans? What was his name? Robert, Ricardo?—”

“Richard. His name was Richard Craven. And he’s dead. So no it’s?—”

“Eeh!” His finger crossed between us in a single wave. “Not a word.”

“You just asked me a question?—”

“Shut up your face.” His finger came back up. “You do not talk, you listen.”

I hated when he did this. Ever since I was a kid. When I wanted to explain something—i.e., when I was going to lie about something—he always, always knew it. And I knew he knew because he wouldn’t even let me try to lie to him. The finger went up and that was that.

I took a pained breath, closed my eyes for a moment, and nodded in reluctant agreement.

“So the husband, he is dead. Perfetto. It gets worse. You see, I would not care about this. I would not care if she was just another guest, as you say. But I do care, I must care, because she is not.”

“Ancient history,” I snuck in.

“Five years is not ancient. Not in Italy.” I opened my mouth again but he kept going. “I was there. Right beside you. I saw how you look at her. I saw…the something. Something I know something about. And I told you this. I told you not to do it. So why is she upstairs now? Why are you doing it?”

“You’ll let me know when I can speak?”

“Only if you speak truth, Sandro. I mean this.”

I took a calming breath and wedged the bottle into the ice. “You were mistaken. The something you saw was attraction. Nothing more. I mean, look at her.”

“The truth.”

His tone raised my hackles again. “That is the truth!”

“It is not the whole truth. It is not the truth that I saw.”

I busied myself with straightening the bottle in the ice, making sure the label was pointed outward so she could see it later. I switched to speaking only Italian, because that was the language we used when we were being most honest. When we were done playing with each other. When we spoke to understand each other. “There’s something alluring about her. Yes. For me, personally, just my personal…thing. A purity and a longing that I don’t see in the myriad women who travel through here, through me. But you make it sound like an ember left in ashes that never went out.”

“Is this not true?”

At the pity in his eyes, the remaining truth fell out of me. “You know the deal with Craven never sat right with me and?—”

“Oh, so you are making it up to her? That’s what this is?”

“No—”

“Explain to me. How did this happen? She called you, after all these years?”

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