Guido had a bet running with Moreno on how long their father would hold the door open before somebody in the household had to say something, and the odds had gone stupid the moment the car cleared the gates.
“Ten says he cries,”
he said, to nobody, leaning on the doorway the way he leaned on everything.
Then Alessandro Vitale stepped outside with his arms already open, and Guido's ten was dead.
Their father had spent years being terrifying on purpose, and here he was on the steps of his own house, softening like butter in August over a suitcase.
“Oh, that's grim,”
Guido murmured, delighted.
“He's going to be
nice
.”
He slid the last few inches off the doorframe and followed the wall of his father's back, counting the men as he went, to make sure nobody had brought a gun to a family dinner.
He caught your eye over his father's shoulder and gave you the smallest, worst grin in the house.
“Little sister,”
he said, in a warm tone that somehow made it worse.
“He's going to hug you. Don't back away — he'll take it personally, and we'll all hear about it in the car on Sunday.”