Page 263 of Lorenzo

Mocha looks at him.

Mario sighs.

Lorenzo laughs and opens the door.

We're not the only ones leaving, so getting to the car takes even longer as Ricardo and Julia head in another direction, and the boys in yet a third.

By the time we get into the SUV and I can drop back against the seat with a sigh, I feel like I’ve said goodbye a million times.

The SUV pulls away from Mario’s house with the second vehicle following behind us, its headlights visible through the rain-streaked rear window.

For the first few minutes, I watch the house disappear behind the trees while Rinaldi guides us toward the road. The rain has settled into a light, steady patter against the roof, soft enough that I can hear the tires moving over wet pavement beneath it.

Once we are clear of the gates, I finally let myself sink deeper into the seat.

I am exhausted.

The combination of too much food, hours of conversation, and an intensely detailed strategy meeting has caught up with me all at once. I cannot remember the last time I spent that many consecutive hours surrounded by so many people socially, and I certainly cannot remember the last time I enjoyed it enough to forget how tiring it would be afterward.

Mocha has already surrendered to it.

He is stretched across the floor at our feet with his head resting near my shoes, apparently satisfied that his responsibilities for the evening are complete.

I shift toward Lorenzo and rest my head against his shoulder.

His arm comes around me automatically, pulling me closer without interrupting whatever he is doing on his phone.

“You tired?” he murmurs.

“No.”

He glances down at me.

I close my eyes. “Completely awake.”

“Of course.”

“I could run a marathon.”

“I bet you would win too.”

“Definitely,” I murmur.

His chest moves beneath my cheek with his laugh.

I smile without opening my eyes and let myself relax against him.

The car is warm, the road beyond the windows almost completely dark, and the rain creates a rhythm against the roof that makes staying awake increasingly difficult. There is very little traffic this late, just the occasional wash of headlights passing in the opposite direction before darkness closes around us again.

Lorenzo’s thumb moves absently against my upper arm.

It does not help.

Neither does the fact that I am full enough to regret the third helping of pasta, the apple crostata, and every tiny almond cookie someone kept pushing at me. And I happily ate.

I shift my cheek against his shoulder.

“Your family tried to kill me with food. It's a very sneaky assassination attempt.”