Page 129 of The Don’s Omega

When we pull through the gates, Carlo’s car is already in the drive. Because of the truck accident, I’m thirty-five minutes late and I feel like a shit husband. Anthony stops the car and I get out and stand there for a second, letting my brain shift from one world to the next. Paulie Segretti and his theft and punishment in one compartment, this house and the people inside who I love, exist in another. The compartments don’t touch. That’s how I function without short-circuiting.

The front door is unlocked. Inside, the house is warm and smells like the meal Ornella has been preparing since this morning. She’s warmed up a bit to Elio. I don’t think she’s exactly fond of him, but she’s accepted that he’s not going anywhere and has chosen the path that makes the most sense. With that in mind, she’s prepared a menu for his brother’s arrival without being asked. Braised short ribs, roasted vegetables, a fennel salad, along with fresh bread. Nothing showy. Good, homey food, carefully made.

I can hear voices from the sitting room, and I stop in the hall and listen for a moment. Elio’s voice is warm and Noemi’s laugh cheerful. Mama’s saying something I can’t make out and Ginevra’s response is a low murmur. Sounds as if everyone managed to be here in time to greet our guest, but me.

I take a deep breath and enter the room. It’s firelit and comfortable, the lamps low, everyone settled. Elio is standing near the sofa where Fabio and Noemi are seated. Mama is in the wingback by the fire, and Ginevra is standing near the window with her wine, observing. Carlo is in the armchair across from the sofa, legs crossed, drink in hand, looking relaxed. I know for a fact he’s actually paying close attention.

Fabio stands when I enter the room. I like that gesture because it shows respect. His expression is guarded, but not unfriendly. He’s not what I expected. I’ve been carrying a mental image built from Elio’s phone photos which don’t really resemble the person. The photos were old, pre-surgery, and of a grinning teenager. Elio’s descriptions of what Fabio looks like now were always colored by a brother’s protective lens, always emphasizing the fragility of his brother, the illness, the need for care.

The young man standing in my sitting room is thin, yes, but he’s sturdy enough. Naturally, the surgery and the recovery have taken their toll, but the bones underneath are good. Clean features, a jaw that will sharpen less as he fills out, dark hair with curls at the back of his neck. His eyes are a striking blue, direct and intelligent, and they meet mine without flinching. But his stare isn’t challenging. It’s polite. Respectful. He has the kind of face you’d notice in a crowded room. He’s very attractive, just like his older brother. Just a bit more haggard from all he’s been through.

He’s pale, and there’s a visible tremor in his hands that he’s trying to control by keeping them at his sides. Fatigue is understandable. He’s been socializing with strangers for half an hour on a body that’s still rationing its energy for healing. But he’s alert and he hasn’t retreated from what must be a very stressful situation.

“Marcello, you’re finally here.” Elio’s tone is mildly chiding, but he moves to my side, smiling. I’m happy to see he doesn’t look angry, and I relax a little. His hand touches my back briefly. “This is Fabio.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,” I say, meeting his brother’s gaze. “Work ran over.”

“It’s okay.” Fabio extends his hand. His grip is light but he commits to it, looking me in the eye. “Thank you for letting me stay with Elio. I’m sure it’s annoying to have a stranger living in your home.”

“Not at all.” I hold the handshake a beat longer than necessary because I want him to feel that I mean what I’m saying. “You’re Elio’s brother. I don’t consider you a stranger.”

Something changes in his face. Not softening, exactly, more adjustment. He expected me to be something other than what I am. He hasn’t decided yet whether that’s good or bad.

Elio and I sit on the loveseat that’s across from Fabio and Noemi.

“How’s the recovery going?” I ask.

“Slower than I’d like,” Fabio says. “My physical therapist says I’m doing really well, but I’m impatient to get back to full strength.”

“You’ll get there,” Elio interjects. “Dee said you were using weights the last week you were there.”

Fabio laughs sheepishly. “Yes, but not heavy weights. There was an eighty-year-old recovering from hip surgery who could lift more weight than me.”

Noemi laughs. “I find that hard to believe.”

Grimacing, Fabio says, “Well, to be honest, it’s not like I was in great physical shape before the procedure. I was always kind of sickly. Weak. I’m hoping that changes now that my heart is healthier.”

“Everything will change now.” My voice is firm and Fabio glances at me. He smiles politely, but there’s something hidden behind that smile.

Mama asks Fabio about Millhaven, what life was like living there, and whether he misses it. He tells her about the town, the apartment he shared with Elio, the hospital where he spent a chunk of time before the transfer to Harbor View. He doesn’t romanticize Millhaven, nor should he from what I’ve heard.

Elio turns to me at some point during the conversation and puts his hand on my forearm, casually. I don’t think much of it until his fingers subtly undo the button of the cuff and fold it back in a quick, smooth movement. As he does that, I see what has him bothered. There’s a spot of Paulie’s blood on the white shirt’s cuff.

Oops.

Elio keeps his expression impassive as he does the same rolling motion to the other side so they match. “Better.” He smiles up at me. “You looked so formal. You’re home now so you can relax.”

“Thanks.” I return his smile feeling annoyed with myself. I should have noticed the blood. That was sloppy of me. It’s because I was in a hurry to get home.

It’s my hope Fabio didn’t notice the blood, but when I meet the younger man’s gaze, and his eyes flicker nervously, I worry he did see the blood. I’m frustrated because I wanted to make a good impression. Not because I really care what Fabio thinks of me. I am what I am and I feel no need to make excuses. But if Fabio hates me, that could put a strain on my relationship with Elio. And I can’t lose Elio.

My thoughts are interrupted when Ornella announces dinner, and we move to the dining room. Fabio enters the big room, pausing at the threshold. He takes in the high ceiling, the portraits of past Foschinis, and the long, polished table with its heavy silverware and crystal. He doesn’t comment on the opulence, but I can see it makes him uncomfortable.

The food is excellent. Ornella has outdone herself, and I make a note to tell her so. The short ribs are tender enough to fall apart, the vegetables caramelized. Fabio eats quietly, but he seems to enjoy the food. Elio has told me enough about how tight money was for them growing up. I’m sure Fabio is enjoying eating premium meat that wasn’t bought on sale or frozen first. I hope so. He needs fattening up.

Conversation at the table is easier than I expected. Not effortless, but not the strained performance I’d feared. Ginevra asks Fabio what he wants to do after he’s recovered, and he tells her he’d been studying education, but that he might change that once he’s feeling better.

“Why would you change your course of study?” Ginevra asks.