"Are you busy?"
"I was reading." A pause. "You sound tired."
"I'm fine."
"I didn't ask if you were fine."
I look at the water. The ferry heading toward Capri is nearly at the horizon. "Bad week. The kind where you spend the day managing the fallout from someone else's decisions and can't actually fix anything until tomorrow."
"What kind of fallout?"
"Political. Business. Both." I set the glass down. "Nothing that's yours to carry."
She's quiet for a moment. "Do you want me to come over?"
Now it’s time for me to take a moment. Before I could answer, she cuts in.
"For coffee," she says, which is not quite what she means and we both know it. "Or just to sit somewhere that isn't that office."
“Meet me at my penthouse.”
Chapter 12
The Massage
Valentina
He's wound tight tonight.
I can see it in the way he opens the door. One hand on the frame, the other holding a glass of whiskey he hasn't touched. His jaw is set at the angle that means someone, somewhere, made a decision that cost him something he can't get back. He doesn't tell me what. I don't ask. That's how this works. He carries his world. I carry mine. We meet in the middle, in this penthouse above the bay, where neither world is allowed through the door.
"You look terrible," I say.
"Thank you."
"When did you last sleep?"
"Define sleep."
I step inside. He closes the door. The penthouse is dim, the way it always is at night. He doesn't turn on the overhead lights. Floor lamps in the corners, a warm amber glow that turns the marble floors honey-colored. The windows are uncovered. Naples spreads below us, the bay reflecting the city's light back at itself, Vesuvius a black shape against the darker sky.
I set my bag on the kitchen counter. I brought food from the restaurant because Giulia told me he hadn't eaten dinner. She knows I come here. She doesn't know who he is. She thinks he's a businessman with insomnia. She's not entirely wrong.
"Eat," I say.
"I'm not hungry."
"That wasn't a question."
He looks at me. The corner of his mouth moves. Not a smile. The memory of where a smile used to go. He sits at the counter. Opens the container. Pasta alla Genovese, theTuesday special, still warm from the thermal bag I carried on the metro like a woman bringing leftovers to a friend.
He eats. I sit across from him, chin in my hand, watching him the way he watches me at the restaurant. Studying. His silver temples look more pronounced tonight. The shadows under his eyes are deeper. The scar on his forearm catches the light every time he lifts the fork.
He finishes. Pushes the container away.
"Better?" I ask.
"Marginally."