Page 27 of Pietro
"No." Giulia shakes her head. "Let him be. He'll come back when he's ready."
But dinner continues with Pablo's ghost now joining the others. Conversation stays carefully neutral. Lorenzo discussing restaurant business, Vittoria complaining about a coding problem, Ava silent in her grief. Nico watches me like a hawk studying prey.
I force down enough food to be polite, though everything tastes like sawdust. The moment Giulia begins clearing plates, I stand.
"Thank you for dinner. If you'll excuse me..."
Lorenzo rises as I do. "The library is down the hall, third door on the left. It's quiet there if you want to relax."
A dismissal disguised as kindness. I take it.
The library is exactly as promised. Quiet, dimly lit, floor-to-ceiling shelves that smell of leather and paper.
I run my fingers along spines, finding comfort in familiar titles. Italian classics mixed with modern business books, philosophy beside pulp fiction.
I pull out a worn copy of Dante's Inferno, the text familiar as breathing. My mother read it out loud when I was too young to understand.
The leather chair embraces me as I curl into it, tucking my feet beneath me. Outside, wind rattles windows, but here feels safe. Suspended. Dante's hell feels more orderly than my own. At least his demons have names.
Hours pass. The house settles into sleep sounds—distant footsteps, doors closing, pipes ticking. My eyes grow heavy, the book weighing down my hands.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
Pietro stands in the doorway, backlit by hall light. He's lost the sweater, wearing only a white t-shirt that shows the lean muscle beneath.
"Too much to process."
He moves into the room, noting the book in my lap. "You read Dante?"
"A little."
He takes the chair across from mine, the coffee table between us. "Dante's a heavy choice for light reading."
"Sometimes heavy is what you need. Order in chaos."
His eyes sharpen, studying me. "That's a very specific analysis for someone who reads 'a little' Dante."
He’s trying to make me laugh?
I swear to God, he confuses me even more every single day that I spend being around him.
"I'm sorry about dinner." I shift the focus away from my fabrications. "About asking..."
"Pablo was my best friend. My brother in everything but blood." Pietro stares at the cold fireplace. "He died because of me."
I don’t speak. What am I supposed to say anyway?
"I was supposed to be there that night. At the warehouse. But Giuseppe demanded I attend some family dinner. So Pablo went alone."
The words spill out like blood from a wound too old to heal properly.
"Rivals hit the shipment. By the time I got there..." He spreads his hands, a gesture of helplessness that looks wrong on someone so controlled. "Giulia never blamed me. That almost makes it worse."
"Guilt doesn't need permission."
He looks at me then, really looks. "Voice of experience?"
"Something like that."
