Page 53

Sophia

The bathtub in Dominic’s penthouse is absurdly large.

It’s set against the far wall of the master bathroom, a deep, freestanding stone tub that could comfortably hold three people and is currently holding two. I’m sitting between his legs, my back against his chest, the water hot enough to turn our skin pink. His arms are around my waist, his chin resting on the top of my head, and the doubled heartbeat in my chest is slow and synchronized and for once, for this one quiet hour, everything in the world feels exactly right.

“Tell me something real,” I say.

“Define real.”

“Something about you that isn’t the surface. Not the company, not the business, not the polished version you show the investors. Something underneath.”

He’s quiet for a moment. The water moves gently around us, small waves created by our breathing. His thumb traces a slow circle on my hip, a gesture so absent and tender that it makes my throat tight.

“I had a dog when I was young,” he says. “A big gray mutt with one ear that stood up and one that folded over. I named him Ghost because he was silent. He never barked. He just appeared next to you, like he’d been there all along.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got old.” A pause. “That was the first time I understood what it meant to outlive something you love.”

I don’t ask the follow-up question. How old were you? How long ago? The questions would lead to answers that require us to have a conversation we’re both avoiding, and tonight I don’t want the conversation. Tonight I want the bathtub and the warm water and the man behind me and the story about a gray dog named Ghost.

“I had a goldfish,” I say. “His name was Mr. Whiskers. He lived for three days.”

“Mr. Whiskers.”

“I was seven. Naming conventions were not my strong suit.”

“Mr. Whiskers.” He says it again, slower, and I can feel the laughter building in his chest, the vibration of it against my shoulder blades. It’s the closest I’ve ever heard him come to actually laughing, and the sound of it, low and surprised and warm, makes me feel like I’ve won something rare.

“Don’t you dare laugh at Mr. Whiskers. He was a noble fish.”

“I’m sure he was. Three days is a very respectable tenure for a fish named Mr. Whiskers.”

“He was overfed. My father kept giving him extra flakes because he felt sorry for him. Classic Marchelli overcompensation.”

Now he does laugh. A real one, quiet and genuine, his chest shaking against my back. I twist around to look at him and his face is open, the hard lines softened, the usual composure dismantled by a dead goldfish. His eyes are gray and warm and entirely human and the gold is nowhere in sight and he looks young. Like the man he might have been if the world hadn’t required him to become what he is.

I kiss him. Not with urgency or hunger but with something softer, something that sits closer to the word I haven’t said yet. His hand comes up and cups my face, his wet thumb tracing my cheekbone. He kisses me back with the same softness, the same careful, deliberate tenderness that he usually reserves for the moments after sex, when the intensity has burned off and what’s left is just us.

“Tell me about you,” he says when we break apart. “What was it like growing up with Marco Marchelli for a dad?”

I settle back against his chest. The water is starting to cool. He reaches forward and turns the hot tap on.

“My dad was the best cook I’ve ever known,” I say. “Present company included.”

“Bold claim.”

“Supported by evidence. His carbonara made grown men weep. He used guanciale, never pancetta, and he lectured me about the difference so many times I could recite it in my sleep.”

“A man of principle.”

“A man of obsessive attention to detail. Everything had to be exactly right. The precise folds in his laundry. The alphabetized spice rack. The meticulous books.” I pause on the word. Books. My father kept meticulous books for the Voronov organization, and he kept a different book in a cipher in the lining of his coat. Both characterized by the same obsessive precision. “He taught me to notice things. To look at a room and see what didn’t fit. He used to play this game with me at restaurants. He’d rearrange the salt and pepper shakers and the sugar caddy while I wasn’t looking and I’d have to identify what moved.”

“He trained you.”

“He raised me. The training was incidental.”

“I don’t think it was.”