Page 128 of Lorenzo

“The cousins have taken over.”

I smile. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

“That sounds crowded.”

“And loud.”

I laugh. “You left your own celebration?”

His dark gaze settles on me over the rim of his glass.

“I did.”

“Why?”

He takes a sip before answering.

“To bring you the wine.”

I look at the bottle between us.

“You could have sent it.”

“Yes.”

“Or brought it tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Here I am.”

The silence that follows is different from the quiet in my house before he arrived. It is weighty and loaded.

I take a sip as well, though the wine barely registers.

“Good,” I say, returning to the safer subject. “It’s good that they’re celebrating.”

“It is.”

“Alessio deserves that.”

“He does.”

Another silence.

Mocha walks to his bed near the wall, circles once, and lies down with a heavy exhale that sounds suspiciously judgmental.

I look at Lorenzo.

He is watching me.

The open collar reveals the strong line of his throat. His sleeves are still buttoned at the wrist, but without the coat and jacket, he seems less distant. Broader.

I remember looking at his profile in the car.