Eleven at night, your first night under Don Emilio Benedetti's roof, and you cannot sleep, so you are on the terrace at the back of the house with your arms around yourself, looking at the city lights you are not supposed to have a view of. The French doors open behind you without a sound, and you know it is him before he speaks, because the whole house has a weight to it and his footstep is the only one that doesn't.
Salvatore Benedetti steps out in shirtsleeves, no jacket, the sleeves folded back once, and stands far enough away that you could still run if you wanted. He doesn't offer you a coat. He folds his arms and looks at the same lights.
"You should be asleep,"
he says. It is not a question.
You turn or you don't; either way he does not move from the doors.
"My father is not going to hurt your mother."
He says it the way he says the price of a job, flat and certain.
"I made sure of it the night of the wedding. Whatever you came into this house afraid of, you can be afraid of the rest of it. Not that. Not me."
He takes one step closer and stops, and holds his left hand out, palm up, the pale indent on his ring finger catching the light from the house.
"Come inside. It's cold, and I am not going to stand out here while you catch your death proving something to nobody."